America's Next Star

by Katie Dozier

  “Alright everyone, this is it! Make it big! Smiles!” I wish it had been Huck telling us that, not E.T..

  “Five…Four…Three…Two…One…Music!”

  Arms swirled around me. Mine swirled too, I think. Cameras zoomed in on Carrie. A giant blur of neon lights appeared around us in the stadium—like a picture I’d seen of the Northern Lights.

  Right step. Left step. Jump step. Jazz hands. Twist right, twist back. Hop together. Hop together. Star pose.

  Applause like I’d never heard. It sounded like Times Square on New Year’s Eve right after the ball dropped.

  Fireworks shot overhead, creating massive blooms in the sky.

  Had I remembered to smile?

  Chapter Fifty

  ♪ Friends in Low Places ♪

  * * *

  “ A nd now, ladies and gentlemen,” said Sam. “We have our first singer this evening! Here’s Preston Turnings from Athens, Georgia!”

  Then, the twang of Preston’s fingers on the guitar filled Solar Stadium. The stage was dressed with a big tiki bar, palm trees, enormous Bird of Paradise plants, and women sunbathing under a giant sun in bikinis.

  Even though I was only allowed to watch on a monitor under the stage, I could feel his energy fill the entire stadium. Like Diet Coke filling a huge cup with fizz and caffeine.

  Dee de dee de...

  He brushed his curly hair back, and the audience screamed as if they already loved him.

  He sang with a sly smile, like he was telling every person in the audience a secret. He kicked his foot a little, and apparently that too was worthy of a teeny-bopper shriek.

  He mimed straightening a tie that wasn’t there, which only drew more attention to the upper lines of his six-pack. Then he threw his cowboy hat in the air, and caught it. Soon he was juggling three cowboy hats with Bird of Paradise blossoms stuck into their brims.

  He tipped his hat to the band behind him, and that made it feel like they had been performing together for years—like everyone in the stadium and everyone at home was just a group of old friends.

  He capped off the performance by throwing the cowboy hats out to the audience like they were Frisbees.

  I'd forgotten that I was under the stage, and going to perform on this very show soon. I felt like I had suddenly developed an interest in old school country and was just watching some amazing Grammy performance.

  And I had a crush on that soon to be Grammy winner.

  When he got under the stage, Preston ran right to me.

  He kissed me right on my lips—high from the fumes of applause—right in front of everyone.

  Even though I kissed him back, and felt his rigid six-pack against my leather dress, he pulled back quickly.

  “Sorry, I just…”

  This time I kissed him hard until I heard the muffled pattering of a cameraman’s feet.

  “You were great!” I said, as I turned Preston away from the camera and smudged my purple lipstick off of his lips.

  “Preston.” A man wearing headphones grabbed Preston and gave him a shove. “You’re needed in the interview room now. Ella. It’s just about your time. Makeup! Fix her!”

  Under the stage, a makeup artist dabbed my lips with purple as I tried not to smile while watching the guy that had ruined my lipstick on the TV.

  “Would you say that you’re a babe-magnet?” E.T. asked Preston on the screen.

  The green screen behind Preston had been filled in with a sort of dry prairie scene, and he wore a white cowboy hat as he laughed.

  “No, I wouldn’t say that.”

  Then it cut to a girl filmed right by a University of Georgia banner, but it was a bar under her pretty blonde hair and name that really got my attention.

  Preston’s Girlfriend

  “He calls me his Georgia peach!” Tina said, with her eyes like golf balls.

  Right then, I understood.

  There was a tap on my back, and a Astronaut pointed a finger up to the stage.

  At least it wasn’t the finger I wanted to hold up to Preston right now.

  “Up next, we’ll hear one of our two girls from Cocoa Beach, Florida. Singing a remix of Adele’s ‘Make you Feel my Love,’ is Ella Windpipe.”

  If perfect Sam couldn’t even get my last name right, how could I manage to sing—let alone to sing while juggling?

  Chapter Fifty-One

  ♪ Make You Feel My Love ♪

  * * *

  I was standing on a metal box, high above the stage. Invisible fans blew real black orchids high into the air all around me—like it was raining flowers from the ground into the sky.

  And I was shaking in my stilettos, like one of the cigarettes Zelina chain smoked during commercial breaks.

  Just before the lights came up, I tucked Mom’s necklace back into my bra.

  The grand piano below me—which was made of glass and glowing purple—started to twinkle.

  I took a big breath, but it felt like I was inhaling steam. I saw the flicker of phones all around me—I felt the weight of millions of eyes.

  The first note escaped my lips with a bluesy twist, just like I’d practiced with Chris. My eyes were fixed on the microphone, but my hands didn’t dare touch it. The first quick trill caught in my throat— like my voice had turned into fish, flopping in a net held by a stranger’s hands.

  Who the hell was I singing this to? Obviously not Preston, or David.

  Flames shot up from behind me as the platform I stood on jolted towards the stage—threatening an encore performance of my flying squirrel act.

  Backup dancers accosted me like muggers in purple dresses, and the music sped up. The bass exploded like a volcano, and the lava overtook everything. It all seemed too fast—much faster than in the rehearsals.

