Fanatically in Trouble

by Jenny B. Jones

  “Homespun festival?” I’d had just about enough.

  “America is everywhere I go,” Jaz yelled. “Can you tell me why that is, Johnny? Why on earth would she need to be at my fan event?”

  “Trust me.” America yanked off her sunglasses and surveyed the room. “I’d rather be anywhere but here.”

  “Oh, right,” Jaz snapped. “That sounds really believable. It would be kind of hard for you to sabotage my career if you weren’t at my every event.” She turned her back on a sputtering America and faced her manager. “I don’t know what you have planned, but it’s a giant no.”

  “Now hear me out,” Johnny said. “Your house concert is the perfect time to show the world that you and America have patched things up.” He continued, oblivious to Jaz shaking her head like a wet puppy. “You’ll open the show, receive your thunderous applause, then you’ll bring out America for a few songs. Then it’s all yours, Jazzy, ’til the finale. I’ve had someone working on a medley custom made for the two of you that’s gonna slay the audience and hit them right in the heartstrings.”

  Jaz looked like she’d rather choke someone with those heartstrings. “This is my concert for my fans.”

  “Your fans currently think you’re a homicidal maniac who’s crazy enough to hurt America,” Johnny said. “We have media primed and ready to spin this like a fairy tale. You do this, and the rest of the fest is all yours, and you get your reputation back.”

  Jaz’s bottom lip pooched, but at least her lipstick was going the distance. “And then she leaves?”

  “I’ll be gone by tomorrow morning,” America said.

  Jaz eyed her with suspicion. “And you’re agreeing to this because . . . ?”

  “Because Johnny told me to.” America gave her long, pink hair a toss. “And because I’m not gonna be painted as some weak victim. We do this, then go our separate ways.”

  “Rehearsals are at four,” Johnny said. “I expect both of you ladies to be there ready to work.” America nodded, but Jaz said nothing. “Jaz?”

  “Fine!” She threw off Little Tee Pee’s comforting arm. “I’ll do this. But America, if you mess this up, I promise you, I will make you regret it.” And with that, the former lead singer of the Electric Femmes stomped away, her boyfriend trailing behind her.

  Chapter Six

  “Tell me you’re not smuggling in snacks.” Henry’s shoes clicked on the sidewalk as we approached Jaz’s mansion.

  “I don’t appreciate the disdain in your voice.” I nodded at the security detail and slipped my phone in my pocket. “On behalf of sugar, high-fructose corn syrup, and other toxic ingredients that want to strangle my arteries, I’m offended.”

  That evening, after a quick break to change clothes, freshen up, and pray for divine awesomeness, Henry and I returned to the golf course mansion with an hour to spare before the show. We were again greeted by the overly inflated Thing 1 and Thing 2 who frisked and searched before letting us pass. As I walked inside the house, I smiled at the secret knowledge I had candy stuffed in my bra. After years of service to this flat chest, my bra was probably glad to finally have a purpose.

  Henry and I made our way to the ballroom, where we found Jaz and America conducting a soundcheck.

  I smiled at the sight of my former bandmate Trina Sparkles, standing next to Reese and Johnny Pikes, engrossed in conversation.

  “Paisley!” Trina’s attention roamed my way, then she ran toward me with flailing outstretched arms, squealing like a teenager.

  I hugged my old friend, relishing her familiar, strong embrace. Everything about Trina was genuine, right down to her hugs. It was no quick squeeze, no polite tuck to her side. She pulled you to her and held on, this intentional moment meant to transfer her loving energy and pause in the joy. Almost like a foil to Jaz, Trina was the epitome of real. She didn’t do air kisses or fake laughs. She didn’t do juice fasts and hair extensions. In this business of skinny bodies and Godiva hair, she had curves for days and kept her African-American curly locks cropped close to her head. Though Trina was only a year older than I, and two years younger than Jaz, she’d always been the mom of the group, as if she had more life and wisdom under her cinched belt.

  “It’s so good to see you.” I stepped back to admire Trina’s chic attire of a leather minidress accompanied by stilettos. She always wore something sporty and black, ready to be spirited away on a motorcycle at any moment. “It’s been a few years.”

