The Stage (Phoenix Rising #1)

by Shelby Rebecca

  He wants my trust? He has a strange way of trying to earn it.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  You Want a Challenge?

  “Mia! Mia!” Riley says. My eyes creak open, flutter, and I find her staring down at me with a confused look on her little face. “Where are we?” she asks, slowly.

  “We are at a nice apartment near the studio,” I say, as she looks around, amazed.

  “It’s blue, Mia. Like I want my room!”

  “Well, uh, yep, it is,” I mumble as she jumps out of bed and bolts out of the bedroom door. I stumble out of bed and rub my eyes, wondering what I’m going to do about this whole situation.

  After brushing my teeth in the bathroom attached to Riley’s borrowed room, I follow the scent of coffee and bacon, finding Riley in the kitchen. Deloris is leaning over the kitchen island talking to her.

  “She’s going to be like my new gramma,” Riley says to me, looking excited. “We get to stay here, Mia!” she exclaims. “I get to live with Miss Deloris while you’re gettin’ famous.”

  “Is that what you want to do?” I ask.

  “Are we rich now?”

  “No, Riley. We aren’t.”

  “This is yummy,” she announces, taking a bite of the bacon.

  “Do you like omelets, ladies, or scrambled eggs?”

  “Scrambled,” Riley says. “Can we go to the park?”

  “I can’t, I’m sorry. I have to go to the studio today to record my first song.”

  “I’ll take you, Riley,” Deloris says. “We can go after you take a shower. Do you know how to take a shower on your own?” she asks, looking at me.

  “Yeah, but sometimes I need help when I floss. Plus, I’m bad at brushing my hair. But when Mia brushes it, she pulls my hair. It hurts.”

  “Well, I’m good at brushing hair. I even have some special conditioner for long hair like yours,” she says. “Is that okay?”

  “Yep,” Riley says, as Deloris puts some eggs on her plate.

  “So, Deloris,” I say. “Do you happen to know why Kolton has us staying here in his own apartment?”

  “Yes, I do,” she puts some eggs on my plate, too. “He was concerned with you two staying in a hotel, considering Riley is so young. He felt like she’d need more of a home environment. I mean, if you look at the schedule, the finals are just before Christmas, so, you know, if you make it that far in the competition, it might be hard for us to try and live in a hotel full time like that.”

  “Yeah, that’s true, but we get a couple of months off in between?” I say, really thinking about it.

  “I believe he wants us to stay here then, too, but, if you want, I can travel with you back to—where are you from?”

  “Sacramento.”

  “I can go with you there. He’s covered travel expenses, too.”

  “He has?”

  “I think it’s great. All the effort he took. So many things he did to get everything just right. He must have a lot of confidence in your abilities.”

  “Uh, yeah. He must.” I sip my coffee, thinking. She’s right, though. Living in the hotel with Riley would suck. This is the best thing for Riley, and she’s been through so much. He won’t be living here. Maybe we can stay—as long as he keeps his distance.

  * * *

  For the taped Challenge Round, I’ve been paired with a singer from Boston named Kenny. We’re singing Justin Beiber’s “As Long As You Love Me.”

  I learned that Kenny is twenty-two years old and overcame stuttering by learning to sing. He’s cute, with spikey blonde hair and a swimmers physique. He’s also kind of quirky and a little awkward—saying things like, “Your hair is pretty,” to me and then walking away.

  His mom is definitely the boss. She keeps talking over the producer in the box. “Kenny! That’s the wrong key. Go down to the lower register so you have room to move up,” she yells over Ron’s shoulder. Again.

  The producer, Ron, rubs his forehead, and then motions for another man to take her by the elbow out of the box. She’s fuming red, and Kenny starts to stutter, “W—w—where’s she g—g—going?”

  “It’s fine,” Ron says. “It might help you focus if she waits outside. Let’s try the chorus again. This time try the falsetto.”

  When his mom leaves, I realize Kenny does have a great voice, with a high-range falsetto, but his weakness is still when he loses the key and he can’t recover. It’s happened so many times. I think Kolton paired us on purpose. Maybe he thought it would be easy for me to win against him. That’s just—wrong.