  I scream-sang. I tried to focus on moving my hips with the music as the dancers gyrated behind me.

  I grabbed glass stars to juggle. I threw one in the air and caught it, but once I held all three, it was like I had lost all feelings in my arms. I doubt I would have been able to even throw a feather.

  The lights began to strobe between silver and purple. My tongue scraped for saliva between breaths, and I felt the resistance of what could only be purple lipstick on my teeth.

  What was happening?

  It was like I’d been riding a train and it dropped me over a bridge and yet kept racing by—like nothing had happened. I had fallen off a bridge. Like Mom.

  I held onto the stars like they were keys out of hell.

  And now I was at least half a verse behind, and singing the original tempo when the pace was supposed to be four times that fast.

  But the orchids were still shooting up in the air. The dancers were still jumping in unison. The bass was still exploding.

  My eyes were still seeing, and my feet were still standing— but I was as unconscious as I’d been when I actually had a concussion.

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  ♪ Mad World ♪

  * * *

  I avoided everyone by going to the only place where the cameras couldn’t—a bulimic paradise of a single-stalled bathroom without a mirror. I’d ignored countless knocks and even a plea of, “Come on, I really have to go!”

  At least I didn’t have to throw up—but that was because I’d already taken care of that.

  What’s the worst thing you can do on America’s Next Star ?

  I’d always thought it was to forget the lyrics to the song, and I’d blasted every Comet that ever had—when watching from the comfort of home.

  What a jerk I’d been.

  Laziness had to be the only reason to forget lines or screw up an easy first-week talent, right? Watching at home or at Huck’s, I’d thought there could be no other reason.

  Well it turns out that isn’t the worst thing that can happen on America’s Next Star —it’s only part of the equation.

  The true trifecta is:

  Forgetting your lyrics,

  Forgetting your talent,

  Screa
ming “fuck” on stage, only to find out that the commercial break hasn’t started yet.

  I knew I wasn’t supposed to leave the stage before the judge’s comments, but I’d managed to flee anyway. Unless someone literally died while juggling, I was sure to be in the bottom two and up for elimination.

  P ounding on the bathroom door brought me back to reality.

  “Ella, I know you’re in there. Just talk to me.”

  No answer.

  The clicking of cowboy boots.

  “I can explain,” said Preston.

  “Ella, time for your critique on stage, NOW!” screamed a much louder voice.

  “There’s no time to fix her,” E.T. said. “On in fifteen seconds. Ella, run up to the stage, NOW!”

  My eyes were bloodshot again, and I’d broken one of the petals over my shoulder on the toilet bowl.

  I looked like a wilted flower—right before it gets thrown away.

  “And we’re back,” said Sam. “And time for the judges’ comments on Ella’s er…performance. First up, Tyler. ”

  “Ella. You know, I’m disappointed. That song started out so good, ya know? And then? Well then it all went to hell. Maybe you aren’t right for this show.”

  No one in the audience booed.

  “And Zelina. Ella is on your team. What do you have to say about her performance?”

  “I have to say I just love your costume! And you were so great in voice training.”

  At least she hadn’t decided to completely murder me—even if I obviously had nothing to do with the costume (except having broken it), and even if my voice training with her had lasted all of three seconds.

  “Tyler. Do you agree?”

  “Look, I expected better from the first video audition we’ve ever picked for the show. I mean, where was that fierce attitude we saw in your audition? Where was the confidence we read in your email that helped get you on this show? That’s what America wants, not someone that doesn’t want to be here enough to even bother learning an easy talent like juggling, or the words to a very famous song.”

  When the audience cheered—it felt like being stung all over by bees.

  But a voice inside reminded me that I would have been thinking the same thing from home—as the arrows of their laugher punctured my leather dress.

  Tyler wasn’t finished yet.

  “Frankly, my daughter would have done a much better job at that performance. And she just turned three.”

  I wiped my eyes, and then balled up my hands.

  My fists were full of tears.

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  ♪ Hate Me ♪

  * * *

  A fter just an hour in the bathroom, which felt like years, I heard E.T. yelling for us to all get up on stage again.

  I rushed past Preston. I knew that it had just been a kiss.

  He wouldn’t stop trying to talk to me until the lights came up on the stage.

  Solar Stadium now felt like the biggest interrogation room in the world. And I was facing a life sentence.

  One by one, the names of those that were safe were called by Sam. Preston and Carrie were—much to the relief of the audience—obviously safe.

  With the music sheared away, I felt like a naked sheep. Well, more like a naked sheep inexplicably dressed like a slutty, broken orchid.

  Then, the music came on in beats that felt like the pulse of a dead-lining hospital patient.

  “Welcome back to America’s Next Star .” Sam moved in between me and May.

  “We have three Comets potentially facing elimination, all hoping to be the last one to be safe into next week’s episode: where all of our Comets will get dream makeovers chosen by our judges and America!”

  “Diana.” She stepped forward, popping her hip accented by the fake thorns on her red rose costume. Given the standing ovation she’d received, there was no way she would actually wind up in the bottom two.

