Pop Princess

by Rachel Cohn

  I leaned over from the backseat and reached into Charles’s bag for a handful of fries. “Order your own!” Charles barked. I stuck my tongue out at him. Charles said, “That’s not a pretty face for a pop princess.”

  We both laughed, but Dad got on his stern face. Dad said, “Wonder, you’re not really serious about this business with Tig, right? I said okay to get Mommy off my back, but I’m assuming you’re too smart to really take this seriously.”

  I lied and said, “We’re just fooling around. Nothing will come of it—I don’t have the kind of look or voice Tig works with. I can’t sing like, you know, Lucky.” I said her name low and soft, as had become our family custom, and then I diverted their attention from the name I had just spoken. “Guess who came to rehearse with me today. Trina Little!”

  Dad and Charles both brightened up over their Big Macs. Trina had been practically a member of our family during the years she, Lucky, and Kayla had been like the Three Musketeers.

  Dad said, “Doesn’t sound like Gerald Tiggs is ‘just fooling around’ if he asked Trina to drive all the way from Boston for a day to work with you. How is she doing in school, anyway? Still a straight-A student?”

  “She’s good. Sassy and smart as ever. She’s gonna be a country singer!”

  This revelation prompted Charles to tune the car radio from the pop station playing Kayla’s latest hit to the country station playing a lame sugary hit by a flaxen-haired, dull-voiced country queen. “Ewww,” Charles cried out. “Trina’s too good for this.”

  “I’m sure if Trina sets her mind to country music it will be a lot more original than this pabulum,” Dad said.

  Charles and I both asked, “ ‘Pabulum’?”

  Dad said, “Find a dictionary.” From the backseat, I reached over and tousled the back of Dad’s gray hair. He did have occasional moments of cuteness.

  Later that night in bed, I tossed and turned. It had become habit that I had a hard time falling asleep. When I did sleep, it was only for a couple hours at a time, never for a whole night. Nightmares—Lucky bolting across the street, the sound of screeching brakes, me standing mute and shocked, Mom screaming—regularly struck me during sleep, so that I would wake up shaking and sweating, staring into the night, fearful of falling back asleep. Some nights when the lap of the ocean outside my windows was calm and quiet, I could hear Dad’s fingers tapping a keyboard downstairs, or Mom’s TV broadcasting Conan upstairs, and I knew they were struck sleepless too.

  As I lay in bed wide awake that night, restless, I thought about the potential opportunity Tig was offering me, and the confidence he seemed to have in me. On the one hand, I didn’t think for a sec that I had the kind of talent that could sell a million records; on the other hand, if someone of Tig’s skills and experience thought I did have that talent, didn’t I owe it to Lucky to give it my best shot? To complete what she had started?

  I turned on the lamp and pulled Lucky’s scrapbook out from under my bed, where I had it hidden from Mom. I flipped through the pages of first-place ribbons from talent competitions, honor roll reports, Girl Scout commendations, chuckling at the contrast between Lucky’s roster of accomplishments and her handwritten notes. Lucky had the worst handwriting ever, an intense scribble that would have made you think she was a space case. Kindergartners who had written B-Kidz fan letters that Lucky had taped down throughout her scrapbook had better penmanship than she did.

  She had a couple of full pages devoted to pictures of just the two of us: as little kids in the bathtub surrounded by rubber duckies and plastic toys; wearing identical sailor suits at the beach one summer; playing dress-up with Mom’s makeup and nice clothes; Halloween with Lucky as Dorothy and me as the Wicked Witch; and the two of us making faces at the photographer from the Boston Globe during makeup on the B-Kidz set. There was a shot of me performing a hip-hop dance on Beantown Kidz that Lucky had framed with silver star stickers, under which she had written, “Wonder Blake can be an annoying brat , but the girl can dance!”

  On one B-Kidz taping when I had been singing backup for Lucky, she had looked at me funny afterward, and I thought she was angry that my voice had been too loud behind her. Instead, Lucky said, “You know, you’re the real singer in the family.” I laughed because I thought she was kidding, but she wasn’t. “Tell Mom you should take singing lessons with me,” she added, but I said nah. I thought I had all the time in the world with my sister.

