Starry-Eyed

by Ted Michael

  “Plus,” he continues, “I had a bunch of homework I needed to get done by today, or Mrs. Traywick would have given me a hard time for sure. You know how she is.”

  Mrs. Traywick? Mrs. Traywick? My mind races trying to figure out who this Mrs. Traywick is. Don’t blow this, dummy. Act fast.

  “I see you’re playing the part of brownnoser today,” Tad says before I open my mouth. He picks up a stack of papers from the counter and holds them up for me to see. It’s a math exam with Destiny’s name written on it. On one corner, in red pen, is a giant A. There’s a little note stuck to the other corner. Printed on top of it, in bold letters, is: FROM THE DESK OF MRS. DAPHNE TRAYWICK, EDUCATIONAL TUTOR. Of course! School.

  “I know, she’s so annoying.” I try my best to make an A in math look cool.

  “Well, I mean, she’s just doing her job, Destiny. Cut her some slack; what she does is important. You should appreciate it, not give her a hard time.”

  What just happened? Tad Preston just gave me a lecture on gratitude and how much I should love learning. What would Destiny do? I decide to return his serve with some Sparrow sass.

  “Okay, Einstein. Sorry,” I say, though it doesn’t sound like much of an apology. “You’re always so busy getting your photograph taken with some bimbo; I guess I just didn’t realize that you had time for school.”

  “You know I’m not into all that superficial stuff, Destiny. We’ve talked about this. It’s one of the reasons we get along.”

  He looks at me strangely. “The photo-ops, the parties, the paparazzi . . . it’s all part of the job, but it’s not me. I’m here to work, not to have fun.” Tad puts Destiny’s test back on the counter. “Being famous is just a sometimes nice and sometimes nasty side effect. I’m just a kid with chores and homework and parents like every other kid. Only I get to be in movies too. I thought you felt the same way that I did, but I guess you don’t.”

  “But Tad, I really—”

  He holds up his hand. “The sooner you learn that, the better off you’ll be.”

  Tad turns to walk out the dressing room door. I need to save this. This day is supposed to be fun, exciting—my dream come true. I can’t spend the whole day with Tad mad at me.

  “Listen.” I rush up to Tad and place a hand on his shoulder. He stops at the doorframe. “You’re right.” I put my head down to the ground and make a sniffling sound with my nose. “I guess I was just a little nervous about shooting today, and I took it out on you.” I look up with my eyes, keeping my head pointed toward the ground. “Forgive me?”

  He nods. “It’s okay. We all have bad days, right?”

  “Yeah, you’re right,” I say in the most pathetic voice I can muster. “Thanks for understanding.”

  Tad holds out his arms. Oh my God, he’s going to hug me. I freeze. Tad wraps his tan, toned arms around me and squeezes. I feel like a gooey batch of cookies that have just been taken out of the oven.

  “Now,” Tad says with a slight whisper in my ear. Shivers run down my whole body. “Are you ready for your big song today?”

  Did I just hallucinate? I need Tad to repeat that. “What do you mean?” I chuckle, trying to act as nonchalant as possible.

  Tad releases his bear hug and points to the script sitting on the makeup counter. Next to it, I see pages of musical notes and a bold, black title at the top that reads, YOUR LOVE IS LIKE A TIDAL WAVE.

  Tad’s eyes widen. “Everyone on set is really looking forward to shooting this scene today. I mean, it’s your singing debut! Aren’t you excited? I’d be freaking out.”

  I press my hand to my forehead. Freaking out doesn’t begin to describe how I’m feeling.

  “Oh?” I say. “Is that today? I thought we were shooting this scene tomorrow. . . . I must have my dates mixed up.”

  Tad gives me a quizzical look. “But we’ve been talking about this song for a week already. I know you’re nervous but—”

  “It’s probably Stacy’s fault.” I try to think of how I’m going to get out of this one. “I’m sure they can record the actual track some other time, and we can shoot a different scene today.”

  “Oh, I get it.” Tad flashes his pearly white smile. “You’re messing with me. Good one. As if you didn’t know that we’re doing the song live.”