  Which meant that, just like in the Hunger Games , the odds were never in my favor, and I hated who I would very likely be pitted against.

  “May,” said Sam.

  She squinted through tears at the audience, the perfect painted daisy around her eye a distant memory. I’d asked her earlier how her performance went, but she’d fought tears as she told me she didn’t want to talk about it.

  “Ella.” I swallowed hard—like I could swallow my dream and keep it there—when it felt like I had already thrown it up on stage.

  “And the Comet that will move on…Who will get to have a professional makeover next week. Who still has a shot at winning a million-dollar recording contract, their own mansion, and becoming America’s Next Star is…”

  What felt like just a dramatic pause when watching at home, felt like someone was making an incision over my intestines in person.

  “Diana!”

  She shrieked and joined the group of those going on for sure. All were hugging as if they’d already made it to the finals, even Levi looked teary-eyed between all his fist pumps. Lil’ Jay fell to his knees, bowing down to the audience. It was as if the Comets hadn’t really trusted that they were safe until they heard the only names on the chopping block.

  “May, Ella,” said Sam, as he put an arm around each of us. “One of you will be going home tonight. First, we’ll recap with the judges to remind us about each of your earlier performances, and then you’ll compete head to head in a Blast-Off Battle where Solar Stadium decides who stays and who goes home!”

  I looked at May. Her mascara had already lost a battle with the tide rising in her eyes. Now I was supposed to beat her? I was supposed to wage a war against this tiny girl in a Blast-Off Battle?

  All I really wanted was to take her home and heat her up some of Mom’s spaghetti, with candied violets for dessert.

  “We’ll start with the oldest Comet. Zelina, remind us what you thought about Ella’s performance?”

  “First, I have to compliment her style! I love those boots, and not everyone can pull off purple lipstick, but you—well you tried!”

  “Zelina, it seems like you want to say more?”

  “Okay, um, this is tough to admit because you are on my team and all. But I just think that if Solar Stadium decides to keep you around you’ve gotta practice a lot more next week.”

  No one even bothered to boo. The audience was silent in unspoken agreement. Because apparently eighteen-hour days just weren’t enough.

  “Tyler?” asked Sam.

  “Yeah, well what can I really say to someone that couldn’t even bother to remember the lyrics? Frankly, the whole thing would have been better if you’d juggled Venus flytraps and been eaten by one. You sang ‘Make You Feel My Love’ but all you made me feel was nauseated.”

  The audience applauded, with a few distant hoots of approval.

  He was the voice of the masses, just spoken with a bit more snarky humor than most could have come up with. And why did the sword have to be double edged? Was humiliating me once with their comments right after I actually sang earlier just not entertaining enough?

  Yet I knew Tyler’s zingers would have made me laugh, and maybe even throw popcorn at Huck had I been watching someone else’s epic fail from home. I could hear my own voice, saying to Huck, “Well he’s right, she sucked. And extra pounds and attempting to juggle in leather do not mix.”

  But there, on the stage, I just felt numb. Like the last bit of ice that refused to thaw from a snowman, even when the thermometer said I shouldn’t exist anymore.

  Like that aching cold of a fever, only I had no blankets to snuggle into.

  How long had the microphone been in my face before I noticed it?

  “I repeat, Ella, what do you think of your feedback from the judges?”

  And the most my frozen limbs could manage was a shrug.

  The audience booed.

  “Let’s move on to May.”

  Her tears hung from her eyes like icicles frozen down the side of a roof. I wanted to reach out and shield her from the arro
ws flying out of the judges’ mouths, to tell her it would be okay, but I was still somehow locked inside myself under the hot lights.

  “May,” said Zelina. “I just think you are super cute! I want you to stay on my team. I mean, eight years old and on America’s Next Star —that’s awesome! And—”

  “Zelina,” Tyler interrupted. “This reminds me of a hit you had back when you were young.” The audience hissed.

  “And you went triple platinum with a song that was all about not babying. But now you’re babying her!” He pointed to May. “Look, I’m sorry, sweetheart, unlike Ella you did at least remember your lyrics, but you’re just not a singer or even a juggler. Taylor Swift would become Taylor Swift-er if she heard you sing her song tonight, because that’s how fast she’d want to run away.”

  May crumbled to the ground.

  My arms unfroze, and I became alive with the same jerky motions as the Wizard of Oz ’s Tin Man after applying his life-blood oil.

  I bent down to put my arms around her.

  “It’ll be okay,” I whispered. “They just want good TV. You’re a great singer.”

  She jumped up and shook like a puppy after a bath, sending the daisies in her hair flying in all directions. She pulled her pink Beam to her mouth, pressed the tiny button on the side and screamed, “I quit, I quit, I quit!”

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  ♪ Never is a Promise ♪

  * * *

  A nd May really did quit.

  Even when I told her backstage during the commercial that I was way more likely to go home than her. I thought about offering to quit if she would stay. I’d never had a sister and I’d only known her for a week, but I felt protective of her. And the only way I could comfort her in that moment was to fall on my own sword.

  But when I tried to tell her I would quit if she stayed, I just couldn’t force myself to say the words.