by Arell Rivers
“Bully for you. Now let me get back to sleep. It was a long night.” The bendy blonde made sure of it.
“The Grammy nominations came out this morning.”
“Wait, what?” Suddenly, I’m wide awake and sitting up in the rocking bed. “What did you just say?”
“The Grammy nominations were just announced.”
My heart gallops toward the front of the bus. Does this mean? Could her call mean? “And you’re calling me because…”
“Congratulations! You’ve been nominated for three Grammys: Best Pop Solo Performance, Best Music Video for ‘Prowling’, and Best New Artist.”
“I…” I shake my head. “What?” I swallow over the lump in my throat and try again. “Are you serious?”
This time, Rose’s sweet laughs grabs me by the balls. “Yes, I’m telling you the truth. Double-check online if you want. But, on behalf of the Greta VonStein PR Agency, I wanted to be the first one to congratulate you on your Grammy nominations.”
I run my fingers through my hair. “I can’t believe this. I thought the nominations were being announced next week.” Apparently, I’ve been too focused on the tour to keep my calendar straight. “Not that I expected—well, I hoped, but…”
“I figured you’d forgotten when you didn’t pick up the phone right away.”
“Sorry for being a dick earlier.” I replay what she said. “I really have three Grammy nods?” I hold up three fingers to no one.
“Yes. Three. Your tour will be finished before the actual ceremony, so you’ll be back in LA for it.”
This has to be the best day of my life. “Oh my God, I’m a Grammy nominee.” It’s as if my whole world has shifted on its axis. I’m one step closer to achieving all my goals. I collapse back onto the bed.
“Now I know that I’ve just sprung this on you, but do you have anyone you’d like to take with you as your date to the ceremony?”
I glance at the empty pillow beside me. “Date? I’m not dating anyone.” Well, not for more than a couple of hours anyway. “Do I have to bring a date with me?” This is way too much for me to process at five-thirty in the morning. “What were my categories again?”
“Best Pop Solo, Best Music Video and Best New Artist. Better get used to hearing it.”
“This is unbelievable.”
Rose murmurs, “You deserve it.” Clearing her throat, she continues in her normal tone, “And, yes, you really need to bring a date. The public eats it up.”
Still trying to get a grip on this news, I ask, “Who are the other nominees in my categories?” Rose gives me the names.
“Wow.” I can’t believe my name is listed with theirs. This is news I need to share with my family. And Dan. As soon as possible.
“Regarding your date, Greta wanted me to suggest that you bring your mother. Unless you want me to see if Mimi Barker is available.”
A noise like an arrested snort reaches my ears. It occurs to me again that she appears to think the whole MooMoo thing is funny. It’s a rare window into Rose as a person, and I find myself smiling a little as I answer her. “No way in hell am I ever escorting that woman to anything ever again. But I do like Greta’s idea. I’ll ask Mom to be my date.”
“Oh, and one more thing. Obviously nothing has been scheduled yet, but don’t be surprised if they ask you to sing during the awards show.”
“I’ll try not to be surprised.” But I do feel a little star struck.
“Well, I’ll let you get back to sleep. Congratulations again, Cole.”
“Thanks, Rose. I think I’m awake now.” She chuckles as the call disconnects. I stare at my phone for a long while, trying to process the news.
I’m still in a daze when the door to the bedroom bursts open and my bandmates pile in, led by Jeffrey. I guess my shouting awakened them, but they all look excited rather than pissed. “Congrats, man. It’s totally cool to be touring with a Grammy-nominated artist!”
THE CLOCK FINALLY says twelve-thirty in the afternoon, which means it’s three-thirty in New Jersey. Mom should be done with the school day. Smiling, I grab my phone and dial her.
“There’s my Grammy-nominated son!”
“Hi, Mom. I have a question for you.”
“MOM, YOU LOOK fine.” She fidgets with sleeves that reach below her elbows. I kiss her cheek. “Better than fine—you look great.” We’re in a limo on our way to the Grammys. The fucking Grammys.
