Chart Topper

by D. M. Paige

  “No, you sound like someone who loves what you do. I still don’t think I could ever do it.”

  “Look, I’m thrilled to take your gorgeous songs as long as you are giving them away. But one day that big voice of yours is going to want to get out, and it’s going to be amazing.”

  I shook my head and said, “No way.”

  But I was saying it to Pippa. My songwriting partner. Some small part of me wondered: if I could do this, what else could I do?

  TWENTY-ONE

  “You broke my star. I expect you to fix her,” J. T. said, leaning back in his chair. He was staring at the memory card that I had brought in from the last night’s session with Pippa.

  “She’s a person. I can’t just change her mind. She’s pretty certain about the direction she wants to go in.” I pointed at the memory card. “If you just listen. Then maybe.”

  “I don’t need to listen. I need you to fix her.” He repeated it like she was a thing and not a person.

  “You did it once. Do it again. You put all that crap in her head. About honesty and being the real her. The world loves the fake her. The real her will never sell. The real her is a boring little brat with nothing to say.”

  Did Pippa know that J. T. talked about her like that? I knew now more than ever that the music business was a business. But wasn’t there room for Pippa to grow in it?

  I gulped hard. Trying to think of the right thing to say. Knowing that the more that I talked, the angrier he seemed to get.

  “You ever watch those animal shows on the Animal Channel?”

  “No?” I said, not sure where this was going.

  “Well, they have a show that’s all about babies that have lost their moms and end up mistaking some other creature for their parent. Like dogs raising baby lions or cats raising baby chicks. The thing is, Pippa is kind of like that.”

  “A baby lion?”

  “She’s spent the last three years following all my advice. Now, for some reason, she’s following yours. I just need you to lead her in the right direction. And if you don’t, you can kiss your deal here goodbye.”

  On the desk there was a really official-looking contract with my name on it.

  I thought of all the arguments against picking it up—my pride, Pippa’s trust—but the arguments for it won out. Money for school. Money for Mom. Maybe even a future in this business. It was just one song, right? I could do this.

  He pushed it in my direction. I picked it up and headed out of the office.

  TWENTY-TWO

  I met Paloma for dinner. She was chattering on and on about another successful day at the fashion mag. She seemd to have it all figured out, while I was screwing up on a daily basis. She saw my work drama differently than I did.

  “You’re kidding, right? Your first week totally beat my first week. You are practically BFFs with an icon.”

  I didn’t know if Pippa qualified as an icon, and we certainly weren’t BFFs. but it was good talking to Paloma. She was totally wrong, but at least she was on my side.

  I hadn’t told my mom about the possibility of the song yet. She would have told me not to dream too big. I wanted to hold onto dreaming at least a little while longer. I put the contract in an envelope for her, but I couldn’t bring myself to send it. (I was still a minor, so of course my mom had to sign it too.)

  I texted Mercedes about everything. She loved Pippa too. But she loved me more.

  Her text read:

  Take the contract, Pippa can find her artistic freedom after you have a record deal. Don’t overthink.

  TWENTY-THREE

  The next night Pippa wanted to work at the restaurant in her hotel. When I arrived I was stunned to find that no one else was there. She’d rented the whole place out. When I got to the café, Pippa walked in, smiling broadly. She looked excited. “So I made some changes. I worked on the bridge. I think you’ll like it. But if you don’t, we can change it back.”

  She looked so incredibly excited about the song. She handed me some sheet music with our new lyrics written on it. I felt even worse about trying to change it back.

  I reminded myself that I didn’t owe Pippa anything. So what if she didn’t have complete artistic freedom? She had millions of fans and millions of dollars to help her get over it.

  “Listen.” She began strumming the guitar and singing my song.

  And it did sound good. It was complicated and beautiful and it left me speechless. Could I really try and undo that? It didn’t feel right.

  “I think it’s great,” I said with a smile that I didn’t feel. “But maybe we should try it another way. Just to see what else we like.”

  Pippa’s face shifted with confusion—then she brightened.

  “Sure, if you think so. I thought we had it down. But I trust you completely.”

  I felt the word trust hit me somewhere in my chest. She trusted me. And right now, I wasn’t entirely sure she should have.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  The next morning, after an almost all-nighter with Pippa, I went to see J. T. with a copy of the song that we had now rewritten to his specifications. I felt sick looking at all the changes. J. T. was wearing a half-finished blue suit, and an old man was circling him, holding a fistful of pins. J. T. was getting fitted for the Blue Party. The proceeds of the party would go to music education. Pippa would debut her latest track there.

  “Harmon’s one of our biggest donors,” J. T. said.

  I wondered if he’d actually be there.

  Malik looked at my face as if he could read what I was thinking. “Harmon’s checks always show, but he never does.”

  “Oh, too bad.”

  I didn’t know what I would say to the mysterious Harmon Holt, who had changed my life. “Thank you” didn’t seem big enough. I tuned back to J. T., who was looking at me again.