  “You haven’t changed a bit.” Trina grinned. “You look happy.”

  “I am.” What a new sensation to say those words and actually mean them. The last few years had been rough, but I’d finally found my place. “Thanks for agreeing to the fest on such short notice.”

  “How could I say no to this?” She laughed, a lyrical sound that turned heads and induced smiles. “Plus, Jaz bought me a new car and agreed to guest judge on Pop Sensation.” Trina had put out a few solo albums after the band, finding lukewarm success. Seeing the writing on the wall, she’d branched out into appearances on wholesome made-for-TV movies and was on her third year as a judge for the popular singing competition show Pop Sensation.

  “Trina, meet my business partner Henry.”

  “It’s a pleasure,” Henry said, like an old Southern gentleman.

  Trina hugged him as well, and Henry stiffened briefly before giving her an awkward pat on the back. Extracting himself, he cleared his throat, his cheeks abloom in pink.

  “Are you staying here at the mansion?” I asked.

  “Gosh, no,” Trina said. “I don’t want to be near this drama. I’m at the Sugar Creek Inn. Got me a hot tub and Netflix. What more do I need?”

  “Well, if you think of anything, you have my number.” I turned toward the stage as Jaz belted out a few notes then proceeded to yell at the keyboardist. “Some things never change. Were we ever that bratty back in the day?”

  Henry harumphed. “Back in the day? How about now?”

  I laughed as I watched some of our event staff scurrying to finish the final details. “My muffler’s attached with camo duct tape from Sarge’s pawnshop. I’m pretty sure that alone disqualifies me from diva status. Now, Henry, you, on the other hand . . .”

  “I’ll catch up with you two later,” Trina said. “I need to find a bathroom and help myself to a tour of this beautiful house.”

  Henry and I ran through our checklist, troubleshooting a small problem with catering and locating a lost stack of chairs. Our team had spent all day decorating the ballroom. Eschewing the flash and technology of Jaz’s giant shows, we’d instead gone with a more intimate approach, only inviting a few hundred attendees. Lighting had been designed and rented, giving a true house concert feel. A collection of green velvet couches were placed among the chairs, and Bohemian rugs covered the floor. I doubted anyone sat for too long, but the room still invited one to curl up and enjoy the night. Jaz usually traveled with a forty-piece band and orchestra. After a planning session with her manager, we’d decided tonight would include just a few musicians and backup singers, leaning toward a more unplugged, acoustic event. It was so not Jaz’s style. Which made it even better.

  An hour later, the ballroom was filled to the brim with excited people ready to see the reigning queen of pop.

  Henry consulted his watch. “Ready or not, it’s time to start.”

  “Hello, my little sweet potatoes!” My grandmother Sylvie waved from a distance away, wearing tight leather pants, red boots, and an old Electric Femmes shirt she’d cut to make off-the-shoulder. My aunt Frannie followed behind her, opting for comfort over glam, but sporting a new pair of Birkenstocks that flashed lights with every step.

  “You invited them?” Henry rolled his brown eyes.

  “Everyone loves Sylvie and Frannie, and you know it.”

  “Everyone who’s had head trauma.”

  “This is so exciting.” Aunt Frannie rubbed her hands together, revealing a brand new manicure adorned with rhinestones and skulls. “Jaz an
d America on the same stage. In Sugar Creek.”

  “I didn’t know you were such a big fan,” Henry said.

  “Oh, I’m not.” Frannie dug into the fanny pack at her waist. “I’m hoping it’ll dissolve into one big girl fight with hair pulling and name-calling and moves straight out of MMA.”

  Sylvie held up a crisp twenty. “I got odds on that America girl. She looks scrappy.”

  A voice in my earpiece pulled me from a conversation on bookies and betting odds.

  “Paisley,” said Johnny Pikes in my ear, “you’re up for the introduction. Remember, smile and look excited to see Jaz.”

  I nodded like the man could see me from his spot backstage. “Jaz owes me big.”

  “She owes a lot of us,” he said, then disconnected.

