Pop Princess

by Rachel Cohn

  “Sure,” I muttered. I was glad I hadn’t blown my summer savings from the Dairy Queen on a new stereo for my room. Looking at the plaster falling from the ceiling, I knew I would have to use that money for school clothes.

  Three

  I went upstairs to my room for Sunday sanctuary. It was still weird to go inside my bedroom and not see two beds. Lucky and I had shared a room in the house where we’d grown up in Cambridge, and we’d shared a room in this house on the Cape when we spent summers here. Now that we lived permanently at the Cape, I had moved into the guest bedroom. Lucky’s and my old room was locked and nobody ever asked Mom for the key. My new room had a great view, though. I could wake up in the morning and lie in bed, watching the blue ocean rolling right outside the window, the ocean’s rocking motions making me feel as if my bed were moving to its rhythm. The roar of the ocean and the waves breaking below the window helped drown out the silence that had existed in our family home since Lucky had gone. Sometimes it felt like we had become a family of ghosts.

  There was a knock on my door and I snapped, “I said I’d do it!” thinking Mom was at the door wanting to talk about Tig again, but instead Katie and her twin brother, Henry, aka Science Project, walked in. Henry and Katie lived next door. I’d been hanging out with them every summer since we were babies.

  Katie flopped on my bed. “Guess what! Mom told us at church this morning. Only the second week of school and school’s going to be canceled this week! They found asbestos somewhere so the whole school has to shut down to get it cleaned up so we don’t all like die during homeroom.”

  I did a gospel Messiah jig around my room, singing, “Hallelujah! Hallelujah!”

  My initial week at Devonport High had been beyond painful. A summer becoming a permanent townie? Who does she think she is?

  The kids my age in town were forever separated by whether they were townies or summers. Townies lived in Devonport year-round, and had families that could not afford vacation homes. Townies had jobs working at the fish stands that the summers frequented, and the townies’ parents often had side jobs looking out for the summers’ houses during the winter. Summers, the group I had been part of before, were only in attendance on the Cape in July and August, refugees from the heat and humidity in New York, Washington, and Boston. They drove expensive cars, went to fancy private schools, and did not spend their school vacations slaving for minimum wage. Our family had been a summer one, but we were never rich, just lucky to have inherited a house on awesome oceanfront property. I no longer belonged to either group. I was glad to have spent the past summer buried inside the Dairy Queen with a uniform visor half-covering my face.

  “I’m so excited you live here year-round now!” Katie chirped. She threw what I referred to as her Popularity Kit—beauty and celeb mags, makeup samples, and hair accessories—onto my bed: her idea of Sunday entertainment. If there could be an award for Girl Most Determined to Be Popular Despite Her Acne and Braces and Kmart Clothes Collection, Katie had it nailed. She should have been popular just based on how nice she was. I’d spent a whole summer at the DQ watching her give free vanilla dips to college students so broke they paid for their Value Meals with rolls of dimes, helping old people to the bathroom, giving little kids a reassuring rub on the back before she had to clean up the peanut butter sauce they’d just spewed all over the condiment table. I could barely manage minimum-wage-level pleasant.

  Katie tossed me a soap opera magazine. “Check out the cover—I brought this one special for you.” The my-reason-for-living gorgeous face of Will Nieves, the hottest actor on daytime television, stared back at me, all black eyes and chiseled cheekbones, cinnamon skin and tousled black hair. Will Nieves, star of South Coast, the one soap I never missed, the reason I took the five-to-ten rather than the three-to-eight shift two nights a week at the DQ, since our family VCR was on the blitz and no way could I miss my daily dose of Will. I smacked my lips onto Will’s picture.

  Henry said, “You seriously think that guy’s hot?”

  “Shah!” I said back.

  Henry made a blech face. In the last year, he had grown very tall, but way gawky. His thin, dark blond hair had turned golden from the summer’s rays, and his usually pale skin was pink and healthy. He almost looked cute, except for his pants always looking like they would fall right down off of his skinny white ass. Henry/Science Project looked like both his name and his nickname: he had that aw shucks thing going with a pleasant puppy dog face, but he also had perpetually wrinkled brows and intense stares because his head was always computing computing computing. He had this habit of coming into my room with Katie for no reason; like today, he’d seen Katie carry the Popularity Kit to my house and there was no way he planned to do girly stuff with us, yet here he was in my room.

