America's Next Star

by Katie Dozier

  But we have received word that filming for Carrie has wrapped in Tallahassee, and yet the bus is currently parked in the heart of the campus, near the Student Union. This leads DMZ to ask if America’s Next Star will have not one, but two Seminoles on the hit TV show.

  “Is there an Ella Windmill here?” Dr. Wu asked.

  Could I be dreaming, or was I really somehow being called on by the head of the math department in a class of hundreds of people?

  Dr. Wu’s TA handed him a piece of paper.

  “Ah, yes, Ella, you are in here somewhere. Please come down to the front and show us what a scalene triangle looks like.”

  What?

  I was glued to my seat by more than just the summer humidity.

  “Ella, wherever you are, if you would like the fifty percentage points to your grade, please come down here,” Dr. Wu said, with a tiny laugh.

  “Now!” he said.

  The sharpness of his tone served as a jolt that released me from the hold of my chair.

  As I began walking what felt like miles to the stage, the hundreds of eyes on me were like spiders crawling all over my skin. Dr. Important was forcing me to go draw a triangle in front of hundreds of people. Really, this had to be the time I “won” a random drawing?

  And was DMZ right? If so, that would mean that the America’s Next Star bus was really close by, and maybe I could find it after class. It seemed beyond hard to believe that they were going to name another FSU student. But in the nervousness of walking to the front of the theater, I felt irrational hope. Just like before I checked the music theater audition results.

  Besides, I had never even auditioned for America’s Next Star —not that it would’ve made any difference if I had.

  I knew that hope was something I had no right to hold on to, but yet there it was, rearing its head again like the Loch Ness Monster, all because of my childish birthday wish over candied violets.

  “Very good, Ella,” said Dr. Wu. “Stand right up here and please draw a scalene triangle for us. This will be on the exam.”

  I saw the students collecting their belongings, knowing that it was almost time for class to be over. I’d been in the limelight for under a minute, and they were already bored with me. At least that meant they hadn’t recognized me from that video, but that wasn’t surprising—in Tiff’s dress I hardly even recognized myself.

  Dr. Wu handed me a yardstick and black marker. I turned my back to the audience, hoping that the size of my butt didn’t grab anyone’s attention.

  I used the yardstick to draw the first line of my imperfect triangle, knowing that drawing a basic shape as a college math lesson was just as stupid as thinking there was any chance that I could be on America’s Next Star .

  I drew the second line, connecting it to the first in a right angle.

  And then it hit me. America’s Next Star could be ANS!

  No, that had to be a coincidence right? And I was only here, drawing a shape I learned in kindergarten, because I had the bad luck of being pulled from a pile of signed forms, right?

  I turned around, letting my imagination have this moment of hope, where Zelina would come rushing to me, and the room would be flooded by the Florida sun. Cameramen would swoop in and out like orca whales.

  But the only faces I saw were students, some of whom were already standing up to leave class, before I had even finished my stupid triangle.

  One more line to go before I could meet Huck and complain about the horrors of being chosen out of hundreds to draw a damned triangle. As I traced the marker along the side of the last line, I heard a creaking sound. It must’ve been students opening the door in the back to leave.

  But then I turned around, and dropped the yardstick on the floor of the stage.

  The auditorium went dark—except for the camera lights that glowed like the eyes on cats. The room was filled with a chorus of shrieks and gasps.

  To my left, the spasm of a fountain of fireworks went off, and a spotlight encircled Dr. Wu. I guessed they were really desperate to make math look fun for applicants.

  But when I tried to inch out of the spotlight, it followed me, like a halo of gnats while sitting on my pier at home. And then, there was fog everywhere, and the lights turned lilac.

  Overhead, a slight creaking sound was growing louder, and another spotlight lit up a human figure high above me that began lowering to the floor.

  I saw a dress that was somehow a neon purple equilateral triangle. The woman’s small hand held a wand with a triangle at the end that showered down glitter, but I still couldn’t see her face.

  Who was she—some model for the math department? Could it be possible that she was…

  I moved a little to get a glimpse of her face, and again, the spotlight followed me. She landed, right in front of the white board, facing away from me.

  “Ella Windmill, please come here,” she said, in a voice I really hoped I was recognizing correctly.

  I walked over to her, and the woman turned around.

  It really was Zelina!

  I shrieked.

  She took my hands in hers as cameras encircled us like a crown.

  “Zelina? Is it really…”

  “Ella Windmill, you have been chosen as the final Comet for the tenth season of America’s Next Star!”

  I stood there like a windmill, swaying around but rooted to the ground—too shocked and too hopeful and too joyous to say anything. As if a breath would cause the whole moment to collapse with the weight of a single inhalation, or even just a thought.

  Zelina hugged me and the leather of her triangle dress felt cold against my hot skin.

  “Now scream for the cameras again and show them how happy you are,” she whispered.

  Then, I really did scream as Huck ran onto the stage, and all of his winking earlier finally made sense.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  ♪ Anything Could Happen ♪

  * * *

  L ights shot on from all directions. A man with a headset came out from the wings and spoke to the entire room. How could I be sure I wasn’t just dreaming again?

