One Night With a Rock Star

by Chana Keefer

  My opinion of Devin was sealed the year before when I accompanied Marti to a college sponsored “Chili Cook-off.” Sounds innocent enough and, being Texas, there actually was chili, but as usual the real purpose was for the student body to get sloshed. After about twenty minutes, I was tired of stepping in beer and ready to leave when I found myself cornered by an inebriated Devin.

  “Hello Darlin’.” He had drawled the stench of stale beer breath into my face. “I do believe you win the prize for cutest butt.”

  As I shoved past him, he had added a squeeze to my derriere. For a moment, I was too stunned to react. But shock turned to anger and I slapped the plastic cup of foamy beer from his hand, dumping the contents on his pricey shoes. Lucky for me, Devin had been too looped to react quickly and I slipped into the crowd followed by his slurred expletives.

  On this day, I discovered Devin could be a jerk without the aid of alcohol. “Oh my, boys. Look what we got here. Sky’s little Sexy Dancer. My lucky day!” he spun me around the courtyard before lifting me up to stand on one of the stone benches. “Why don’t you give us a dance now, Sweetheart?”

  Devin’s antics gathered a crowd, not to mention the seven or so Sigma Taus all dressed in the same t-shirt. One of the guys muttered, “Come on Dev, leave ‘er alone…”

  I climbed down from my perch, realizing I had a large smear of yogurt across my sweater, as Devin continued. “Listen Baby,” he brought his face close to mine. What was it with this guy and personal space? “You name the time and we’ll arrange a private party, just me and you… ”

  I shook with embarrassment and anger. A bad reputation was not something I’d ever had to deal with; therefore, I had been off the radar of guys like Devin.

  I looked down. “Nice shoes.” I dropped the yogurt.

  He yelped and came after me. I dodged through Sigma Taus to open ground. A couple of his friends detained him. Perhaps they noticed the campus security officer taking an interest in the commotion.

  Bummer. A waste of good yogurt.

  I heard footsteps behind me and shot a look over my shoulder. A Sigma Tau shirt was closing in. Thankfully though, a security officer followed him so I turned to face my opponent.

  The guy had an honest face with a gorgeous head of bright red hair and scattered freckles—not a face to inspire fear.

  “Hey!” he drew closer. “Let me apologize for Devin. He’s not always such a jerk and the rest of us aren’t either.”

  “What’s wrong with Devin apologizing for himself if he’s ‘not always such a jerk?’”

  “He thinks he’s just having some fun.” The young man extended a hand. “By the way, I’m Shane. Consider this an olive branch from the Sigma Taus, okay?”

  The security officer backed off.

  “You, I’ll accept an apology from.” I returned the handshake. “But keep that ‘Devin’ away from me.”

  “Deal.” Shane rewarded me with a friendly smile. He seemed nice. Not the type who should be hanging around the likes of Devin Graves.

  I hurried on to finish correcting my story. I re-worked the last couple paragraphs, printed it out, and rushed to class. On the way, I grabbed a copy of the school paper. I scanned the class for a chair—hopefully toward the back of the room. I wasn’t eager to face “The Morgan.”

  The front page carried the story of the school drum line winning its national competition. No surprise there. I unfolded the paper to peruse the lower half and froze.

  “Co-ed Makes Guest Appearance with Sky,” the headline screamed above a story containing a photo of… me. I hadn’t been told about this and I’d even had a late-night chat with our editor. I scanned down to check the by-line, wondering who was cashing in, once again, by embarrassing me. There it was, story by… Marti Thomas. Underneath the shot of me dancing with Sky, I read, “photo by Roland Franklin.” Great. My best friend and the editor had been planning this little surprise all along.

  My mouth must have been hanging open when Dr. Morgan entered the room, but I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the double betrayal. Dr. Morgan was asking us to have our feature stories ready for collection and I’m sure I wasn’t being the most attentive. He was known to be ruthless to distracted students.

  His scathing sarcasm yanked me to attention. “If we can tear ourselves away from riveting accounts of our social life.”