  “You two are not honestly going to spend the day slobbering over pictures of that guy and putting on makeup, are you?” Henry asked.

  “You bet we are,” Katie said.

  “Katie, I thought you said you would help me build the new computer for Dad’s birthday today.”

  “No, Science Project, that’s your project, not mine!” Katie said. “Wonder and I want to do something fun!” She wrinkled her eyebrows, then asked me, “Hey, did you ever call that Tig guy?”

  I shrugged, and Katie let the subject drop. She said, “I know! Let’s prank-call Doug Chase!”

  That idea interested me. I told Henry, “Charles is gonna go hang out with his pseudocool skater dudes if you wanna go hang with him.” I did not need Science Project’s geek karma infiltrating my room if I was going to prank-call my crush. Will Nieves may have been the man I intended to marry, but Doug Chase was the fer-real guy I was seriously lusting over.

  Henry squinted up at the sun beaming into my bedroom through the window. “Gimme pseudocool skater dudes over Doug Chase any day,” he mumbled, then got up from the window seat and left my room.

  I had been drooling over Doug Chase all summer, though really I had been crushing on him since the summer after fourth grade when he caught me in a game of Marco Polo at the community pool. He had crystal blue eyes, tattoos covering both his upper arms, and he was practically a rock star in Devonport—everyone had heard his band play at the Fourth of July Devonport town festival. Even though he was like one of the most popular seniors at Devonport High, even though I had about as much of a shot with Doug as I did with the prime minister of Canada, I couldn’t help fantasizing about him. I had gone from a size eight to a size ten over the past summer from eating pizza where he worked every day, just so I could scam on him while cheese was probably oozing down my blouse, for all that he noticed me. I loved to watch the slither of the serpent tattoo on Doug’s left bicep while he flipped the pizza dough in circles. I had lost a summer of lunchtimes watching that dough twirl and fantasizing that Doug and I were on a blanket on the beach at midnight, with moonlight streaming down onto us as I ran my fingers along the serpent—an extreme sensual touch that would have Doug’s lips finding mine in no time.

  Now that we lived in dullsville Devonport, dreaming about kissing Doug was my only entertainment besides dreaming about kissing Will Nieves from South Coast.

  I was just shy of my sixteenth birthday, and I still hadn’t kissed—I mean really kissed—a guy. I didn’t count the awkward and random encounter in the B-Kidz dressing room when I was twelve with Freddy Porter, a fellow B-Kid who went on to become a member in a monster popular boy band.

  The Blake family had moved to the Cape to start our lives over. My resolution was that I would have a boyfriend as part of my new life by the ocean, and that boyfriend would be Doug Chase.

  Lucky always said I knew how to dream big.

  Four

  Tig’s summer home was less than a mile from ours. Mom stepped out of our beat-up Volvo on Monday morning and admired the new shingles on the two-story house with the spotless windows. “Wouldn’t it be nice to have a house like this?” she asked.

  “You mean not falling apart?” I said.


  Tig came outside to greet us. The wind flapped his white suit against his dark skin. The guy was the smartest dresser I have ever seen. He had a round face that would have appeared youthfully innocent and kind were it not for those shark gray eyes framed by short spiked black braids. He said, “Thanks for dropping her off, Marie. Great seeing you. We’ll call you later when she’s ready to come home.” He flashed the killer smile and put his arm around my shoulders before Mom had a chance to protest. She had definitely expected to stay with me, not drop me off.

  Tig’s house was decorated with frilly, flowery patterns, New England quilts on the walls, and awful lace curtains, and it smelled like carpet cleaner. I guess Tig could see the look of confusion on my face because he said, “The soon-to-be ex decorated the house. Sucks, doesn’t it?”

  “Kind of! I guess I woulda thought you’d have like gold records lining the walls and big leather couches and electronic equipment everywhere.”