She runs a shaky hand through her hair. “Got a light?” I fish out my lighter, open the sunroof and we smoke our cigarettes in comfortable silence. Dad’s not here to bug us about kicking our “disgusting habit.” We’ve each made various attempts to quit, but nicotine is a powerful mistress.
Flicking ash into the limo’s crystal ashtray, Mom worries, “Do you know when your categories are being announced? I want to be sure to look my best.”
“I’m not sure when they’re up, but I do know I’ll be performing before any of them are announced.”
“You know that your father and I are so proud of you.”
My eyes fall to the limo’s floor and I nod once.
“Your second single’s doing almost as well as the first one.”
I look up into green eyes, so like my own. “I’m hoping it will reach number one after tonight, just like ‘Prowling’ did.” The second single from my debut album rocketed up the charts as soon as it was released, and a video of me performing it live was released a couple of days later. “Did you like the video?”
Mom swats my forearm. “Very much. Thankfully there were no models in the shower in this one.”
I can’t help but grin. “Shooting videos is cool, but I love being on tour. There’s nothing like the rush I get performing live. My fans are the best.” The limo has entered the start-and-stop dance of traffic leading up to the drop-off spot in front of the Staples Center in LA.
She puts out her cigarette and changes the subject. “So, how’s the next album coming along?”
“Good. I was writing new material throughout the tour. I’ll be able to start recording soon.” I take a final puff and stub out the butt.
“Well, take your time to make sure it’s what you want. Plus, you still have to finish setting up your new house. Jayson’s been having a blast helping with it.”
“Please make sure that Jayson stops driving my interior designer nuts.”
She smiles her motherly smile. “I think he’s found his calling.”
I glance out the window and realize we’re nearly at the curb. “Almost ready, Mom?” She nods. To distract her, I say, “Remember what we talked about earlier. When we get onto the red carpet, be prepared for light bulbs going off everywhere and fans screaming. Just keep smiling. And don’t worry, I’ll guide you through it all.”
“Thanks. It’s a bit overwhelming for a mere school teacher.”
“The best teacher ever.” I squeeze her hand. One issue that I’ve delayed bringing up needs to be addressed. It’s now or never. Taking a deep breath, I begin, “Oh, and one more thing, the host will probably make some jokes at my expense. He’s just going for the laughs, no biggie.”
After a moment, she says, “No worries, honey.” She gives me a smile and looks more like her old self. “Now, it’s my turn for a quick run through. Who are you wearing?”
Relieved that she didn’t press further, I reply, “Mom, this isn’t the Oscars! No one is going to ask me that.”
“I’ve watched enough awards shows. Humor me.”
Rose said something about this suit before it was delivered, but right now I can’t grab onto the memory. Sighing, I admit, “I don’t know. I’m just wearing what they sent over.”
Mom pulls me over to her and checks the label on my suit jacket. “You’re wearing Tom Ford.”
Good to know. “And who are you wearing, Mother?”
“My dress is by Nicole Miller,” she responds, sitting up a bit straighter. I grin back at her, and she cups my cheek with her hand. “I’m so happy that Greta’s s
weet Rose suggested you bring me as your date. Thank you for tonight.” She’s kissing me on the cheek when the limo door opens and the roar of the crowd attacks my ears.
“Ready?” I whisper. We simultaneously take deep breaths and I help her out of the limo. I’m amazed by the number of fans who’ve gathered to see their favorite musicians simply walk into the Staples Center. It’s surreal hearing so many people shout my name. Never gets old.
Mom points to a sign that says, “Cole Manchester, Will You Marry Me?” I smile and walk over to the young blonde girl holding the sign—she can’t be any older than ten or eleven. I autograph her sign, pose for a photo, and give her a kiss on the forehead while the people in the audience scream their approval.
As Rose forewarned, the red carpet is filled with interviewers. Mom and I quickly form a strategy of taking a few steps and then stopping to chat with the next person. Repeating the same answers to the same questions gets repetitive quickly.
“My mother, Julie.”
“Very excited.”
“It’s an honor to be nominated.”
“Tom Ford.”
That last one always draws a snicker from my mom. Smart-ass.