  I looked up as my fellow students snickered, to find Dr. Morgan’s steely eyes boring into me over the top of his bifocals. “Esther, are you ready to study journalism or will you continue with Groupies 101?”

  This cold ridicule from a professor I admired was devastating. A hard lump grew in my throat. No way was I going to sit there and blubber. I collected my things, yanked out the feature story and walked to his desk where I slammed it down. Whispers and gasps echoed around me. As a parting gesture, I wadded up the newspaper and chucked it in the receptacle by the door. I left the room feeling Dr. Morgan’s laser eyes on my back. Nobody walks out of Morgan’s class—and lives to tell the tale.

  Who was this hothead? Certainly not me. At the present moment, stumping away down the hall with every nerve standing on end, a good old-fashioned fistfight sounded like welcome relief.

  Luckily, that was my last class for the day. Campus was feeling far too claustrophobic.

  I retreated to the dorm to check messages, discovering a call from Sheila, one of the agency bookers. “Esther, audition, two p.m. at the studios. Call me a.s.a.p!”

  I wondered vaguely why she had used the term “audition” instead of “interview” but I returned her call, confirmed the appointment and began my race with the clock.

  I chose a pair of snug jeans paired with high-heeled boots and a body-hugging top. That would have to fulfill the dress requirement of “form-fitting.” Make-up and hair absorbed another twenty minutes, then I raced down the highway, grateful to escape the drama.

  I reached the studio with five minutes to spare and entered to find a small group of young women obviously called in for the same opportunity and exchanged greetings with a couple familiar faces.

  A lady behind the desk handed me a few sheets of paper she called “sides.”

  So that’s why Sheila had used the word “audition.” I would actually be required to speak; something, along with thinking, models weren’t usually encouraged to do.

  I focused on the script in front of me. It was for a soap opera called “Desire” and I read the part of Rachel, a girl confronting a “love ‘em and leave ‘em” jerk. She got to be pretty sassy but (darn!) no violence.

  I read through the script again. Wo. There was a violent kiss toward the end. With a total stranger? Ew.

  My name was called and I entered a small room to find about five people in various states of boredom arranged behind a table with papers, pens and “headshots” scattered across it. My little 5x7 modeling card looked puny next to all the 8x10 glossies. A guy with a toothy smile made introductions with the speed of an auctioneer, concluding with the young actor who would be going through the scene with me. Then he showed me where to stand so we could record the scene onto video.

  It’s hard to describe what happened next. When my character said, “So it meant nothing to you?” a lump in my throat made it hard to speak.

  My mind raced through the time with Sky. Was Dad right? Did it mean nothing? Maybe I’d never see him again. A wave of despair blindsided me. The words on the page blurred. In the awkward silence, the other actor repeated his last line. I blinked furiously and hot tears spilled over. I swiped them angrily away. Was I a fool? A stupid, clueless country girl who fell for smooth lines?

  The words were “I hate you!” So I choked back the lump and barely croaked them out… then hiccupped… loudly. Oh no! Here came another one.

  “You had to grow up sometime,” the other actor sneered.

  “Hic!”

  “So you’re wiser now. Consider it a... life lesson.”

  Time for my next well-written line…”I (Hic) hate you!” I
started to giggle. Great. I was loosing it.

  Now for the big smooch. As he whipped me ‘round to face him the paper in my hand went flying. Luckily there was only one very predictable thing left to say and I knew it.

  “Don’t you (Hic) touch me!” He was in my face. It was the passionate, intense, laser stare… my big moment.

  I tried desperately to hold my breath, at least for a few seconds. The script called for him to betray his true feelings. He couldn’t resist me, couldn’t keep up the brutal, unfeeling charade so he gives in to a passionate lip-lock before exiting stage right, leaving me more shredded than ever.

  So hurry up and get it over with! I squelched one internal, breath-held hiccup and still he milked the moment. He closed in, searching my eyes, touching my hair… so dramatic. “Oh Rachel!”

  I felt my eyes widen in horror. I couldn’t hold it in. I pushed against his shoulder to create a little space and clamped my lips together. Please, Lord, not now!