  Live?

  Tad checks his watch. “I think the band is warming up right now, actually. Wanna go have a listen?”

  I pull the fabric-backed chair with Destiny’s name on it out from under the makeup counter and sit. I begin flipping through the music to “Your Love Is Like a Tidal Wave.”

  I wave Tad off with my hand. “Um, no, thanks. I need some time here alone.” I stare at all the music notes and lyrics and feel myself start to go dizzy. “Please shut the door on your way out.”

  “You’ll be great,” Tad says.

  I hear the door close.

  Something has gone horribly wrong. Why would Destiny pretend to do me a favor by letting us trade places for a day and not tell me I was standing in on such an important day in her career? A big movie with her first singing role—surely that was a huge deal, something she’d be super excited about.

  Unless . . .

  She can’t actually sing.

  I think back to a few hours earlier, when we met in the bathroom. She heard me singing and even told me how much she liked my voice. I’ve been duped! Destiny only wanted to trade places with me so she could get out of singing live and embarrassing herself on set today.

  My first instinct is to give up. Go home.

  For a second, I think about calling my dad and explaining the situation. Begging for him to pick me up.

  No. A few hours ago I was sitting in Dad’s conference room wishing I was some big movie star. Well, I got my wish. Maybe it was time to see firsthand what I had been wishing for all along. If I can’t handle it now, then I probably can’t handle it at all. No one knows it’s me, Monica

  Perlstein, ordinary girl from PS 3. I have to do well for Destiny. I have to do well for myself.

  I pick up the packet of music, and something stuck between the pages falls to the floor. It’s a CD. There’s a stereo that’s sitting silently on an end table next to the sofa. I pop the CD into the machine, and with the touch of a button the stereo begins playing. It’s the demo recording of the song Destiny is meant to sing today, so she can practice, I guess.

  I flip through the music, following along. I start to hum. Then I sing in a soft whisper just to get some of the notes and melody down. The words are easy enough, and decently catchy.

  Can I pull this off? Can I really be Destiny Sparrow for a day?

  There is only one way to find out.

  INT.—GLOBALPIC STUDIOS, STUDIO 1A—AFTERNOON

  The soundstage is huge and full of sand.

  Within this giant room they have replicated a beach, complete with water, umbrellas, lounge chairs, and multicolored beach balls. Thirty or so extras—tan, pretty people in bikinis and board shorts—mill around eating cookies from the craft services table and drinking Diet Coke.

  This is it, I think to myself. A real movie set.

  I stand, surrounded by the team assigned to Destiny for the day: Stacy, a bodyguard, a production assistant whose sole job is to bring me anything I ask for when I ask for it, another PA just to hold my bottle of water, and a wardrobe stylist with a lint brush permanently attached to her hand.

  I’m furiously going over song lyrics, moving my mouth and bopping my head to the beat pulsating through my brain. I probably look like a crazy person.

  I can feel the sweat gathering on my forehead. Jackie, the stylist who has spent the last hour painting my face and blow-drying my hair, blots my forehead with a tissue in a desperate attempt to save her work. I have always wanted to be pampered like this, but I can’t even enjoy it—I’m too nervous about messing up the song. But at least no one has accused me of being a fake Destiny.

  Yet.

  “Destiny, daaaaahling, you look fabulous!” says a
man with a British accent who I’ve never seen before in my life. He’s tall and skinny with a thick goatee on his chin, wearing a black T-shirt, black skinny jeans, black boots, and sunglasses—very Los Angeles.

  I steal a quick glance at the studio ID hanging from the lanyard around his neck. Quincy Dash, Director. He leans in to give me a quick peck on the right cheek and then the left—very British.

  “Are you ready to make love to our ears, my little starlet?” Quincy puts his sunglasses on top of his head either because he wants to get a better look at me or because, well, we’re indoors.

  “We are ready for you,” he continues. “Now take off that robe, get some sand between your toes, find your light, and sing your heart out!” He throws his hands in the air dramatically. “Ready on the set!” Quincy yells, making his way back to a row of cameras.