In between interviews, I wave to the crowd and look around at the other musicians sharing the red carpet with us. Some of them I count as friends, others as passing acquaintances. I proudly introduce my mother to my new friends and colleagues.
Suddenly, Mom tenses. I lean down to her and ask, “What’s wrong?”
“Cole, that’s … that’s …” She can’t complete her sentence, so I follow her line of sight to Adam Baret, the recipient of tonight’s Lifetime Achievement Award. Dad told me that he was Mom’s favorite singer when she was a girl. Seems like her infatuation hasn’t waned over the years.
Taking her hand, I steer her toward Mr. Baret. I haven’t met him before, but I’ll be damned if I’ll deny Mom her fan-girl moment. “Mr. Baret, I’m Cole Manchester. I have to say it is a pleasure to meet you.” He politely shakes my hand. Flash bulbs flicker in the background, but I ignore them. “Please allow me to introduce my mother, Julie.” I lean in close to him. “She’s a big fan.”
Adam breaks into a wide grin. He takes my mother’s hand and kisses it as she looks on, speechless. “It’s a pleasure to meet such a lovely woman. Especially the mother of the biggest up-and-coming artist in the music industry.” His blue eyes, lined with crow’s feet, sparkle.
I’m more than a little shocked that he knows who I am. He’s definitely overstating things, but I appreciate that he’s doing so for my mother’s benefit. Speaking of whom, my poor mother is still frozen in place. I give her a gentle tap with my shoulder, and she snaps out of it, gushing, “Mr. Baret, believe me, the pleasure is all mine. I just love your music!”
He grins, and the ice is broken. I have to pry her away from him when it’s time for us to enter the theater.
Once inside the Staples Center, we are escorted to the third row, center section, on the aisle. Mom is positively giddy following her encounter with Adam Baret.
We walk by Mimi Barker draped over her newest victim, the rapper Scotty K! What person has only an initial with an exclamation point as a last name? Maybe these two aren’t faking their romance.
Once we’re seated, Mom leans over to me and whispers, “This is the fourth best night of my life, after marrying your father and yours and Jayson’s births.” Then her eyes go wide. “You’re seated on the aisle, so that probably means you’re going to win!”
Not wanting to get her hopes up too high—or mine, for that matter—I point out the obvious. I whisper, “Mom, let’s not get ahead of ourselves. I’m performing tonight, so they probably wanted me to have an easy way out.” Having been here the day before for rehearsal, I’ve been prepped on all the logistics. The producers told me that someone would come and tap me on the shoulder when it’s almost time for me to perform. The clothes I’ll be wearing for the performance are waiting for me backstage.
“That’s true,” she sighs. “I still have my fingers crossed for you, sweetie! You said you were going to win a Grammy years ago, and here you are.”
I close my eyes and concentrate on keeping my breathing even. Very few artists win their first time out. I have to pay my dues.
The lights dim and the host opens with a pretty funny monologue. He takes swipes at my fellow nominees and I just know that my turn is coming. Sure enough, that thought has barely floated through my head when he says, “Where is Cole Manchester?”
The host points to me. In a high-pitched voice, he waves and coos, “Yoo-hoo, Cole baby, flash me a dimple, you green-eyed hottie!” Everyone, including me, laughs. I’m sure my dimple is showing.
His voice drops an octave below its normal register. “Oh, I’d like to meet you in a back room, all right. You know what I’d do to you in that back room? I’d punch you in the face and knock out your blindingly white front teeth. No one should be that pretty and that talented, am I right guys? Cole’s back room looks like the casting call for the Price Modeling Agency! He’s like the pied piper to models.” He waits for the audience to settle down.
In his normal voice, he says, “Well, on second thought, perhaps I wouldn’t hurt you. I’d just take a few of the women off your hands.” I wink at him and he’s off to his next target.
Whew, glad that’s over. I relax my tense muscles and brave a glance over at my mother. She’s now wearing Nicole Miller and a fake smile. I lean over and whisper, “Relax, Mom, he was just trying to be funny.” I kiss her on the cheek. Her jaw twitches, but soon she’s laughing at another one of the host’s jokes.