  “Snort-HIC!” This was a nightmare. Tears ran from my eyes due to suppressed snickers. My fellow actor stared in confusion and took a step back as I fanned my face, desperate for composure. Finally, he turned his back and stepped toward the door.

  End of scene.

  Complete silence… even the hiccups stopped. Take my word. Stark terror can cure them.

  There was a loud clap, and another. Mouths hung open behind the table. Eyes were wide. The spattering of applause grew. Even my fellow actor joined in as I blinked.

  “Such an original take… almost drunk with grief… the tenuous grip on sanity… the myriad of emotions—fascinating!” The murmured exclamations continued.

  Huh?

  A dark-haired woman addressed me, “Where did you receive your training?”

  There was no Julliard in my past. “I’m, uh, in college?”

  “Ahh! A drama student!” one of the heads behind the table murmured.

  My card was passed from hand to hand, someone said something about “callbacks” then I found myself back in the hallway.

  What. Was. That? I returned to the solitude of my car and tried to make sense of it all. Obviously, being completely screwed up was a plus for an actress. Maybe I’d found my calling. Lucky me.

  My head hurt, my emotions were fried, and my car was out of gas. Time to move on.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Stuck to the door of our room was a note from Marti with another paper attached to it.

  “Grabbed this out of your box since it looked important. Yikes!”

  Marti

  The writing on the other paper made my stomach lurch.

  My office—Wed. 10 a.m.—Morgan

  Oh great, something to look forward to. As I entered our room, I noticed a copy of The Daily propped on my bed with my picture prominently displayed. What was Marti thinking? Did she just want more good news to accompany my hate mail?

  Just then, the knob turned and Marti entered, flushed and pleased.

  “Oh hey! You’re back. How was the interview?”

  I gave the in-depth answer of, “Fine,” like a disgruntled teenager. Marti always amazed me with her ability to forgive and actually forget a conflict. I, on the other hand, tended to clam up and sulk. And the newspaper on the bed wasn’t doing much for my powers of forgiveness.

  “Sooo,” she prompted. “Whadja think?”

  “About… ”

  “The story, silly. Pretty cool, huh? Half page and everything.”

  My fists clinched. “Ya lookin’ for congratulations? Fine. Congratulations, best friend.”

  “Hey, what’s that for?”

  “I guess Roland got to you, huh?”

  “Got to me?”

  I faced her, hands on hips, accusation oozing from every pore. “He tried to get me to sell out too.”

  “Whaddaya mean, ‘sell out?’”

  “Makes it very convincing doesn’t he… that whole ‘power of the press’ thing?” Marti’s eyes filled with tears as we shared a shocked silence.

  “Of course, nobody’s standards can be as high as Esther’s.” Her eyes flashed with anger. “And everybody’s out to get you and you can’t trust anybody ’cause this whole thing is just too darn magical for the rest of us slobs to understand.”

  I felt tears of my own. We’d always made fun of girls who argued, now here we were, sharpening the claws.

  “Did ya really think I’d be thrilled to have my face splashed across a paper for everybody to make fun of—again? And what about the people you met the other night? Didn’t your conscience have a problem with using them?”

  “So that’s what you think.” She snatched the paper off the bed and swiped quickly at her cheek. “Boy, hangin’ out with big shots does nothin’ for your personality.” She crossed to the medicine cabinet on her way out and beamed a bottle of Midol at me. “You need this more than I do.”

  The door closed behind her with a resounding slam.

  Wednesday morning dawned way too quickly for my taste. I sat through math and biology with a ball of dread growing in my stomach. What would Dr. Morgan say? What would he do? As I understood it, blowing it for him once could be fatal. What about me? I’d blown it twice in one week.

  After biology, Danielle invited me to join her for a snack.

  “Can’t. I have an appointment.”

  Her dark eyes flashed. “Oh yeah, Marti told me you were facing the wrath of Morgan.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Right. Tell-a-phone, tell-a-graph, tell-a-Marti….”

  “She also said ya’ll had a fight.”