  When I get home each evening, Deloris has made some awesome dinner like lasagna, or stew, and then I text back and forth with Kaya before I read C.S. Lewis’s The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe out loud to Riley until she’s yawning and her eyelashes flutter.

  “Goodnight, Riley,” I say, before turning on the fluffy nightlight and walking upstairs to my room.

  Every night, Kolton’s sent the same text. He just writes, “Good Night Mia.” But as I check the phone tonight, I find this:

  K-Royce Private

  10:59 PM

  Out of the ashes she rose.

  Fire tried to take her voice—

  Strong like lightening. Soft like silk.

  Bright like the light from the sun.

  11:12 PM

  What is this?

  11:16 PM

  A poem/song.

  11:17 PM

  Who wrote it?

  11:18 PM

  I did. It’s about a Phoenix rising out of the ashes. They make a lot of beautiful noise when they are reborn I’m told.

  I don’t respond. I have no idea how to, or what to say. It’s kind of like what the lady at the check-in table said to me when she learned about the fire and my last name. I sort of know a little about it. A Phoenix is a mythical bird that’s reborn through fire. But this time I’m being compared to a Phoenix and it feels different. Special.

  I wish I could say it’s a nice gesture, but he’s up to something. All week, he never asked about the recording or how we’ve settled in to his house—but this song tells me he’s heard it. That he likes it. I read his song over and over until I fall asleep, his words running around my brain, making me feel like my life is spinning out of control.

  * * *

  As I brush my teeth, I know Kolton’s coming back today some time. I’m nervous about seeing him. So I decide to think about what I’m really here for; I put the toothbrush up to my mouth like a mic and sing my part of the song.

  I’m scheduled to shoot the pairing-up scene with him at noon. The whole team will be together and he’ll “choose” pairs, for the cameras. It’s funny because these tunes are already recorded. We’ve already shot the Walking Up scene for the Challenge Round, too, but have to pretend this is the first time we find out who we’ve been paired up with.

  The challenge, besides the Challenge Round itself, this week has been how to get to the studio unnoticed. I’m not sure if the other contestants have figured out I’m not at the hotel. Devon, Kolton’s driver, has taken me to the hotel and I take the shuttle from there. No one’s seemed to notice.

  That is, until this right now. Blaire, my old roomie on Pulse’s team, just walked out of the back entrance of the hotel just as I’m stepping out of the back seat.

  I don’t know what to do, so I pretend not to see her and act like I am invisible—what else can I do? I mean, she knows I’m dirt poor. I can’t even imagine what she’s thinking as I walk right past her and jump up the shuttle steps and sit down. To take my mind off things, I read my notes and continue to listen to the song Kenny and I recorded as I watch her sit down a few seats up from me.

  As we ride over to the set, the beige buildings illuminated by the early morning California sun, shine in my eyes. We pass trailers set up for the coaches to rest in between shoots. Between shoots, contestants wait in sparse rooms, not as comfy as those trailers, I’m sure. The studio hums with voices, people running around, team members bonding. I just want to list
en to my song, read my stage notes. Focus.

  Maybe I don’t want to talk to anyone because I don’t want them to question me. I’m just glad Blaire didn’t say anything to me. But, this is what I’m going to have to deal with. What if I’m accused of cheating? I mean, I kind of am, but not by choice. And, if I really messed up, I don’t think Kolton would support me anyway.

  I sit down in the chair for make-up and hair.

  “I can’t get over this,” Sharlene, the stylist says, as she wraps a long dark strand around the curling iron.

  “Over what?” I ask, momentarily confused.

  “This is the kind of hair we try to create with extensions. Not too thick, but full. Long, but soft and manageable,” she says as she sprays her magic potion on the ends.

  “Thanks, Sharlene,” I say.

  “Aww, you can call me Shar,” she corrects me as she runs her fingers through the curls to loosen them. “You’re good to go. Head on over to wardrobe, now.”

