America's Next Star

by Katie Dozier

  A tiny faded picture of…me.

  I was mid-jump on her bed, holding a tiny plastic microphone, singing. Only five years old.

  And then I realized Mom had given me the key, but only I could turn the lock.

  Chapter Sixty-Nine

  ♪ Time to Move On ♪

  * * *

  W eeks later, and David hadn’t bothered me again after I didn’t show up to meet him. But it had been the end of summer semester so I guess he just gave up and took the couple week break home.

  I found it too painful to even keep up with the season of America’s Next Star , even though links kept popping up everywhere when I went to Strozier—begging to me to click on them. I couldn’t watch a clip, even of Preston, without wanting to cry, and I couldn’t watch a clip of Carrie without wanting to vomit—though I knew from articles that they were both still on the show. It was a constant struggle, but at least I’d managed to not throw up since that night at RFOC.

  Mercifully, the gym and rehearsal rooms were still open during the break between semesters, and I’d passed my classes. I sold my laptop for a few hundred, and then managed to pay to get my own cell phone with a new number—not that I had really had anyone to call.

  You’d have thought the days would have been a blur while I wandered campus, thankful for the empty places, and they mostly were.

  Except when I woke up on the floor of the rehearsal room that particular day, I knew it was different.

  It would’ve been Mom’s birthday.

  I went to Strozier to deal with registering for next semester’s classes—because nothing makes even a homeless girl want to get a degree quite like earning minimum wage.

  Welcome, ELLA WINDMILL. You have 57 new messages.

  I hadn’t planned on actually reading any of my email, but one at the top caught my attention.

  Ella,

  I am very sorry for what I said on that phone call and for screwing everything up. Losing the house, losing my job, not being able to support you, and then that night I slapped you…There are so many things to apologize for.

  The truth is that you were right that night when you said I had a problem with drinking. Your Aunt has gotten me into a treatment facility and I start tomorrow. I won’t be able to be in touch for a while, but when I get out all I can hope for is that you’ll speak to me again.

  Love,

  Dad

  Chapter Seventy

  ♪ Fame is But a Fruit Tree ♪

  * * *

  I decided to treat myself to the lobster bisque at the Loop , since no one was in town I wouldn’t have to risk seeing someone I knew there. There was no $100 bill under my bowl though. And I didn’t get cake like I’d planned to. There wouldn’t have been any candied violets on it, and I didn’t trust myself to avoid throwing up after eating something that easy to. Plus, it cost like a million bucks there, and I was sick of throwing everything away. Even if Dad’s email had made me nauseous thinking about what had happened.

  Under the starry sky on the empty campus, I wheeled my bag back to my rehearsal room. Then realized that I’d forgotten to do the one thing I’d told myself I’d do all day. I pulled my limbs to the fountain, where the only person around was the statue of the thinking man.

  Even the fountain was off for the break, but whatever, I could still do what I planned.

  I pictured Mom, sitting at home, at our kitchen table, wearing her pink sweater.

  “ Happy birthday to you …” I sang, quietly, eying the bushes around me.

  By the end of the song, I was singing, really singing—not like when I “sang” toxic—singing with my own voice, a folksy sort of breathy mix that no one had but me. Chris would have loved it.

  I didn’t make a wish in the fountain, because it was off, and because I didn’t believe in dead-mothers-turned-fairy-godmothers anymore.

  The only thing I believed was that I had to be my own kind of fairy, even if that meant my fairy spent a great deal of time wearing a hairnet.

  Then, for the first time since I’d gotten it reconnected, my phone rang.

  I sat down by the thinking man statue, and answered it.

  “Hello?”

  “Ella Windmill?”

  “Yes.”

  “Hi, this is E.T. from America’s Next Star ,” he said, as if we hadn’t met, as if his questions hadn’t helped turn me into a snake.

  “We’d like to fly you here for the finale.”

  My heart soared higher than the fame that had once shot out of the fountain in front of me.

  “Me?” I squeaked.

  “Because we’re flying out all the Comets for the finale.”

  My shoulders hunched over like the statue next to me. Of course. Why didn’t I think of this before—they’d done it every freaking season.

  “Sure,” I said. “I’d love to.”

  And I meant it. Because I might not be America’s Next Star , but this ma’am still had a bit of sparkle left…somewhere, perhaps hidden in her hairnet.

  Well that, and I’d get to sleep in a bed.

  Chapter Seventy-One

  ♪ I Still Believe ♪

  * * *

  I was in the back of the limo again inside the huge barbed wire fences, opening the door to Studio A. It felt like I’d finally found a magic eraser, and it was the beginning, not the end of my journey to fulfilling my dream.

  I walked in to the studio, and was halfway down the neon steps when everyone saw me. They were on stage, rehearsing for the new intro to the finale. Preston was on the bottom of a human pyramid of the whole cast, and it must have been Carrie at the top.

  Apparently I was late again. But at least this time, I knew it was all part of my “character.”

  May jumped down from the top of a human pyramid without even thinking, and ran to me. The whole cast moaned as they tumbled down onto the padded mats.