  “I rest my case.”

  “Hey, she was really upset the other night. You guys need to talk.”

  “And risk seeing my words in print? No thanks.”

  “Ouch!”

  “Look, I can’t be late for Dr. Morgan.” I’d never known Marti to stoop to the “pull others in” tactic. Then again, we’d never really fought. Regardless, I wouldn’t do the same.

  For now, however, the Marti-thing had to be shelved. I hadn’t dreaded something this much since I was sent to the principal’s office in third grade for punching Jimmy Gates on the playground. He’d deserved it. He was about to drop a kitten from the top of the slide. Anyway, that long walk to Principal’s office had seemed like a stroll to the electric chair.

  In the present, going before a firing squad seemed a comforting thought compared to facing The Morgan.

  I entered the private sanctuary of the most feared man on the journalism staff. It contained the usual: numerous degrees, journalism awards for his years with the New York Times, family photos, a shelf of journalism references, the obligatory oversized coffee mug. I was surprised to see commendations from years spent in the armed forces. That explained the ramrod posture and steel gray, buzzed hair. However, his office felt surprisingly homey for a man without a heart. The pastoral painting on the wall and the homemade afghan gracing the back of his chair didn’t fit the profile.

  I sat on the edge of the chair debating whether to sit up or lean back. On the stroke of ten, Dr. Morgan came in. He crossed to his chair behind the desk and sat, elbows propped, fingers laced together in front of his mouth as if waiting for me to speak.

  “I’m sorry for walking out of your class,” I said.

  “Apology not accepted.” His steely eyes met mine over his folded hands as that ball of fear inched closer to my throat. “I set this meeting because I was out-of-line.”

  My jaw dropped. My turn to speak, but no words entered my stunned brain.

  “I’m hard on students who have real potential, but I was too harsh. My wife says I have all the grace of a bull in a china closet.”

  “That was the first I’d seen of Monday’s paper,” I said, attempting to explain my outburst.

  “Ah. A paper written by amateurs can be offensive. But,” he pulled a wadded paper from behind his desk, “I at least read it before reaching that conclusion.” He lobbed the wad my way.

  How did he know I hadn’t read it? “I’ve
seen enough stories about me lately.”

  “What’s the first rule of journalism?”

  I recalled our first day in his class when he wrote the word “assume” on the chalkboard, carefully splitting it into three strategic parts, “ASS-U-ME.”

  “Never assume anything. It makes an,” he had pointed with his chalk extender, “Say it with me,” We had parroted back the words with Morgan providing the “out of” and “and.” Since then, I’d heard that golden rule at least once a week.

  With one last “Do I have to?” look, I shook open the paper. Granted, sophomores almost never got a story on the front page. I guess Marti deserved congratulations, even if she had to stab me in the back to achieve it. The opening paragraph read:

  “Esther Collins, sophomore journalism major, graced Friday’s “Sky” concert, dancing with the music icon himself.”

  The story went on giving highlights of our meeting with the musicians and emphasizing the presence of Jeremiah and James as members of Sky’s family.

  As it continued, I realized Marti had actually done me a favor. Even Roland’s photo was innocent enough, simply a view of Sky holding my hand as he lead me onto the stage.

  Okay, maybe they weren’t such fiends after all. “I guess it’s not as bad as I had assumed,” I admitted.

  “Your friend requested to do the story since she was angry about the coverage your…” he hesitated, “…activities, received elsewhere. By the way, she went toe-to-toe with our editor to keep this story free from—how did she so eloquently put it? Ah yes—‘journalistic irresponsibility.’”

  I flinched, recalling my harsh words. “I guess I have some apologizing to do.”

  “That’s your business. My job is to get your mind back on journalism.”

  “I don’t want to be a journalist anymore,” I blurted. Did I really just say that out loud to the head of the journalism department? Too late for a retraction. I took a deep breath and plunged ahead. “All that stuff about ’assuming’ doesn’t matter when there’s papers to sell. And then people all across the country assume....” I squirmed, too embarrassed to meet his eye.