by Greg Taylor
The pictures were quite informative, actually. The Caverns had apparently played everywhere from New York to London to Paris to Rome. We had met—and been the opening act for—Coldplay and Kings of Leon and Belle and Sebastian, to name a few.
Too bad I couldn’t remember any of that!
As I turned slowly in the middle of the room and stared at all of those pictures, I heard a phone ring upstairs. Dad came down to the basement with my cell phone. He didn’t look too happy as he handed it to me.
“It’s Bradley,” he said.
Bradley? Who was Bradley? “Hello?” I answered warily.
“Regina!” a strange voice yelled.
Dad hovered nearby. He looked like he wanted to stick around to monitor the conversation. But he finally turned and went back up the stairs.
“Yeah?” I responded when he was gone.
“Everything OK? I couldn’t get you on your Web site. What’s up?”
“I’m just not feeling too good, that’s all.” I was going through the motions of the conversation but trying to figure out if I knew a Bradley from school, or somewhere else.
“You’re still coming to L.A., though, right?”
“Of course.”
“What time’s your arrival?”
“I … don’t know.”
“That’s my girl. Listen, give me a call when you get in. I’ll be on set so you might have to leave a message.”
On set? Where was this guy calling from? Suddenly, a picture in the corner of the room that I hadn’t noticed caught my attention. As I walked toward it, I said, “I will do that.”
“You sound weird, Regina. Sure you’re OK?”
“It’s been a crazy day,” I replied.
“Crazy day? Try a crazy year! No wonder you’re feeling a little whacked out. But I’m here for you, baby.”
The picture showed me with my arms around a gorgeous hunk of a guy. It took me a moment to place him. When I did, I felt faint. Just like I had upstairs. Really, I went all light-headed and my cheeks got hot and I had to sit down.
“You still there?” the voice asked. I decided to try out my theory of who I was talking to.
“Yeah, I’m still here. How’s everything on P.C.H.?”
“Same old, same old. We’re at the beach today.”
Bingo. My theory was correct. I was talking to Bradley Sawyer.
A quick word about Mr. Sawyer.
He’s one of the stars of P.C.H. (aka Pacific Coast Highway). For those of you who haven’t seen it, P.C.H. is a hybrid of The O.C., The Hills, Gossip Girl, etc., etc. Young and restless teenagers cavorting in Malibu, California, as they juggle high school, dysfunctional families, the opposite sex, and budding acting careers.
To be honest, I’d only seen the show a few times. But Bradley’s face had been plastered on the covers of all the teen mags for the past couple years or so. (“The new Brad Pitt!” one teen mag had anointed him.) He was definitely one of the current teen gods.
“Listen, babe, they’re calling me to makeup. Can’t wait to see you.”
“Me, too,” I replied. I don’t know why I said that, but it just seemed like I should.
“Can’t get you out of my mind, girl. Hey, just to tease you a bit … I’ve got something special planned when you get here.”
“Really? What?”
“If I told you, it wouldn’t be a surprise, would it? Bye.” Bradley sent a little kissing sound my way, then signed off. I sat like a statue, phone still plastered to my ear after Bradley had hung up. Of all the surreal, mind-blowing things that had slapped me in the face since I got up just a few hours before, this one actually took the cake. I mean, how does one deal with something like this?
I mentally rewound the conversation I’d just had. Judging from the evidence:
I had met Bradley Sawyer at some point in my travels and was now dating him.
He expected me to call him when I got to L.A.
He had a special surprise lined up for me when I got there.
As I sat thinking about all of this (farther into the maze?), I decided there was only one thing to do at that moment in time. Store all of this new info in the Later Department of my brain. (Unfortunately, a lot of things languish there.)
Then I went upstairs to get something to eat.
8
I have been known to eat prodigious amounts of strangely grouped foodstuffs when I’m stressed out. A pregnant woman would have nothing on me when I really get going.
So there I was, not long after having a big breakfast, sitting at my dining-room table and chowing down on ice cream, processed lunch meat, olives, and some kind of dried fruit when Dad came into the room and sat down across from me.
“What on earth are you eating?” he asked with a frown.
I looked at the various dishes in front of me and replied, “Stuff.”
Dad shook his head in dismay, then slid a folder across the table to me.
“Trey e-mailed your itinerary for the week. I just printed it out.”
Trey? Who was he?
I turned the folder around and opened it. Inside was a neatly typed list of what the Caverns would be doing during our week in L.A. It included:
Staying at a place called the Sheraton on the Strip
A final recording session at Capitol Records for our new CD
Shooting a video for “He Loves You”
Playing on the Tonight Show
Rehearsal for the Grammys the day before the ceremony
Finally, the Grammys
“Doesn’t leave a lot of time for Mom, does it?”
That stopped me cold. I was going to see Mom? She hadn’t been a part of my life for over five years. After leaving us all those years ago, she’d moved to California and had started a completely new life. She’d called me maybe a half dozen times in all those years.
“No, it doesn’t,” I said. My anger and bitterness about my mom leaving always seemed to be just below the surface of my everyday emotions. Always lurking there, waiting to come up and bite me.