  I walked the length of the room, my skirt feeling suddenly too tight and constrictive. Reminding myself Enchanted Events was being well-compensated didn’t seem to make this task any easier. Introduce Jaz and pretend like I’m glad she’s here? Life had a way of routinely dishing up two scoops of humility when all you’d ordered was a small butter pecan.

  Mounting the stage we’d constructed, I took a deep breath, envisioned the rest of the payment that would cover all my old building’s expenses, then turned to the audience and smiled.

  “Hello, everyone.” I curled my fingers around the microphone stand, a position I’d assumed a thousand times before. “My name is Paisley Sutton of the Electric Femmes.” The eager crowd yelled and cheered. A rose fell at my feet, tossed from a happy fan. My smile turned genuine, and the old performance high zinged through my system. The stage used to be my playground, my happy place. I felt its addictive pull even now, a dormant thrill that had never died.

  “Are you guys ready for Jaz Fan Fest?” If my applause had been thunderous, the reaction to Jaz was earth-splitting. “It’s an honor to introduce my former bandmate, our guest of honor.” I spent the next minute using adoring adjectives and flowery descriptions that Jaz’s assistant had written per Johnny’s request as if the man didn’t trust my opportunity at the mic. “Without further ado . . .” And before I barfed on my new ankle boots. “Here’s the reigning queen of pop—Jaz!”

  The stage shook with claps and yells from her fans as the woman of the hour mounted the stage.

  Jaz’s smile was every bit pageant-worthy as she embraced me. “Thank you,” she yelled near my ear.

  I gave her a pat on her sequined back and exited stage left.

  “Well done.” Trina waited for me on the side, with a knowing grin and two glasses of champagne. “You’re a bigger woman than I am.”

  “Probably with bigger debt.” I took the drink and toasted her. “Here’s to old times.”

  Trina’s sigh was audible even over the loud music. “And to years of putting up with Jazmine Vo. May she one day remember what it’s like to be a mere mortal.”

  We laughed and watched our former friend dominate the stage. She was a marvel, I had to admit. There was talent, then there was that something. And Jaz had both—an enviable range and a charisma that reached out to every ticket holder and sang right to the heart. You couldn’t create that in a studio or train someone to possess it. She’d been born with a gift, and she knew it. Our band had been the ground level of her success, though admittedly, I still resented being stepped on as she’d ascended.

  Just like they’d practiced, Jaz sang the first two songs, her energy contagious, her voice nearly flawless, transporting me to another time and another life.

  “Thank you so much!” Jaz cooed into the microphone. “What a wonderful treat to be in Sugar Bend, Arkansas.”

  Geez. I’d suggested Jaz write the words Sugar Creek on her hand, but she’d merely rolled her eyes.

  “We have a special surprise for you tonight. Are you ready?” Jaz watched her adoring crowd. “I’d like to welcome to the stage . . .America Valdez!”

  Looks of shock mingled with enthusiasm, and I wondered if her fans’ response was a bitter pill to swallow.

  America floated onstage, a vision in a floor-length sundress with a wreath of wildflowers in her hair. She was as earthy as Jaz was contrived. The acoustic set suited her, and as she sang her latest hit, her voice was a raspy, pitch-perfect thing of beauty. The two swapped niceties before launching into their duet, a song titled “You Can Have Him.”

  America’s eyes remained closed through all of Jaz’s part, and when she came in on the chorus, her voice broke on a high note.

  “Uh-oh.” I watched Jaz send a murderous glare America’s way. “After Jaz’s warning, there will be heck to pay for that.”

  “America’s probably just intimidated to be near such perfection,” Henry said.

  I smiled at my partner as the singing duo finished the set. “Something you have to overcome every day.”

  Intermission came and went, and Jaz sang her heart out during the second half of the show. Jaz had performed for queens, presidents, and the Who’s Who of Hollywood. But ever the pro, she fawned over the audience like they were the greatest people she’d had the privilege to sing for. Right on cue, she returned for her encore to deafening cheers. Sugar Creek couldn’t get enough of her.

  “Thank you so much!” Now in her third costume change, Jaz wore a sequined, thigh-grazing dress that glimmered in the lights. “How about we bring my friend America back out here? Are you ready for another duet?”

  While the attendees clapped, Jaz watched stage right.

  But America didn’t appear.