  I turned on my side in bed, so awake I felt like my eyelids were bolted wide open. My front bedroom windows offered the beautiful ocean views, but my side windows, with the bird’s-eye view into Henry’s bedroom next door, offered occasional sideshow entertainment. Sadly for my insomnia, Henry’s light was out, so tonight I wouldn’t get to smile and laugh into my pillow while Henry jumped on his bed and performed air guitar; nor would I be treated to one of his exclusive performances for my benefit, during which he played opera on his stereo and made wild operatic hand gestures out the window as he mouthed the arias, looking like Adam Sandler’s “Opera Man.”

  My stomach grumbled. I tucked the scrapbook back under my bed and went downstairs for a snack.

  Dad was sitting at his computer. The computer monitor and the moonlight reflecting off the ocean outside the living room windows provided the only light. I could hear Cash’s tail wagging at Dad’s feet.

  I flipped on the kitchen light. Dad said, “It’s three in the morning. What are you doing awake?” I heard the ring of an IM coming through on Dad’s computer. His hand turned the volume down.

  Mom must have heard me trudge downstairs, because she was right behind me. “Sweetie, what are you doing up?”

  “Geez, I’m just hungry. Why all the interrogation?” The chocolate emergency at hand was making me grumpy.

  I walked into the kitchen and pulled some stale Chips Ahoy! from the pantry. Mom and Dad followed me and sat down at the kitchen table, where Mom opened a bag of Doritos and Dad lit his pipe. Somehow I had stumbled into a family powwow.

  Mom said, “How did things go with Tig today?” She had been asleep when I got home from my DQ shift. These days, when Mom wasn’t eating, she was usually sleeping.

  “Good. Trina came. She’s gonna, like, coach me.”

  “Fantastic!” Mom said. Dad’s eyes hardened but he didn’t say anything. Mom looked at him and said, “Our baby is going to be a star!”

  Dad said, “So long as she keeps her grades up. I expect an improvement over last year, Wonder. I’m not kidding.”

  “Sure, Dad.”

  Mom said, “Who cares about grades! Wonder has the chance to be the next Kayla!”

  Mom was laughing, and I knew she was joking and I think Dad did too, but he shouted, “GOD-DAMNIT, MARIE!” He got up from his chair and went outside to the beach, slamming the screen door so hard behind him that it broke off its top hinges. Poor Cash whimpered under Dad’s computer table.

  Mom burst into tears. Again. I patted her hands to let her know everything would be okay.

  Nine

  Working with Trina over the weekend was worth switching my weekend DQ shift with Katie, even if it meant I had to work after-school shifts every day the following week. I knew that when Monday came, I would go back to my real life as the new girl at school with the broken-down home, the crush on the impossible guy, the B-Kidz backlash to live down, and the grades to bring back up to standard if I ever intended to get Dad off my case. I wanted to give Trina and Tig my all before I turned back into a pumpkin.

  Mom came to Tig’s with me on Saturday morning to co-sign the artist representation contract that Tig’s lawyers had prepared. Sounds like a big deal, but it wasn’t—yet. It was a standard contract—no money involved—that spelled out the terms by which Tig would represent me in any potential entertainment opportunities.

  The really cool part of the day was that Mom didn’t wig out when she saw Trina. Mom didn’t cry, she just hugged Trina and sat down with her at Tig’s kitchen table and asked her all about her
life at Boston University. She told Trina how proud she was of her, and how she knew she had the smarts and talent to make all her dreams come true. I had told Trina a little about our family life the last year in Cambridge, but she warmed to Mom right away and gave me a sort of look like, She’s not doing as bad as you said! Mom had gained a lot of weight since Lucky’s death, but on that Saturday, her larger size was the only difference from the old B-Kid mom Trina had known back in Cambridge. Perhaps it was seeing me with Trina and Tig, or signing the contract with Tig; maybe Mom just felt like our lives were getting back on track and there was something to be hopeful about again, and she could act normal.

  Mom stayed at Tig’s for over an hour and was going to be late for her shift at the grocery store, but she took her time about leaving. As she walked to her car Mom turned to Tig and said, “I know you’ll take good care of my baby.” I knew she’d spend the remainder of the weekend getting the silent treatment from Dad.