  “Did you do it? Is she ready?” he demanded, now studying the seams of his shiny blue jacket.

  “She’s on board with the direction you asked for,” I said, feeling super guilty.

  “Good girl,” he said. His smile made me feel that much worse.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  “Close,” Paloma demanded. But I kept my eyes open and shook my head when she picked up a little pot of blue eye shadow. I wasn’t wearing that.

  She was giving me a mini makeover with the free makeup she’d gotten from “The Closet” at her magazine gig.

  “Trust me,” she said.

  I nodded, but my mind went back to Pippa and the song. “Pippa trusted me, and I totally lied to her,” I blurted.

  “You can’t make an enemy of J. T. Lane. He’s like a god in the music industry. That would be like me crossing Anna Wintour.”

  I blinked up at her. “Who’s that?”

  “She’s like the goddess of fashion. Everyone who’s anyone listens to her. And if you don’t, you’re no one. It sounds like J. T. holds the same place in the music world. You don’t want to be no one, do you?”

  “But the song …”

  “It’s one song. When you’re big and famous, you can write what you want. But this is your ticket. This could be your first shot. So suck it up and do it the way that he wants. People would kill for a chance like this. Don’t blow it.”

  “But what about what Pippa wants? She’s already big and famous, and she’s still not doing what she wants.”

  She shrugged, not having an answer for that.

  She held up the little pot of blue shadow again.

  I closed my eyes, giving in to her choice for me. But was I going to give in to J. T.’s?

  TWENTY-SIX

  The party was big. And loud. I didn’t have anything blue, so Pippa insisted on loaning me something. It was shorter and sparklier than anything I would have picked out for myself ever. But it was blue.

  There was a swimming pool in the middle of the room with candles and blue lanterns floating on its surface. It was pretty.

  There was a stage set up at the other end of the room.

  I fou
nd Pippa in the room behind it, putting the finishing touches on her blue mermaid costume. The stage was going to float over the pool in the middle of the number. She looked amazing. Ridiculous, but amazing. So much for our simple real-girl song. My song was going to be a full-on spectacle, complete with dancers and a fill orchestra.

  “You look so beautiful,” I said.

  “You too. The dress suits you. Now if you’d only try one of my wigs …” I patted down my own blunt cut. I liked still looking a little like me.

  She frowned at herself in the full-length mirror of her dressing room. “You sure it’s not too much? It’s a long way from what we started with.”

  I smiled back, almost tearing up. “It’s great. You’re still you, Pippa. Only Pippa-fied.” She laughed and tried to move her tail.

  “It’s funny, I’m never nervous. But I’m nervous now. It feels good to be nervous, you know?” Pippa said, looking out at the crowd.

  “I’m always nervous.”

  “You shouldn’t be. You’re not the one who’s going to be singing.”

  She started doing her vocal exercises, stretching out her mouth and making ­clucking noises. She waved me away as if she needed ­privacy.

  When I walked back out into the party, I saw someone I wasn’t expecting.

  It was James, Harmon Holt’s assistant, in the flesh, standing near the stage.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked.

  “Since I missed our meet-and-greet, I thought I’d drop in and drop Harmon’s check off in person.”

  “Is he here?” I asked, scanning the crowd.

  He shook his head.

  “I still can’t believe I’m here,” I said.

  “Well, I hear that you’re doing amazing. A songwriting credit? I know I’m not supposed to say this, but that’s probably one for the record books. And our interns have done some pretty amazing things. Just between you and me, this puts you in really good standing for a scholarship. You know Mr. Holt likes to grant those too, right?”

  I couldn’t breathe for second. I was maybe getting even further rewarded for doing the wrong thing.

  “You okay?”

  “I’m great,” I said, but my voice sounded shaky.

  “You look a little green,” he assessed.

  “I’m fine. It’s just a lot to take in.”

  “Well, keep up the good work. I’ll see you at the after-party.” He squeezed my hand and began to move off.

  “James?” I stopped him.

  “Yes?” He turned around, his incredibly pretty profile turning back to me.

  “What does Harmon Holt think about … compromise in business? You, know to get what you really want.”

  James paused, as if he was thinking of the right thing to say—or at least what his boss would say. “Good question. I guess Harmon would say that compromise can be a good thing, a necessary thing, just so long you don’t compromise yourself.”

  With that he disappeared into the crowd.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  When I got to the dressing room, she wasn’t there, but Malik was.

  “Where is she?” I asked Malik.

  “She’s in the bathroom. I was checking on her. What are you doing?” he asked, frowning a little like he could read what I was about to do.

  “Remember how you said that you were looking for someone who had something to say? How that’s what you thought the music world was missing? Well, if you believe that, we can’t stop Pippa from saying what she wants to say, can we?”

  I knew it wasn’t just my career on the line. It was Malik’s, too. I had to get to her before the show started. But I needed his permission first. He nodded understanding and stepped back out into the party.

  A few seconds later, Pippa waddled into the dressing room with the aid of her assistant. She waved her away.