  “You’re wearing a different outfit for this scene than you did for the walk-up. Here you go,” Melody informs me as she hands me some fitted jeans and a grey top. I put them on along with a grey beanie. It actually looks cute with the curls and the dark smokey eye I’ve got going, and I top it off with a white scarf I find on the rack to hide my cleavage. “Here you go,” Melody says, as she sets down some high-heeled shoes.

  “I can’t wear these,” I say. “I need those boots.”

  “Sorry, these are labeled for you.”

  “No!” I exclaim. “These will show my scars… I’m not wearing them. I had those boots before,” I state, standing my ground. “I’m so sorry. I left them at—” oh shit! They’re in Kolton’s closet. “Do you have any other boots?” I’m panicked now.

  Melody puts her hand on her hip and her brows crease as she walks away. When she comes back, she’s holding some similar high heeled ankle boots instead. These will look cute over the jeans and they hide my scars, my past. They’re ugly, they deserve to be covered.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “Those shoes were so low there was toe cleavage,” I say, trying to make a joke.

  “Stop being sorry, okay? I understand about not wanting to show scars,” she scolds lightly, as she pulls her shirt up, showing a huge one along her stomach. “It was a car accident. I almost died, so, as far as I’m concerned, you’ll always be able to cover your feet. Okay?”

  “Thank you, Melody.” I look down, and wait for her to move on to the next person. I can’t look at her tears. I hate when people feel sorry for me.

  After my wireless mic box is taped under my grey top, I take a golf cart over to the studio room for the scene. As I walk in, I’m humming the tune to the song.

  All sixteen of us are here. Brianna, the chipper brunette, is leaning against the wall, checking her phone. Some are sitting, some standing and talking. Others are singing to themselves. A few are pacing around the room. I’m one of them. It’s like when I’m on the phone at home, I have to walk around the house. I don’t know why, but it eases my anxiety.

  I feel him in the room before I see him. It’s like my body is tuned to the same frequency he is, because I turn around just as he’s walking into the room. Why can’t I breathe all of the sudden? It’s like all the air has faded away.

  He doesn’t look at me. He’s talking to a young male production assistant as I take in how he looks; his messy combed up hair, dark button up shirt, his Chuck Taylors and faded jeans that hang on his hips just right. He works out. He has to—his shoulders are broad and his waist narrow. Stop it! I force my eyes toward the stage director.

  The same stage director who shot the walk-up tells us where to sit for the scene. He places me in the front. Kolton sits down facing us, closes his eyes as the make-up lady dabs his forehead. Then it’s like he turns on a switch.

  He’s got the same stubble growing around that smirk on his lips that drives his fans crazy. His dimple is even showing, and, from this angle, I can still see the scar on his chin. His scar makes him real. It intrigues me. I want to know more about where it came from. I look around and the other girls are smiling, blinking their eyes. This is the him for the show. It’s a different him from the Kolton who cuddled Riley in the back seat and asked me to call him Kole. It’s like there are two of him.

  He starts by pairing up two girls, Shawna and Tarise, who I like to call “belters.” They are power singers who want to be Whitney Houston when they ‘grow up.’ Then he pairs up two guys, Sam and Henry. Sam, is kind of jazzy, like Harry Connick Jr and, the other, Henry, reminds me of Jack Johnson.

  “So the next pair I’ve chosen,” he says, his eyes sparkling as he finally makes contact with mine for the first time in a week and a half, “is Kenny and Mia.” The team members still in the room clap.

  “What I like about Kenny is his dedication to music. You’re so unique, man. You’ve got the falsetto range with a ring to it that’s hard to find in male vocalists. But I need to see how you’ll do with Mia. She’s got this soulful, emotional thing going for her, along with just a crazy, crazy unique tone—soft, silky, beautiful, almost sweet, and an effortless control I’ve never seen in someone so young.”

  I have to close my mouth purposefully, a blush forming on my cheeks. From the corner of my eye I see Gypsy-Dress, Kimber, who’d bumped me when we were shooting team photos, snap her gaze toward me so hard her neck must hurt as she makes a “Tssss,” sound. I just ignore her, but I wish Kolton hadn’t said I was his star like that, in front of everyone. Idiot.