  Trina had our weekend mapped out on a precise schedule: four hours each for song and dance rehearsals on Saturday, two hours’ rehearsal time followed by two hours’ recording time for each on Sunday. For the demo, Tig and I had chosen a song that Trina had written, “Don’t Call Me Baby (Call Me Woman),” an awesome song about a girl demanding respect for being as smart as she was attractive. The song was a good fit for my voice because the melody had more of an R & B than pop flavor, and it was a funky empowerment kind of song that wouldn’t have suited Lucky’s soft and sweet demeanor. Lucky’s shadow would not creep over my performance of Trina’s song.

  Trina worked me hard—very hard—but I have to say, by the end of Saturday night, when I collapsed in bed, I was twice the singer and dancer I had been even the week before.

  The weekend was a sleepover occasion, as Trina wanted us to have maximum time together. Trina came into the living room and sat with me on the pullout sofa bed. She was wearing a stiff white nightgown against her dark skin, and her long cornrows were tied into two sets of plaits falling down over her shoulders. I was wearing flannel PJs with Oreos pictured on them, and teddy bear slippers. It was like the old days, when I used to join Kayla, Lucky, and Treen’s slumber parties and we would sit on Lucky’s bed and talk until dawn.

  “You did good today,” Trina said. “Tig was impressed. He thinks you have what it takes.”

  “Like Lucky?”

  “Wonder, your talent is so totally separate from Lucky’s. How come you don’t see that? Don’t do this for her—do it for you!”

  “But Lucky was the singer!” I whispered. My confidence wavered continually, despite Tig and Trina’s encouragement.

  “I know you are not going to like hearing this, but let me lay one on you: You’re a better singer than Lucky. No disrespect intended here, but Lucky was presence, and you’re the real deal.”

  If it had been anybody besides Trina speaking that way about my sister, I would have stopped them cold. I did protest, “But you and Lucky were in the same group. Why were you in the group together if you didn’t think she was a great singer?”

  “Lucky was my friend. I loved her—you know that. But Trinity worked because our voices together added up to a great whole. Solo, Lucky might not have had enough. She balanced out Kayla’s hard voice and my overpowering voice. She softened us, evened us out. She also kept me and Kayla from killing each other. Lucky was a peacemaker. She did not have what you have—pure natural talent.”

  I knew Trina wasn’t dissing Lucky. She was just being Trina: honest.

  I had a sharp intake of breath. It felt so good to be around someone, besides my parents, who had known and cared about my sister.

  It seemed I had barely fallen asleep when I felt Trina gently tugging my arm to wake me. Through the sheer living room curtains, I could see the sun rising over the ocean. In my dawn-struck squint I saw that Trina was already dressed and wearing a track suit. She stretched down on the floor next to me.

  “Get up, lady! First we’ll go for a run, and then we’ll get busy.”

  “Have you ever thought about a career in the military, Trina?” My voice was whiny, but I was already stepping out of bed. I mumbled, “Wonder needs fullon caffeinated double latte.”

  “When we get back.”

  My voice came alive. “Now!” Trina shot me her don’t-speak-to-me-in-that-tone-of-voice-young-lady look, and I whimpered, “Pretty please?”

  “Yo, princess, be ready in five minutes and I’ll have a regular coffee with skim milk and an Equal in a thermos for you.”

  Sigh. “Deal.”

  The early morning run turned out to be a good idea, totally energizing me for the day. By the time later that afternoon that Tig hit the “record” button in the studio, I was raring to go, and with Trina singing harmony, I admit, I sounded great—and confident. We were able to record the demo in five takes. Recording the video turned out to be easy too, especially when Tig prompted me to make faces into the camera. “Just be yourself,” he said, advice that allowed me not to mess up the dance moves Trina had choreographed to the song. The moment of perfection came when Tig suggested we take the videocam out to the beach, and he recorded me dancing and doing cartwheels on the sand. I was psyched by how well the song recording had gone and how well I had performed Trina’s choreography, so our takes at the beach were fun and carefree—exactly the mood Tig wanted.