“You don’t have to see her if you don’t want,” Dad said. I got the impression he wouldn’t mind if I didn’t.
“I’m going to,” I said. “I’m definitely going to see her.”
Dad nodded. “Please be careful of Trey, OK? I don’t trust him. Matter of fact, I really think you need to find a new manager.”
So that’s who Trey was. My manager. That answered one question, at least. But there were still too many mysteries. Way too many mysteries.
Dad got up to leave, then said, “By the way, Regina, don’t think you can get out of our agreement. You definitely haven’t been living up to your end of it.” I didn’t know what Dad was talking about, so I tried to look properly apologetic and said, “I’m sorry.”
“Sorry doesn’t cut it. I’m telling you right now, if you don’t have all of your assignments done the week after we return from the Grammys, that’s it. You go back to school. And I’ll go right back with you. If I can get my old teaching job back, that is.”
OK, another little mystery solved. My dad and I had both left T.J., and I was being homeschooled. And flunking out, from the sounds of it. At least that seemed like an easy problem to deal with. “I promise I’ll have all of my assignments done the week after I get back.”
“I’m holding you to that promise, Regina. I don’t care if you have your album to finish. Or a tour to plan. None of that matters to me. I told you from the start you have to keep up with your education if you’re going to do this.”
I nodded contritely.
“OK, enough of that. We’ll be leaving for the concert before you know it. I know how long it takes you to figure out what to wear. Better get to it.”
Dad stood up and left the room. I stayed for moment, staring at the itinerary. My week in L.A. was suddenly feeling like an epic journey of some sort. At least I had the T.J. concert for a warm-up. Yes, at least I had that before heading off to Oz.
* * *
&nb
sp; When I opened my closet door, I was so blown away I almost toppled over. Timberrrrrrrrr! I’m not kidding. I mean, the clothes! You couldn’t believe the clothes. It was the most prodigious collection of funky and beautiful threads I had ever laid eyes on.
There were gorgeous jackets, tutus in every color imaginable, T-shirts from around the world, dozens of jeans, vintage bell-bottoms, ’60s pegged-leg pants, skirts of all shapes and lengths.
And the shoes! I don’t know where to start with those. But the ones that immediately caught my eye was a classic pair of Beatles boots.
Black leather. Cuban heeled. Zipped to just above the ankle. They were famous the second the Fab Four put them on, back in the ’60s. But in this wacky new world of mine, the Fab Four never had worn them. Maybe I did. Maybe they were my trademark. Maybe I’d made them famous!
It took me several hours to try on all of those clothes. I felt like Cinderella, preparing to go to a rock ’n’ roll ball. For the first time since I’d woken up and been confronted by my strange new world, my what’s-happening-here? expression had been replaced by a grin. Which was good. Girls need to have a little fun. Once in a while, anyway.
When Dad yelled from downstairs that we were leaving in ten minutes, I had finally decided on my outfit. It was an official black T.J. T-shirt, with T.J. on the back in large gold letters. Over the T-shirt, I wore a black bolero jacket with really beautiful, intricate gold embroidery. (I knew the crowd would love it when I took off the jacket at some point in the concert to show off the school letters.) A black tutu, black stockings, and of course, the black Beatle boots finished things off.
I have to say, I thought I looked pretty good. Which is saying something, because I’m usually extremely critical of my entire … persona.
“Regina! You ready?!”
Looking at myself in the mirror, I nodded. I was as ready as I was gonna be. Then, from out of the blue, I did something that surprised me.
I clicked my heels three times.
Why did I do that?
Even now, I really can’t say. Maybe because I’d thought of L.A. as Oz just a little while earlier. Or maybe I wanted, subconsciously, to return to my normal, ordinary world.
One thing’s for sure. Nothing happened when I clicked my heels. I was still in my room. The Regina Bloomsbury doll still stared at me from her perch on the shelf. I still felt like I was on the wildest roller-coaster ride of my life. At that point, I was just hanging on for dear life. And wondering where this fairy-tale roller-coaster ride was going to end up.
9
I could see the lights from miles away. Hollywood lights is what I call them. The kind that shoot a single beam into the air so high that it touches the clouds. There were four or five of them. I couldn’t be sure exactly how many because they were moving around in a crazy kind of white-light dance in the dark night.
My stomach started its own kind of dance when I saw those lights. They made everything seem very real somehow. But unreal at the same time, if that makes any sense. They were like some kind of cosmic exclamation point to the fact that I was about to play a concert for my T.J. peers. The very ones who barely knew I existed just the day before.
Weird.
I looked at Dad as we approached the driveway that led to the school. He looked really cool. He was dressed in black jeans and a black turtleneck and a black sport coat. His hair was kind of spiked out. I hadn’t told him that I thought he looked cool, so I did just then.
“Thanks, honey. Glad you think so. I wanted to be somewhat presentable. It’s not every day a dad gets to be onstage with his famous daughter.”
Onstage?