  “Break a leg,” Stacy says, coming behind me and removing my robe. As if having to sing a brand-new song in a huge movie surrounded by a bunch of strangers wasn’t bad enough, I have to do it wearing a bathing suit. This couldn’t get much more strange and surreal.

  “Places, please!” Quincy barks.

  I have no idea where I’m going. Then I spot Tad’s familiar face.

  He’s standing on the set, in the center of the action, flashing his perfect smile at me. He motions me over with his hand. He’s wearing a pair of bright red swimming trunks and a red T-shirt with the sleeves cut off. LIFEGUARD is printed on the front.

  He can give me CPR anytime. Then I think, Concentrate!

  “You okay?” Tad says. “You look a little pale.”

  “I’m fine. Some bad tuna for lunch, I think.” I give my stomach a little pat with my hand. “I totes forgot where we’re standing for this scene.”

  “Destinyyyyyyyy,” Quincy says. “I heard that.” He points above my head. I look up to see a microphone hanging above me. Caught.

  “We’re good!” Tad shouts. I look at him. “Just follow my lead,” he says softly, giving me a wink. “Don’t worry about the cameras or what anyone else on set thinks. I know you can do this.”

  Even though he is encouraging Destiny, not me, his words give me the bit of confidence that I need. I know what I have to do. There’s no more pretending I’m famous. This isn’t about being famous at all—this is about doing my job. Destiny’s job. None of the people in this giant room really care that I’m famous; they only care that I finish my work so we can all go home for the night.

  I close my eyes and really concentrate. Is there more to being a star than parties and pictures and having fun? Was Dad right? Is becoming an overnight sensation just a fairy tale? Is this going to take some work? I think about what it means to be an actor. I think about what it means to be a singer. I know the words. I know the music. I’ve got Tad to make sure I know where I’m going. I’m going to be all right.

  I think.

  “Marvelous!” Quincy shouts. “Quiet on the set! Roll playback!”

  The familiar melody of the song I’ve been practicing all afternoon blares in the background. Out of the corner of my eye, I see extras start to dance and move to the music.

  Tad grabs my hand and pulls me toward a row of beach chairs. He stands behind me and wraps his arms around my waist.

  “Smile,” he whispers. So I do, staring at the wall ahead, imagining it’s some beautiful ocean view—the kind meant solely for postcards and the covers of magazines.

  “And. . . action!”

  INT.—LA TRANSIT BUS—EVENING

  I manage to slip out of the studio unrecognized wearing an old sweatshirt and a brown, floppy hat I found in Destiny’s dressing room. My face is wiped clean of all the makeup that had been applied that afternoon. Not a trace of celebrity on me anywhere. No more limousine, no more paparazzi to greet me at the front door.

  I’m Monica Perlstein again.

  I catch the express bus from nearby the studio to Beverly Hills. I sit staring vacantly out the window. It’s hard to take it all in. It’s the sort of day that people only have in the movies.

  I couldn’t have asked for my time at the studio to have gone any better. Sure, we had to start over a few times because I forgot the words. And sure I was nervous and freaking out the whole afternoon, but in the end, it all turned out okay. I think back to being surrounded by a wave of well-wishers after we finally finished filming the musical number. People I had never met or seen before in my whole life congratulating me on a great job.

  “Who knew you could sing like that?” Quincy asked me. “I mean, darling, I wasn’t even sure we were going to make it through today. I guess we can stop looking for a vocal double for you now.”

  If I were actually Destiny, that comment would’ve really offended me, but as it turns out, I was the vocal double, more or less, and I’d performed beautifully. I let the comment pass with a smile and a hug. No harm done.

  I hop off the bus at my street corner. I see Dad’s car in the driveway and the lights on in the living room. Luckily I texted him earlier saying that I would be studying at a friend’s house all afternoon.

  Destiny and I promised each other never to tell anyone about the switch we had made. I won’t have to tell Dad about the incredible yet exhausting afternoon and evening I’ve had. I don’t think that he would believe it anyway.

  INT.—PERLSTEIN HOME—EVENING

  “Hi, sweetie!” Dad says the moment I open the front door. “In the kitchen.”