I’m having such a good time that it catches me off guard when a stunning blonde woman in an evening gown comes up and taps me on the shoulder. Time for me to get ready to perform. Before I know it, I’m in much more comfortable clothes—jeans and a dark green T-shirt—and striding onstage toward the piano.
If I count all the people watching on television, this is by far the largest audience I’ve ever played in front of live. Russell suggested that I do a stripped down version of my newest single for this performance. Just me and the piano. I’m amped up. I start to play and a hush comes over the audience, but there’s a palpable energy that I tap into. It calms my nerves and propels my fingers across the black and white keys. As I start to sing, I try to keep my eyes open to take in the moment. I’m playing at the fucking Grammys.
When the song ends, people are on their feet. No, not people. Music legends. Maybe I should pinch myself to make sure I’m not dreaming. Screw that, if I’m dreaming, I don’t want to wake up.
Trying to keep my cool, I wave and walk offstage. The same blonde bombshell is waiting to lead me back to a changing room. After taking a few steps, I bend down to her and say, “Pinch me.” She smiles and pinches my ass. No, definitely not a dream. Well, maybe a different dream.
We continue a couple more steps, but then she stops and places her hand on my forearm. From the stage, the presenter says, “Nominees for Best New Artist are…”
A man shoves a video camera in my face.
Oh shit, I’m in this group. What did Rose tell me I should do? Oh yeah, smile and don’t stop smiling if I lose. If I win, get on stage and thank the Academy and Gruesome.
Well, I’ll start with the smiling part. “Cole Manchester.” Smile. My heart rate picks up.
“And the winner is …” Smile.
Rustling as the envelope is opened.
Smile.
I run sweaty palms up and down my thighs.
How long does it take to pull out a card?
Smile. Smile. Smile.
“Cole Manchester!”
Caught up in the moment, I turn to the gorgeous woman standing at my side and shake my head, arms outstretched. Smiling, she runs her hands down my arms, turns me around and pushes me toward the stage. The camera guy circles around me, capturing my every movement.
At the podium, I receive the Grammy award and mutter, “Wow.” I look out int
o the audience, searching for my mother. Locking eyes with her, I state, “Mom, this is for you!”
A wave of emotion rolls through me. I remember Dan’s admonishment not to lose it like a little girl if I won, so I take a deep breath to regain control.
Stepping to the mic, I say, “Thank you to the Academy for giving me this honor. If my first music teacher Miss Mestern hadn’t seen something special in me, I’m not sure where I’d be today. I want to thank my Mom and Dad and my brother Jayson for all their support throughout the years. Also, thanks to Noah Slate at Platinum Records for discovering me and to Jon Merkin for being an awesome label rep. My agent Russell Waldock for guiding my career and always giving me great advice. And to Grues—Greta VonStein for being an amazing publicist. Most of all, thank you to my fans—you’re the best!”
The send-off music starts. In a daze, I manage to get off stage, answer some questions, change and return to my seat in relatively short order. Along my journey, many people I know, and some that I don’t, reach out and congratulate me. Once seated, I hand my Grammy over to my mother. I kiss her cheek and whisper in her ear: “Mom, this is for you and Dad. Thank you.”
Tears well up in her eyes. “I’m so proud of you!” Running her fingers over the award, she turns back to me. “I loved your speech, Cole. Just one thing, you forgot to thank that lovely Rose who arranged tonight for me.”
I give her a quizzical look. It strikes me that this is the second time Mom’s said something like that this evening. “I think Rose was just passing along Greta’s idea.” Mom’s eyebrows go up and she gives me “the look.” Huh, maybe she has a point. Greta’s certainly not the touchy-feely type. “If it makes you happy, if I win again tonight, I’ll make sure to mention her.”
The evening continues with amazing performances and acceptance speeches. I shake my head, realizing again how lucky I am to share that stage with these talented performers. Mom hangs on every word uttered by Adam Baret during his presentation, which earns her a nudge in her ribs from me.