  Kenny and I have to pretend we haven’t spent a whole two days in the studio recording the song. We stand, shake hands, and walk off as if we’re going to start getting ready to challenge each other.

  “Come with me, you two,” a production assistant motions as we exit the room. I really need to learn their names, but I’m not good with that. Faces, yes. Minute details about a person, yes. Names, no. “According to the schedule, you’re supposed to shoot the Coaching Scene tomorrow. We need you to head over to the ballroom for some choreography.”

  Over in the huge carpeted room, we meet our choreographer whose name is Sean. He starts by going over stage directions with us in a taped off area that is meant to replicate the stage.

  “I want you to loosen up, Mia,” says Sean. “You have to move around the stage. Pretend you and Kenny are full of conflicted feelings. You circle each other, look angsty,” he says, overly exaggerating his body language.

  I feel ridiculous, but I humor him and strut across the taped off stage past Kenny, stop just beyond him, stick my hip out, and sing over my shoulder like he’s not worthy of my time—like I’m giving him the cold shoulder.

  “Yes! Like that,” Sean says.

  “This is fun!” I say, out of breath.

  “Wooo!” Sean claps. “Mia, yes. Again, from the top,” Sean directs.

  We take our places and turn to face each other. I sing first, then Kenny. He looks sick to his stomach and his mom is tapping her foot in the distance. We cross paths, circle each other, and I turn my back to him, singing over my shoulder again. I feel sassy, alive, like someone is watching. As my eyes dart over to the entrance, I want him to.

  I know he’s here. I felt him well before I saw him. I let his eyes burn into my skin. Tell him with every note I sing, with every movement, that he can’t have me. He’s used to getting what he wants, but I’m not like that. I never look at him again. I pretend Kenny is the most important person in the room. Even Kenny looks like he believes me.

  We have to sing facing each other. The last line is sung right up in each other’s faces—like a stand-off. As we let out that last note, I step back, and reach my hand out to him.

  “See you tomorrow,” I say. “And thanks, Sean.”

  “Okay, see you tomorrow,” Kenny says, blushing.

  When I check the entrance, Kolton is gone. Why am I so let down that he’s not waiting for me?

  * * *

  The following day we are getting made up to
tape the Coaching Scene. I get to wear the outfit from yesterday so it’d seem like Kolton paired us up and then coached us the same day.

  I’ve got my wireless mic taped to my back and my earpiece in. This is the scene when Kolton meets with Kenny and me to help us perform on stage. I’m looking forward to it. He didn’t text me last night, and, to be honest, I’m glad. Maybe he’s figured it out—I’m not like the girls he’s used to. All I really want from Kolton is advice about my singing. I really do need his help in that area.

  “Hi, I’m Amy. I’ll be directing the scene today,” she says. “Kolton is already in the coaching studio room for the scene.”

  “Okay,” I say, nibbling on my bottom lip.

  “Just be yourselves. Don’t start acting like fans. I mean, be real, but don’t freak out. We’ve brought in one of the best in the business to shoot the coaching scene with. Her name is Rania Steele.”

  “Oh crap! I love her,” I squeal to Kenny and grab his arm. She’s in her mid-forties, but smoking hot. Her body is rock solid. I’ve been listening to her for years—since I was a kid. I’m so excited.

  “Calm down,” Amy says, and when I let go of Kenny, he’s all flustered, his face red.

  “Do you like her?” I ask him and he shakes his head ‘no.’ He must have been a pretty sheltered kid. That’s something I miss: being under my parents’ wing a little bit. If she were alive, I wonder if my mom would’ve been here with me every step of the way. If she would have taken a leave of absence from work. More likely, she would have only been able to take a few weeks off—it takes a lot of time to plan for a substitute teacher, and, after Dad lost his job, money was tight.

  “Mia!” Amy says.

  “Huh?” I ask, realizing they are both looking at me. I’d zoned out thinking about my mom. “Sorry.”