  “Students, I’m E.T., the lead Astronaut for America’s Next Star . We just had some technical errors and unfortunately need to reshoot this whole scene.”

  Then he mumbled something to Zelina, and she walked over to me, then took her hands in mine again.

  “Ella, I’m so happy for you. It’s just that your dream is coming true, but that isn’t coming through on the camera. This time, show a lot more enthusiasm and confidence—because that makes the stadium viewers vote for you, and we want to win, right?”

  I’d known my idol for about ten minutes and I’d already let her down.

  “Of course, I’m so sorry Zelina—”

  “Call me Zee, all my friends do. And don’t worry about it. Most people have to reshoot this at least five times. I’ll bet you can do it in two, now let’s do this!”

  A woman came out from the wings with a tube of blood-red lipstick, which she applied with a tiny brush to my lips.

  “Perfect,” said Zelina.

  She signaled to the guy handling her rig, who wrenched her up into the rafters, out of sight.

  “Ella,” said E.T.. “Back to your seat. Remember people, everyone is surprised! Dr. Wu, please begin at your line about the scalene triangle.”

  I thought there was no reset button in life, but I was happy to hear that this time I actually did get to hit the button. I decided that for the next ten minutes, I wouldn’t be Ella Windmill, but something as close to Zelina as I could imagine.

  “Is there an Ella Windmill here?” Dr. Wu asked.

  This time, I practically jumped out of my seat, and managed a coy smile.

  The row of carpet to the stage that only moments ago had felt like a funeral march now seemed like a catwalk. And the hours I’d spent watching reality modeling TV shows with Tiffanie now seemed like valuable study time.

  I decided to make the most of my curves, and shot m
y hips to the side with each stride. Before I climbed the stairs to the whiteboard, I paused to flip my hair to the side, just like a supermodel in a shampoo commercial.

  I silently thanked Huck and Tiffanie, without whom this performance wouldn’t have been possible. Thank god I wasn’t wearing my standard awful jeans and stained hoodie.

  I drew the triangle a little slower this time as I formulated the exact reaction that would help me the most when I “discovered” that I’d made it on the show.

  But if I didn’t send in the video, how the hell was I even on the show? Was this all a dream, like the ones I had with the concussion?

  When the spotlight appeared on me, I stepped forward—embracing the light like I was a rose about to bloom. And when Zelina appeared from above me, I took one hand to my forehead, and then forced my legs to fall sideways in the best faint since Gone with the Wind .

  Zelina was at my side waking me.

  “Ella Windmill, you have been chosen as the last finalist on America’s Next Star !”

  I jumped to my feet like a bunny.

  “Really! Ahhhh!” I ran around the stage, hugging and kissing everyone in sight on the cheek, even Dr. Wu.

  When Huck came on stage, I jumped into his arms like I was a cheerleader setting up a throw. Mercifully, he didn’t drop me.

  The lights came up.

  “Well done, Ella. Only two takes, that’s a record!” said Zee.

  “Thanks!”

  “Now E.T. is going to go over the contract with you on the bus. I’ll see you tomorrow in the whole new Universe!”

  Part Two

  Chapter Thirty

  ♪ Take the Money and Run ♪

  * * *

  I t didn’t hit me that I was going to be on the show until I slid into a purple booth inside the actual America’s Next Star bus. The ceiling glowed with twinkling stars.

  “Alright, Ella,” said E.T.. “Congrats, and well done on the first shoot.”

  “Thanks!”

  “Now we’ve just gotta deal with a little paperwork.”

  “Okay,” I said. The question that seemed to be burning a hole in my throat threatened to explode out of my lips. What if I asked how I got on the show without auditioning, and it turned out that it was all some mistake? Did they think I was someone else? How did they know who I was at all?

  He pushed a stack of paper bigger than a dozen of copies of Florida Today at me.

  “I know. It’s ridiculous, and you can get a lawyer to look at it if you’d like.”

  I heard a dull jingling as he rattled a movie-theater-style box of Reese’s Pieces and shook some into his mouth.

  I started to read the first page, distracted by the rattling of candy and tripping on words like “ex gratia.”

  “The thing is that we start filming tomorrow, and I need to get there, so if we could wrap this up quickly, I’d really appreciate it.”

  I nodded but kept scanning the pages.

  “I assure you, it’s all standard stuff, just these lawyers making everything so complicated when really it is very simple.”

  “Simple?” I laughed, but he didn’t.

  “Yes, very simple. You want to be on the show right?”

  I nodded.

  “You want to have a shot at a multi-million dollar recording contract and becoming a famous singer, right?”

  “Of course!”

  “Then sign, and I’ll hand you the plane ticket.”

  I silenced a nagging voice telling me to read the pile of pages, and flipped to the back of the text that was longer than my math book. I scrawled my name, hoping that they somehow wouldn’t find out that I hadn’t even auditioned, and wondering how the hell any of this could be real.

  At first I’d thought that Huck, who had firmly rerooted himself in the best friend ever category, had sent in the video. But he said he hadn’t, and he didn’t wink.