  “I missed you!” She said, as she hugged me.

  Did she not notice my awful hair, my stink of French fries that I could never wash off?

  “Get back on stage now! Everyone!” screamed Zelina.

  To my suprise, Levi and Diana also greeted me warmly. For her part, Carrie did an impressive job pretending I hadn’t come in at all. The most Preston could manage was a nod.

  “Ella!” Zelina said as she pointed to a part of the stage always hidden in shadow.

  I moved without protest, because even if I was in the very back—I was so happy to be back on the stage at all.

  Chapter Seventy-Two

  ♪ Underneath It All ♪

  * * *

  U nder the stage, Carrie’s dressing area was covered with flower bouquets. But there were none on mine.

  “Excuse me?” asked a woman holding a huge vase full of sunflowers.

  “Oh, you must be looking for Carrie. Her chair’s right over—”

  “No, aren’t you Ella Windmill?”

  “Yeah…”

  “Then sign, here please.”

  Even after I scribbled my name, I was still surprised when she handed me the vase, and a dozen sunflowers smiled up at me.

  I tore open the card that stuck out from the blooms. Were they from Huck? Dad?

  Why was the text printed on cards that said, “In Deepest Sympathy?”

  Ella, I tried to tell you that I never meant for the YouTube video to hurt you. I felt like I was falling in love with you that night and wanted to show you that by putting you on my YouTube channel.

  I flipped to the next card.

  I have been trying to get it taken down ever since people starting being assholes in the comments. I want you to know that you have the most beautiful voice I have ever heard. And that looking in your eyes is the same way I feel when I play the violin.

  And the last card.

  I hope when you get back to FSU we can go out again. Either way, you’ll always be my angel of music. Break a leg tonight, David

  Chapter Seventy-Three

  ♪ Roar ♪

  * * *


  E .T. called out, “All Comets, to the stage!”

  I thought I wasn’t going back out until the finale!

  On stage, I had a day dream of sunflowers dancing on Landis Green, and the warmth in my stomach from getting an explanation I should have consented to hear so long ago.

  Then I looked at Preston, thinking that he had to win, but I’d actually heard he was neck-and-neck with Carrie.

  “Please welcome back all of our finalists!” said Sam, wearing a bowtie.

  The crowd roared.

  “And now we have a special announcement. Carrie and Preston please join me.”

  They walked toward Sam, as E.T. approached them and forced their hands together. I was pretty sure all the home audience would see was the two finalists holding hands, two stars in love—that threatened to be torn apart by the crown.

  Preston released Carrie’s hand under the guise of adjusting his earpiece. But for some reason I couldn’t help but think of David, and wonder what he would have said had I actually met up with him outside the gym that night.

  “We have never done this before at America’s Next Star .”

  The audience clapped, as if they were sure whatever it was was going to be great. Were they going to allow them to both win? How would that make sense if no one had even sung individually yet?

  “In what is a first for us, Solar Stadium is going to pick one of the eliminated Comets to compete, tonight, with no notice, in the finale!”

  I froze for a second, and then remembered the lonely number I’d seen on the screen the last time by my name. Then I realized that what I could hope for was squeezing my hand at that very moment. May looked up at me and smiled.

  “I’m so glad to see you again,” I whispered to her.

  She was wearing purple orbs, and was the cutest bunch of grapes I’d ever seen. Carrie was slices of star fruit, Preston was a giant banana. My favorite was Diana’s costume, because if anyone could look sexy dressed as a pear, it was her.

  “Before the opening number, we polled Solar Stadium to ask one question: Who would you like to see compete in the finale? Only I know the answer to that now, but you will too, after this break!”

  All that drama—it was lost on me. I was basically there just so someone would eat the items with gluten at the studio buffet lunch. I wasn’t even allowed to see my vocal coach, Chris. Instead, I looked at the crowd, and for the first time, I actually felt like I belonged on that stage.

  And I felt hope, but not for me. All I wanted in that moment was for May to get to perform in Solar Stadium again, this time wearing her glasses.

  We were instructed just to stay on our marks off stage, while someone adjusted the lights on stage to a blue cast, with fake stars and little puffy clouds of fog. Through the haze, on a monitor offstage, I saw some soda commercial with Preston and Carrie riding horseback on the beach while holding little glass bottles.

  I squeezed May’s sweaty hand.

  “I hope it’s you,” I whispered down to her. She smiled and adjusted her glasses, smudged with tears.

  “Places!”

  “And we’re back, live on the finale of America’s Next Star to see which of our lucky Comets Solar Stadium wants to see back in the competition!”

  A drumroll sounded from the orchestra pit.

  “And the star, that will compete, tonight, is…”

  And there were the feathers of hope rising in me—like the hope that Big Mike would feel every time a full bowl of soup rode the belt back to him in the dungeon—like the little squeak of May’s platforms.

  But this time, I didn’t feel like hope was something I didn’t deserve.

  “Who will be competing, singing on this very stage in only minutes…”

  “America has spoken…and the Comet that is back in…”

  “Now I will only call one name…”

  I saw Sam look down at his Beam, which seemed to be flashing a name that was too tiny to make out from where I stood. He tapped at it, as if it was a stopped watched.