Was Dad playing with the Caverns? Or maybe he was just introducing us. Whichever, I would find out soon enough. When Dad turned into the T.J. driveway, there were two cop cars blocking the way. Just beyond them were several MTV vans and a large crowd. One of the policemen approached us and asked for IDs. Only students and teachers were allowed to attend the concert, he explained. But then he noticed who I was and said, “Miss Bloomsbury. No need to show your ID.” And he waved us on by. Dad gave me a raised-eyebrow expression as he drove past the police cars with their serious-looking rotating red lights.
The Hollywood lights were set up right in front of the school. A huge crowd milled about, steam bursting from their mouths in the cold night air. Everyone stared at our car as it moved past. Then someone yelled, “It’s Regina!” and the chase was on. I felt like I was in a scene from A Hard Day’s Night as several dozen people broke away from the crowd and ran after our car, which Dad drove around the side of the school to the auditorium door at the rear.
The irony was not lost on me when I realized that the concert was being held in the auditorium. It was the same place where I had approached Mrs. Densby to ask if the Caverns could play at the Back to School dance. And been turned down. Now the Caverns were playing there “live” to a worldwide audience!
When I got out of the car, I was swamped by my pursuers. Mostly younger girls. They shoved CDs and pictures at me to sign as Dad tried to make a path to the auditorium door. I was intimidated by all the worshipful attention, to be honest. It felt really strange.
“Let her through!” a voice boomed menacingly from the open auditorium doorway. An outdoor overhead light illuminated, in dramatic fashion, a stout figure.
It was good old Mrs. Densby. She was the Gold General that evening. “There will be a signing session after the concert! It was announced to the entire school after final period!”
My admirers reluctantly shrunk away from Mrs. Densby, mumbling insults under their breath. The Gold General followed their departure with a frown. But her demeanor changed instantly as Dad and I approached the door.
“Regina,” she purred. “Come right this way. We have everything set up for you.”
* * *
The next hour leading up to the concert was a blur. I had trouble focusing. I felt hot one moment, cold the next. It reminded me of the time when I was in sixth grade and had to give a speech in front of the entire middle school on Presidents’ Day. Only this was a bit bigger than that.
The hour started out with Mrs. Densby leading me and Dad to the dressing room backstage. My bandmates were already there, having done a sound check earlier. With the MTV cameras hovering uncomfortably close, recording and broadcasting all this for our live Web cast, Julian and Lorna gave me cool nods when I entered the room.
Lorna was especially standoffish. “Nice of you to join us,” she said, giving me a critical up-and-down as she checked out what I was wearing. It looked like fame hadn’t altered Lorna’s pissy attitude, that’s for sure. But I was determined not to let her infect me with any doubts about the outfit I had chosen. This was my wish come true, after all.
“You have the set list, Regina?” Danny asked. Stationed next to the table with all of the food, he could have been a poster boy for the proverbial kid in the candy store.
The set list! I hadn’t even thought about that. “I’m … working on it,” I said. Lorna rolled her eyes. Which was captured by one of the cameras. Whatever issues were going on between us, I’d have to figure out later. First things first.
I asked Dad for a piece of paper and pen, exited the dressing room, found the girls’ lavatory and locked myself in a stall. My hand was shaking as I wrote “Set List” at the top.
That’s as far as I got. I sat on the toilet and stared at the blank piece of paper. Without warning, the weight of the last twelve hours came crashing down on my shoulders. I wasn’t strong enough for all of this unexpected fame. I wasn’t ready for it. I felt like I was going to crumble. Breakdown Time. Catatonic Girl.
I heard the lavatory door open, then Julian saying, “Don’t even think about following me in here!” to the gaggle of MTV people following him. There was the click of the door lock, then footsteps moving toward me. A knock on my stall door.
“Is this a private moment?” Julian asked. I literally started to sweat. What was Julian doing here?
“So … spill,” Julian said.
“What?” I asked, feigning ignorance.
“C’mon, Regina. You sounded really uptight earlier when you called. Matter of fact, you’re acting pretty weird right now. What’s going on?”
“This set list,” I said lamely.
“No way is it the set list.” Julian gave me a curious look. “But let’s start with that.” Julian hopped up on one of the sinks and turned it into a chair. “What do you say we do something different for a change. Open with ‘Yesterday.’ A nice slow song. Which means the audience will have all this pent-up energy, see? So when we hit ’em with ‘He Loves You,’ it’s gonna knock ’em right out’a their seats.”
I liked that idea, so I wrote down those two songs. “Great. What next?”
Julian took a moment before answering. “I think we should do another song from Meet the Caverns! ‘Eight Days a Week’ maybe, then introduce one from our next CD. Just to tease ’em, you know?”
“The next CD?”
I must have looked a bit perplexed and concerned when Julian mentioned the next CD, because he gave me another curious look.
“The next CD! Of course! Sure!” I said this way too enthusiastically, so I concentrated on my set list to avoid Julian’s suspicious scrutiny. After adding “Eight Days a Week” to the list, I asked, as casually as possible, “Which song do you think we should do?” That’s what had thrown me off when Julian suggested that we play a song from our next CD. The Caverns Web site hadn’t listed any of the songs, so I didn’t have a clue what to put down.