  I take off my shoes and throw them into the closet just inside the door. Then I drop my book bag on the floor and head into the kitchen. Dad is sitting at the table, alternating between reading a script and watching the evening news. The smell of Chinese food fills the house; a dirty plate and an empty plastic container sit on the kitchen table.

  “There’s dinner for you in the fridge,” Dad says, looking up from his script. “How was the rest of your afternoon? You look exhausted.”

  “Big math exam tomorrow. We were cramming for hours.”

  He squints. “Is that what you were wearing earlier?”

  I stare down at my clothes. I’d forgotten that Destiny and I switched clothes earlier today. I wonder if I’ll ever get the skinny jeans and new top back from her. Surely this old sweatshirt and baseball cap weren’t a fair trade.

  “It was dumb, really. I spilled a whole glass of diet soda on myself at Stephanie’s house—a freak studying accident!” I laugh. “So she let me borrow this.”

  “Klutz.” Dad chuckles and shakes his head. “I left you an egg roll in the microwave.” He motions to the kitchen counter.

  “Dad, listen, I’ve been thinking.” I spoon some General Tso’s chicken onto a plate. “What would you think about my signing up for drama club at school and maybe taking acting lessons? Is there someone you could recommend for me to go study with?”

  Dad puts the script down on the table, picks up the remote control, and mutes the television. “Seriously?” He takes the reading glasses from his nose and slips them into his shirt pocket. “Earlier you were only interested in a quick ascension to stardom. Now you’re willing to put some work into it?”

  I think of my conversation with Tad, how he said that he was a normal kid—that acting was a privilege. Then I think of what it felt like to be on set, to be performing in front of a camera. To have Quincy tell me that I did a great job.

  I can feel a smile begin to creep across my face. “I know, I know.” I sit down across from him. “Sometimes I do listen when you talk to me, you know?”

  “So, that’s it? That’s all it took?” he asks, with a slightly vexed look.

  “I think I’ve been concentrating too much on magazines and blogs lately, and not enough time thinking about what I really want to do with my life. It’s not just about getting your picture taken and going to fancy parties. Acting and singing is hard work. It takes discipline.”

  “You realize, of course, that’s what I’ve been saying to you all along, right?” Dad grins from ear to ear.

  “Of course.” I t
ake a bite of chicken. “Sometimes it just takes a little time out in the real world to make you come to your senses.”

  Dad leans back into his chair. “Well, if this is what happens after you spend an afternoon at Stephanie’s, you should see her more often!”

  “It’s not Stephanie. I think it’s more like fate. Or . . . destiny.”

  Yeah . Destiny.

  . . . . .

  I never saw Destiny again after that day.

  Well, that’s not exactly true—I did see her, in the movies.

  I went to Tidal Wave by myself one afternoon after school. I sat in that dark theater, waiting to see myself onscreen. Would I look any different in my scene than Destiny did in all the others? My stomach tied in knots waiting for that moment. Fortunately or unfortunately, that moment never came. My scene got cut.

  I would read later, in an interview that Destiny and Tad gave, that it was cut for time so the movie wouldn’t be so long. Quincy also told some big magazine that the musical number was the absolute best part of the movie and that everyone was sad when they decided it had to go. I cut out that article and pinned it to the bulletin board above my desk.

  I never saw myself onscreen, and none of those photos taken outside the studio that afternoon made their way into a magazine. I wasn’t really a star. That was okay with me, though. My favorite memories of that day aren’t of being famous. They’re of being happy.

  And maybe I will be a big, famous actress one day. But if not, I’ll be happy just being me.

  CONTRIBUTOR BIOS

  Clay Aiken has evolved into a versatile and beloved popular entertainer since coming to national attention on the second season of American Idol. In October 2003, he launched his first solo album, Measure of a Man. The record sold three million copies and debuted at number one on the Billboard 200. It was the highest-selling first album for a solo artist in ten years, going double-platinum and netting Aiken an American Music Award. He has released five well-received albums total, selling over six million copies worldwide.