  “Remind me to give her a bonus for that.” She laughed at her own joke and then trained her brown eyes on me. “What is it?” She smiled up at me. Her white chiffon dress draped across one shoulder. “What do you think?”

  She was asking about the outfit, but I was thinking about the song. “I think you should sing it the original way. The way we wrote it.”

  Her pretty face looked confused. “You said this version was better.”

  “Do you think it’s better?” I asked, meeting her eyes.

  “No, but you said …”

  “There’s no point doing it unless you’re loving it, right?”

  “Pippa-fied,” she said with a smile.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Fifteen minutes later, Pippa reemerged from her dressing room dressed as herself. Not in the mermaid costume. Not in her wig. No heels. No tail in sight. No orchestra. No dancers. She was wearing a white slip that skimmed her thin, long body, and she was holding her guitar—the beat-up one, not the bedazzled one that she usully used. She stepped onto the stage.

  The crowd gasped, and so did I. James was about to exit, but he paused at the door and smiled at me.

  Just then the real Pippa began to sing. Pippa stood onstage and sang the song our way.

  I know all the faces in the room

  They’re expecting the same old tune.

  They think they know me, too,

  They’ve seen all my moves, they’ve heard it all before.

  But they don’t know the real me.

  It’s not their fault they’ve only seen the me that I want them to see.

  Her voice filled the room. And the reaction was mixed. Some people fell instantly in love with it—other people looked a little confused. J. T. looked downright mad.

  Pippa looked happy, like she was completely unaware of the mixed reaction of the crowd. When she finished the song, she launched into a compilation of her old hits. The crowd was completely with her this time.

  I listened to Malik and J. T. and the other execs talking a few paces away.

  “It’s fine. We can contain it,” one of the other suits said.

  J. T. shook his head.

  “Did we take everyone’s cell phone before we started this thing?”

  Malik shook his head. “We’d lose half the crowd before they would give up their iPhones.”

  “Then there’s no way that it isn’t posted right now,” said J. T.

  I pulled out my phone and did a search. J. T. was right. It was all over the Web. Now we just had to wait and see what the rest of the world thought of the new Pippa.

  J. T. pulled Malik over to the bar. I couldn’t hear them, but J. T. was pointing at Malik, and it didn’t look like he was accusing him of getting decaf. I started looking up bus fares on my phone.

  TWENTY-NINE

  Malik finally broke free and found me.

  “So I’m fired, right?” I asked for probably the third time since I got to Bonified.

  “No, J. T. wants you to stay,” he said, but he didn’t give me his usual, it-will-all-be-okay expression. He looked worried. He had tied himself to me when he asked to sign me. I hoped that when I dropped like a stone, I wouldn’t drag him down and out with me.

  “Why? I screwed everything up.”

  “Pippa likes you. He wants you to see this through with her.”

  “But why?”

  “He’s giving you the opportunity to fix this,” he said quietly.

  “He still wants me to change her mind.”

  He nodded. “But he’s taking steps to stop it himself.”

  THIRTY

  The next day, J. T. was talking to Pippa in a really quiet, really nice voice. The kind he only used with talent, and that he never used with me. We were all back at Bonified’s offices after the after-party. “So you gave it a shot. You tried your own way. It clearly didn’t work. And that’s fine. We just give them more of what they want, and it will all be forgotten.”

  J. T. was holding a blog post about last night’s performance. The headline was “Pippa Misfires: Teen Dream Turns in Nightmare Performance at Blue Party.”

  Pippa pushed the iPad aside. Was she
in denial, or did she just not care? My own heart sank for her and for myself. So much for college money or hearing my song on the radio or seeing the look on Michelle’s face at school when she found out about it.

  “What if I don’t want to forget?” Pippa said quietly.

  “Excuse me?” J. T. demanded, a look of confusion replacing his usual smirk.

  “I liked singing that song. I had more fun up there than I’ve had in years. And I want to do it again. And again. My fans might not have been with me, but they just need a minute to catch up. And when they do, they will love it, like they always have.”

  J. T. shook his head.

  “This is your career, Pippa. You only have a minute. And if you disappoint them now, they will be on to the next thing. You have a tiny window of being this hot. And you cannot let it pass. You have to make all that you can while you can.”

  She looked at me to back her up.

  But I didn’t say anything. Then J. T. nailed me with a look.

  I croaked, “I don’t want you to lose what you have. I know how hard you worked to get there. I can’t take that kind of responsibility. I would never forgive myself.”

  Pippa’s eyes flashed with anger and then softened with hurt. “You don’t have faith in me either.”

  “It’s not that,” I protested. But it was too late.

  “Either you do or you don’t,” she said.

  “You have so much at stake.” I could feel tears prickling, but I willed them to stop. I wouldn’t cry in front of J. T.

  Pippa, looking more hurt than I thought she was capable of being, didn’t throw a tantrum. She got quiet. Really quiet. She picked up her phone and walked out of the room.