  “Uh, it looks like Ella?” He said it as if he was a receptionist at a doctor’s office calling out a name he didn’t quite know how to pronounce. “Ella Windmill.”

  He rushed over to me. Gasps emitted not from the audience, but from all of the Comets except May, who jumped up to give me a hug.

  “Ella! How do you feel?”

  No answer, so Sam tried again.

  “Shocked,” was all I could manage.

  “With thirteen percent, er…I mean with the highest number of votes out of all the other Comets, why do you think Solar Stadium chose you to compete in the finale?”

  I started to compose some safe words about being honored, but I was sick of lying, and going up against Preston and Carrie—well, for the first time in my life, I realized that I had nothing to lose.

  Sam started to back away, but I nudged my head in front of the microphone. And turned my big grey eyes straight into the camera fixed on me.

  “First, thank you Solar Stadium for picking me. But I’ve gotta keep it real, because, well after all, this is a reality show, right?”

  Sam gave a chuckle and tried to pry the mic from my hands, but he lost the struggle.

  “I think that Solar Stadium—you picked me because you think I’m a snake. Because I failed big time, and you think you might get a few more laughs out of me if I forget my lyrics again. But I’m not who you think I am, really—”

  “Well,” said Sam, as he paused to collect himself after managing to pry the mic from my hands. “That’s an interesting take on things, but we would expect that from our most controversial competitor ever on this shocking season of America’s Next Star . Let’s take a look back at some of your most vicious moments!”

  Chapter Seventy-Four

  ♪ Set Fire to the Rain ♪

  * * *

  B ackstage, E.T. told me with a wave of his hand that I was going to sing “Toxic” again. Preston and Carrie would sing five songs each, then the last was going to be a love song duet, or at least I thought that was what Preston had mumbled to me earlier. And then he told me the talent.

  “It’s fire eating. You might want to watch a YouTube vid or something in the next ten minutes.”

  I stared at him.

  “Don’t worry, the kerosene and a lighter will be on the set for you.”

  Fire eating. Like I could learn how to blow fire from my mouth in the span of a couple commercial breaks.

  A note was scribbled, resting on my suitcase in my chair.

  Meet me behind the stairwell now

  When I got there, Preston still had drops of sweat on his forehead.

  “They’re keeping me away from you. I wanted to tell you two things: first, it’s great that you’re back on—even though my shot at winning just went down. Two: we don’t have to choose, we could just do better than Carrie and both refuse to let one winner be named.”

  “Since when are you on my side? And what is this, the Hunger Games ?”

  “Or I could just take out Carrie with the fire eating.”

  “No. I mean, thanks for the weird offer I guess, but no. You could take a nap on stage at this point and wind up with a higher percent than me.”

  “We could do this together?”

  “ Some things you can only do alone.”

  I pointed to his bull horn Beam and caught the tiny text that read, “Operation Villain,” flashing in green.

  “But nothing you’ve done on this show has been alone!”

  I turned to leave but my hip bumped him. He blocked the only exit and looked me up and down.

  “You’re even fatter than before you got kicked off.”

  I stared dumbfounded at him.

  “Bulimia not work out?”

  Preston’s words were sucked in by the carpet as if even the green plush couldn’t believe what he’d said. It felt like he’d stolen all the oxygen and there was none left for me to find my voice.

  “You can’t tell me I’m fat right b
efore I go on and think that it will work.”

  “Wake up, Ella! It already did.”

  He threw me to the ground.

  “Do you really believe for a second that people voted you back on because they like you?”

  Preston laughed in F sharp as he ran off towards the stage.

  Chapter Seventy-Five

  ♪ Live Like You Were Dying ♪

  * * *

  I was still crumpled on the floor as I heard Preston and Carrie sing a country harmony far above me. I imagined them holding hands and flying around the stage.

  A curly head emerged in front of me, and suddenly I was being full-on licked on my cheek.

  “Good girl,” I whispered through sobs to Blondie, as she laid down beside me with her head resting on my thigh.

  Footsteps grew in volume and I lacked the strength to recoil into the corner.

  “Ella!” Said Kara. “I’ve been looking all over for you!”

  She bent down to hug me, then sat down once she saw my face.

  “What’s wrong?”

  I pulled on Mom’s locket and felt the weight of it in my hand, and opened it to show Kara the picture inside.

  “She would have been proud of you,” Kara said.

  “You mean my mom?”

  “Of course,” Kara nodded.

  “But what about her?” I pointed to the picture of the little girl jumping on a bed while singing into a plastic microphone. “See I don’t think me as a kid would be too proud of me now.”

  “That’s not true—”

  “Yes, it is. I was handed the biggest opportunity in the world but all I’ve done with it is exactly what I was told to.” I rubbed the spot where my Beam used to be. “How much time until I’m on?”

  “Crap,” Kara said, tapping her Beam. “Eleven minutes.”

  “Then they’d better watch out, ‘cause I’ve got nothing to lose!”