  When I left that night, Tig told me, “You did great today, Wonder. Just remember, these things are so arbitrary. What Trina and I think is great might send dozens of record execs snoozing. But you’ll hear from me if I get any positive responses. Meantime, I arranged with the dance studio in town for you to take dance classes. Three times a week after school, all paid up through Christmas. Think you can do that?”

  I nodded and thanked him. I was feeling muscles reawakening in my body, and I wanted to ride that wave as long as possible, pop princess or not. And hopefully the classes would not interfere with South Coast airings.

  Trina grabbed me in a hug. “It’s been too long,” she whispered in my ear.

  “Can we still hang out, like even if nothing happens with all this?” I asked her.

  She handed me a piece of paper with her e-mail address and dorm room phone number on it. “You know it. Work hard, Wonder. Lucky would be so proud of you.” She added, “I’m so proud of you.”

  Tig said, “So, Wonder, think you’re ready to be a pop princess? No promises, of course, but if I shop your demo around to the labels and they like it, your life could change . . . quickly.”

  I wasn’t ready, but I wasn’t worried. No way would any record company be interested in Wonder Blake. But thanks, Tig and Trina, for the fun weekend away from Chez Blake. Cinderella will turn back into a pumpkin now.

  Ten

  Autumn passed, with no word from Tig. Mom jumped every time the phone rang, but I was growing indifferent, feeling hopeless, not about the music career, but about our new lives by the sea. Charles was doing well in his school and had lots of new friends who didn’t care that he was a summer who had become a townie. Charles rocked on a skateboard. That was enough. As for Charles’s older sister, she was finding Devonport High to be hell on earth.

  No matter what I did at school, I just didn’t seem to be able to get it right. You’d think I went around school wearing a shirt emblazoned with the letter “L” on it—“L” for “Loser” and not for “Laverne.” As far as I knew, I wore cute clothes, I was okay-looking, I didn’t pick my nose in public, and I tried to be friendly to everybody, no matter whether they were a geek, jock, stoner, cheerleader, or brain. Maybe my loser status was because I had transferred into a class that had already spent two years together, or perhaps because I was a former summer who had been a B-Kid and Jen Burke had made it her mission to tell anyone who would listen that I was a stuck-up bitch. There was always my theory—that a secret memo had been circulated to the student body stating simply, Wonder Blake: Nobody.

  Even Katie stopped associating with me at school. A summer spent
practicing handsprings and pleasantly shouting back orders at the drive-thru window had prepared Katie for her dream—she was chosen as an alternate for the cheerleading squad. That, and cleared-up skin thanks to a Retin-A prescription, had granted Katie lunchtime admission to a cafeteria table of short-pleated-skirt girls and athlete guys. Now she was on her way. I would have been dead weight to her at school. We didn’t talk about the fact that we were friends at work, but not at school. It was just something that happened.

  The months of September and October found me roaming the halls alone, standing mute at my locker as kids who had known each since elementary stood around talking and laughing. When I tried to jump into a conversation, I got looks of contempt, or was just ignored. Lunchtime would have been torture if not for my unexpected savior, Science Project. Henry had a small group of geek friends he could have hung out with, but he regularly ditched them to sit with me in the darkest and farthest reach of the cafeteria and go over my algebra homework with me. Oh yeah, I could barely maintain a C average, despite my promise to Dad to get my grades up.

  I begged Mom and Dad to let me drop out of school, or at least for us to go back to Cambridge. They said no. They said, Making new friends takes time. Be patient. Join a club!

  Easy for them to say. They didn’t have to hear the whispers when I walked by people’s desks: “That’s the girl that was a B-Kid.” “That’s the girl whose sister died.” “She used to be a summer.”

  I was missing Lucky something fierce. The time since she had died had been soaked up in basic survival. Now, in this new environment where no one really knew me, I hurt. I could see Lucky and me walking the school halls together, sharing a plate of fries at lunch, whispering in each other’s ears when we scoped a hot guy. I thought, If Lucky were here, I could do this, I could deal.

  Mom must have read too many of those empower-your-teen-daughter saving Ophelia whatever books, because she came into my room one night with this genius idea: “Have you thought about trying out for the school musical? I just know you’d make friends doing that. I happen to be sure you’re the most talented singer at that high school, probably in all of Devonport. Give it a try, won’t you?”