  “Soon as those divorce papers are signed next month this house will be fully de-Martha Stewartized. Tell your friends they can come over and spray-paint the walls over this effin Laura Ashley wallpaper if they want.” I noted the walls’ spray-painting potential and made a mental note to myself: Make friends.

  We walked through to the back of the house and outside to the backyard. Tig led me to a large garage and punched a code into a security system. “My sanctuary,” he announced.

  The garage door opened to reveal a recording booth with a glass wall separating it from a recording console room, and a small separate room with a big TV and stereo, a La-Z-Boy recliner, a long futon on a wooden frame, and a bookcase full of CDs.

  “Cool!” I said.

  Tig shrugged. “Eh, this is really just a PlayStation for a guy who thought he could be a record producer but turned out to be better at managing talent. Strictly juvenile, this spread.” As we walked inside, Tig turned to me and asked, “Wonder, before we start this, you need to tell me now: Are you in this?”

  I thought of Lucky and answered for her. “Sure am!”

  I sat down on the stool below the microphone.

  “Got a favorite song you want to try out?” Tig asked.

  I so closely associated Tig with Lucky that I didn’t think before suggesting, “ ‘I’m Ready,’ ” the last song my sister had written.

  Tig looked at me funny. “You’re sure?” I nodded. He sounded skeptical, but he said, “That’s maybe not the strongest song of hers but, okay. I don’t have music on it so why don’t you just sing straight out.”

  Tig gestured GO to me from the other side of the glass window in the studio.

  I sang,

  I’ve known you so long.

  We’ve been friends forever.

  You’ve always been there for me.

  I’ll always be there for you.

  We’ve waited so long

  Now I’m ready

  I’m ready to love you.

  I thought my voice was confident and sounded good, but Tig stopped me.

  “Do you know how you sound?” he asked through the headset.

  I said, “Pretty damn good?”

  “Nope. You’re singing like Lucky. Sweet and innocent, nice. Sing like Wonder.”

  I wanted to tell him, But Wonder always sang backup for Lucky. Wonder doesn’t know how Wonder sings. Wonder was the dancer! Didn’t you watch Beantown Kidz?

  I tried again, but this time was worse. I saw my sister’s face on the other side of the microphone, holding the headset to her ear with one hand. Her blond curls hung down her shoulders, and her cheeks were rosy and happy with the joy she found in singing. She was such a pretty girl, especially when she sang.

  Tig announced, “I see your feet tapping and your hips rocking, Wonder. I know you have more in you.”

  One more time I started,

  I’ve known you so long.

  Tig shook his head, frowning. I’d blown it. Now he knew me for the fraud I was, a pretender to my dead sister’s throne.

  Before I could apologize to Tig for wasting his time, I heard the music to a familiar, and favorite, song coming through the headset. Tig nodded to me and without thinking I just started singing. The song was “Like a Prayer.”

  Tig must have remembered that Lucky hated Madonna songs. Lucky’s face and voice effectively blocked, I started to wail the song. As I got more into it, I felt my body relax and my voice strengthen. There was an extraterrestrial cool quality coming from my voice that I hadn’t known existed.

  “You’re showing off now, Wonder,” Tig said into my headset, but I kept singing anyway, and I saw him smiling—and smiling big, like his random instinct to bet on a dollar and a dream had just won him the lottery.

  He had me sing the song several different times, trying out different beats: slow, fast, R & B, gospel style, pop cute, and finally, however the hell I wanted.

  On that last take he said, “That was the one. Wonder style. Free and easy, natural.”

  “I have a style?” I asked.

  “Now you do,” he said. “Did you ever have vocal training?”

  “Yeah, we had voice coaches on the set at B-Kidz. I sang on one of the B-Kidz Christmas albums. A really corny version of ‘Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.’ I’m so glad they don’t play the record on the radio in Boston anymore.”

  “You’re embarrassed to be on the radio?”

  “No, I’m embarrassed to have a sucky song on the radio. It was so cheesy.”

  “Welcome to the music biz, Wonder.” Tig asked me what female singers I liked. I named the usual suspects: Aretha Franklin, Janis Joplin, Janet Jackson and Madonna. He said, “No, what pop singers do you like—you know, young ones? All these pop princesses out there and boy bands, there’s gotta be one of them you like.”