  Long seconds stretched like warm taffy while Jaz took her cue from Johnny, who, from the floor, rolled his hand in a carry-on motion.

  “America seems to be a little late.” The ballroom echoed with Jaz’s tittering laugh. “She gets like that sometimes.” She waited a few moments longer as her eyes shone with barely controlled disgust. “Maybe our young star is having trouble with her costume. But that’s okay, you came to see me, right? So just for you, I’m gonna debut my next single.”

  “America will never hear the end of this,” I told Henry.

  Five minutes later, the encore wrapped up, and the house lights flared to life. I’d just reached the stairs to stage right when I saw Jaz all but leap off.

  “Let me at her. Let me at that girl!” Jaz pushed by Reese and Johnny.

  “That was a great set, babe.” Little Tee Pee tried to intercept Jaz, but she headed for the kitchen, where I knew she’d find the back staircase.

  “How dare she!” Jaz yelled. “How dare America keep my fans waiting one second for her overinflated ego!”

  We followed her like a gaggle of trailing geese, wondering if the night was about to implode. I knew one thing—if the Jaz Fan Fest ended tonight, she was still paying me every penny owed. Plus, maybe a ten percent surcharge for the guaranteed PTSD.

  “Jaz, dear, please calm down.” Johnny reached for her in the luxury kitchen, but she was too fast. “Preserve your voice.”

  “Stuff it, Johnny,” Jaz called. She raced up the stairs, stopping on the second floor. Her head swiveled to the right and the left. “Where’s her room?”

  Reese pushed through. “It’s three doors to the—”

  “Never mind, I’ll find it.”

  “Please settle down,” Johnny shouted as he took off in pursuit.

  “Let’s go.” I motioned for Henry to follow.

  Jaz turned left and banged on the first door. “I told you not to ruin my show!” She opened the door, peeked inside, then slammed it shut, only to repeat the process twice more.

  “She’s on the third floor,” Reese mumbled.

  Jaz froze at the fourth door she’d ripped open. “You couldn’t have mentioned that sooner?”

  “How about you stay here and rest, and we’ll go find her?” Johnny suggested.

  “No way.” Jaz’s long hair shook like a shampoo commercial. “America’s playing a game here, and I’m about to win it once and for all.” And with that, she returned to the stairs, her heels pounding on the steps.
“America! Get out here and face me!” She paused at a closed bedroom whose door sported a star bearing America’s name. “Seriously, people?” She pointed to it. “Where’s my star?”

  Probably crying in the heavens.

  Jaz pummeled the door like a soap opera queen but got no response. “I’m gonna give you to the count of three, then I’m coming in. You hear me?”

  Silence was the only response. America had probably learned the value of ignoring Jaz. Or making herself disappear.

  “One!” Jaz continued to abuse the door with her fist. “Two!” She turned to her small crowd. “You can’t say I didn’t give her a warning. Three!” She flung open the door. It bounced against the wall with a crash, and Jaz marched into the room. “America, you don’t get to act like a child at my show. How dare you—”

  The rest of the monologue was forsaken for a long, ear-piercing scream.

  I bolted into the room to find Jaz standing over America, who lay unconscious in a crumpled heap on the floor. America’s blue lips were open as if taking a deep sleep. An Enchanted Events mug lay overturned beside her, and coffee pooled on the carpet and dripped from the bedding.

  “Call 9-1-1!” Jaz yelled.

  While I whipped out my phone, Johnny dropped to his knees. “America, can you hear me? Stay with us.” He began to perform CPR while Jaz stood over him.

  “Is that my earring?” Jaz reached toward the floor.

  “No!” With a yank of the hand, I pulled Jaz back. “Don’t touch anything.”

  “Why is my earring in her room?”

  “9-1-1,” the dispatcher finally said in my ear. “What’s your emergency?”

  My brain struggled to comprehend the scene before me. “We . . .we have a non-responsive woman.”

  “Is she breathing?”

  I watched Johnny shake his head solemnly, then return to his CPR.

  “No,” I said. “I think . . .I think it might be too late.”

  Chapter Seven

  Three hours later, I stood in the entryway of my grandmother’s house. “America’s dead.”