  I was also confused as to why I had a layover for so many hours in Atlanta, when I noticed on the screen that there were a lot of earlier connections to LA. But I was even more confused when I found out that video submissions had closed even before my 18 th birthday.

  As I sat in the Atlanta airport waiting for the second leg of my flight to Los Angeles, I realized that I might hold the answer in my hand.

  I saw a plane take off from the haze as I opened my email for the first time since another video had threatened to destroy my life.

  Search: Contains: America’s Next Star

  “Attention flight one-one-four, to Los Angeles,” said a perky voice over the loudspeaker. “We are now boarding our special guests in first class.”

  A herd stampeded toward s the gate.

  “First class only please!”

  I scanned my ticket, even though it seemed crazy that they would treat me like a star already by flying me out first class. The first leg was all just coach seats.

  When I looked down at the ticket, I couldn’t believe it, seat 1A! I tried walking to the flight attendant like it was easy, like I always rode in first class to LA, careful to not let on that this was actually my third time on any plane.

  Living forty-five minutes from Disney World coupled with discount Florida resident tickets basically cemented all of my family vacation plans—which was fitting since I felt like I had just been escorted to the front of the line at Space Mountain.

  She scanned my ticked and said, “Thank you.”

  Inside the plane, the big leather seat made me feel like some hot-shot executive. In the seat was a cosmetics bag set with headphones (thank god because I never got my stuff back from Strozier), an eye mask, and a big bottle of water. I tucked my little roll-a-board daisy suitcase under the seat in front of me, but kept my cell firmly in my grasp.

  Search: Contains: America’s Next Star

  “Would you like anything to drink?”

  I spotted a tall bottle on her cart that, illuminated by a shard of sunlight, looked like liquid gold.

  “Uh, could I maybe have some champagne, please?”

  It didn’t seem like the kind of place where I’d get asked for my ID. I thought of The Sound of Music , Mom’s favorite movie, and of Liesl. I too would like to taste my first champagne! Well first whole glass anyway. Sometimes Mom would bring home half-full abandoned bottles from the palace and explain why the drink she let me have one sip of was some important year or something.

  “Certainly, I’ll bring that right over to you.”

  With my first glass of bubbly emitting little pops beside me, I had only minutes before I needed to turn my phone to airplane mode. I hoped there was enough time to answer one of the biggest questions of my whole life. How did I get on ANS without auditioning?

  It didn’t make the search easier since I’d forgotten that I got all their mailings from the show. And as interesting as headlines like “Zelina’s Zings” were, those weren’t the emails I was hoping to find.

  And then, finally—as the plane began to gather speed, an email more valuable to me than even a first class ticket. An email I hadn’t written, but sat there it was, hanging like a plump orange on a barren tree.

  To: Auditions@AmericasNextStar.com

  Subject: Audition, Ella Windmill

  Date: 4/4

  Hi,

  My name is Ella Windmill and I am America’s Next Star! I’m 17 and a senior at Cocoa Beach High School. This summer I will be attending Florida State University, and majoring in musical theater!

  I know that you have never accepted a video audition as a Comet on your show, and a lot of people think you never will. But I dare you to change that fact. Here’s my video (attached)!

  Sincerely,

  Ella

  The plane’s nose pulled me into the air, and soon I was above the clouds. The white lumps brought me back to a fuzzy memory of snuggling with Mom under a feather comforter. And even though she wasn’t sitting beside me now, she was as much a part of that moment as the sky or the champagne bubbles popping on my tongue.

  I studie
d the empty leather seat next to me, and pictured her there, glass of champagne in her hand. I knew she would’ve told me that I was the one making my dream come true, that the power was all mine. That all she’d done was nudge me a little out of my comfort zone and that my dreams were mine to reach for.

  And I promised her, and perhaps more importantly myself, that I’d do exactly that.

  During the rest of my first class ride, I flew in between mounds of cotton candy, and ate two ice cream sundaes. The little glass salt and pepper shakers on my tray seemed like two people waving to me, and I felt bigger. Like I belonged in the plush seat, and deserved that second glass of champagne.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  ♪ California Dreamin’♪

  * * *

  W hen I came back to earth, I made my way to baggage claim, where E.T. said someone would meet me. But what if they forgot?

  My head snapped back to the conversation with Dad. On the phone—even though I knew he would be surprised of course—he seemed beyond shocked.

  Maybe it was because the Astronauts contacted Huck, not him. Or, because we were so disconnected after I went to FSU. We were loosely bound by one thing—like a turtle and a manatee that happen to see each other once in a while—only because they both need water.

  I gave him the best news of my life, and his response was:

  “They paid for you to fly, right? You didn’t put that on your emergency credit card?”

  At least I’d allowed myself to float in my dream for a bit before the wheels jutted back down onto the blacktop.

  A man circled the baggage claim, wearing sunglasses even though we were inside. But then I read the board he was holding, saw the camera, and remembered signing something about them being able to film me whenever, wherever, doing whatever.

  The board read:

  Ms. Ella Windmill

  “Hi, that’s me.”

  “I’m your driver.” Before I could ask his name, he took my suitcase and started walking. Eyes turned in my direction, but the man walked so fast that it was all I could do to keep up with him.