  “I guess I like Kayla okay. She’s not as bad as most of ’em.” When Lucky died so suddenly, Trina and Kayla had decided they couldn’t continue their group, Trinity, without her. Trina’s mom had been against the whole pop singing career anyway, and she was grief-stricken over Lucky’s death. She forbade Trina to pursue a record deal again until Trina finished college. Trina, I think, was relieved that her mother had made the decision for her. Kayla, on the other hand, had gone solo and within the last two years had skyrocketed to become the queen of the pop charts, and the skimpiest bikini-wearer the music video channel had ever seen. She was an international sensation.

  “You’re not gonna go all diva on me, are you, Wonder?” Tig was Kayla’s manager. He would know.

  “Not if you’re nice to me,” I said, laughing.

  “Girl,” he said, “you don’t even know what a natural you are, do you?”

  Five

  If being a natural meant fumbling lyrics, tripping on dance steps, and laughing hysterically every time Tig encouraged me to croon/wail/whisper the words “yeah” and/or “baby” in a song, then I was a natural-born superstar.

  I often suspected the only reason Tig kept working with me after our first session was that I kept him amused as he juggled endless pages and cell phone calls from his divorce lawyer, Kayla and other artists, and record company execs.

  Because school was let out for that week in September, I spent my afternoons at Tig’s house, at his invitation. I don’t imagine I ever thought our work would actually lead to a singing career for me, but it made my mom so happy to drop me off and to look into my eyes with hope instead of sadness. And excuse me, but the scene at Tig’s—with the huge flat-screen TV to take in Will Nieves on South Coast while Tig answered phone calls every two seconds—was way better than the scene back home. If I had spent the week at home, I would have been stuck hovering over a black-and-white TV with bad reception to catch my soaps while hordes of townie kids reclaimed the beach outside our windows, and I would have passed that time hoping and praying that Mom and Dad didn’t start a fight that would send Charles and me hiding out in my room and eating cold pizza for dinner.

  A surprise awaited me at Tig’s house on the
second day. When I walked to the back of the house toward the studio, Trina Little was sitting on a lawn chair.

  “Girl!” she exclaimed, jumping to her feet. She inspected me head to toe. “Look who seriously filled out that bikini top!”

  My mom, her mom, and their sisters had passed on a distinct genetic breast code. Since growing into a C cup in the last year, I had become uncomfortably used to crossing my arms over my chest and looking down when people’s eyes strayed across my new upper body. But Trina was like a long-lost sister, and I didn’t care that she’d noticed that I was growing up—and out. I ran to Trina and gave her a giant hug.

  She was wearing a Boston University tank top with side-button workout pants that swamped her tiny body. Trina Little was little—maybe five feet tall on tippy toes—but with a giant singing voice that could tear the church down. Just because Tig was her stepfather’s nephew did not mean it was nepotism that had almost landed Trinity a record deal—the girl was a powerhouse singer, Whitney plus Mariah times a million. She had the most beautiful dark skin I’d ever seen, coal black eyes, and long black cornrows hanging halfway down her back. When she moved, the click of her cornrow beads seemed to have their own rhythm, so even her walk was musical. I had never understood why B-Kidz fan mail always favored Kayla. To me, Trina had always been the coolest-looking and the best singer, and Lucky the nicest and most genuine.

  Trina held me tight. We hadn’t seen each other since shortly after Lucky’s death. I was glad Mom wasn’t present. The sight of Trina—and the remembrance of Trina wailing out “Amazing Grace” at the church funeral and the entire congregation shuddering in awestruck tears—would likely have caused Mom to break down on the spot.

  When Trina let go of me, we sat down on the lawn chairs, a luscious Indian summer ocean breeze filling the air. Trina said, “So, you gonna be a pop princess?”

  I laughed. “Yeah, right! Nah, Tig just keeps me here for his entertainment, and I just need to get the hell outta my house! Once that divorce of his is final, Tig’ll go back to his fancy Manhattan life and get lost in Kayla-ness and forget all about ole Wonder Blake singing customers’ orders in the drive-thru at Dairy Queen and failing Algebra 2 at Devonport High on Cape Cod.”