The first one had seemed dark and frightening. This one definitely didn't. The font wasn't the same, and the whole feel of it was different.
"Kind of pretty, isn't it?"
I looked up at Cindy and smiled. "It is."
"Any idea who sent it?"
I shook my head.
"Well, maybe you should keep it. A nice pick-me-up when you need one."
"Yeah. I think I will." An anonymous supporter. Kind of nice, after all the anonymous detractors commenting on my pictures online.
Chapter Thirteen
Three days before my first concert as Misty Will, Jo called me into her office. "So, is it how you thought it would be?" She waved a hand. "All this, I mean?"
I smiled. "I didn't think about it. But if I had, I definitely wouldn't have thought I'd be this tired. How do people do this year after year?"
"I feel sure you'll find out. We won't do weekly songs after your tour, maybe one a month, but I think you'll be doing them for a good long time. I'm thrilled with you, Misty, I really am."
Only Cindy and Tim still called me Amy, and Cindy only did it when Jo wasn't around. I felt weird about it but I understood. Nobody wanted to use my real name at the wrong time. "I'm so glad. I'm thrilled too. And looking forward to the tour. Everything's great." Except my tense relationship with Jason, who I barely saw, but I kept that to myself. Maybe after the tour we'd be able to pull ourselves back together.
"Well, this might make things even better." She pushed an envelope across the table.
The check inside had more zeros than I'd ever expected to see in one payment. "Two hundred thousand?"
She nodded. "I took the apartment rent out, so this is all yours. But don't worry, there's more to come."
I laughed. "I wasn't worried, trust me. I've never had this kind of money."
"It's just the beginning. You'll see more at the start of each month." She shook her finger at me. "Spend it wisely, okay? Or better yet, don't spend it. The best thing I did during my career was saving most of what I made. That's the only reason I was able to start the label."
I nodded. I'd be doing much the same, with the center. I owed her three more songs and the tour, and then I'd quit and get on with my real life.
"Good girl. Now get out of here and make more music."
I got out, but I didn't make music. Instead, I found myself an online social work course, an introduction to running a non-profit organization, and signed up. Two hundred grand, while great, wasn't enough to get the center ready. But I could certainly work on getting myself ready for the center.
I'd take the course on tour with me, and come back with even more money and finally some idea of how to make the dream of the center come true.
Chapter Fourteen
I paced backstage, too excited to sit. Jez stood in Steven's arms laughing at me but I stuck out my tongue at her and kept pacing. All the preparation, the late nights and achingly early mornings of the last few weeks, all worth it now: ten thousand people sat out there waiting for me.
Well, waiting for Angel, in a lot of cases. But not all. Cindy kept an eye on the most active gossip and music sites, and a sizable number of people had said they were really coming to see me though they wanted to see Angel too. A few even planned to leave after my show instead of "bothering with that Angel chick". Cindy and I had giggled about this, but had decided it was best not to mention it to Angel.
I hadn't had a chance to mention it even if I'd wanted to, since Angel had been doing interviews most of the day. I'd done a few but then I'd been brought to the auditorium for a sound check and because Jo wanted me to run my first song on stage, with my dancers and everything, to make me more comfortable for the evening's performance.
She clearly thought I was nervous, which was sweet. I didn't know how to tell her I was wildly excited but not scared at all. I had loved my CD launch party, and this was like a million of those rolled into one. The afternoon's dry run had gone perfectly and I'd enjoyed it, but doing it for the full audience? I couldn't wait.
An assistant emerged from the hallway that led to the dressing rooms. Mine was small but perfectly comfortable. I hadn't seen Angel's but Cindy had told me that she demanded, and got, pure white drapes over all the furniture, white roses in every room including the bathroom, and only fine white china mugs and dishes.
Jo had asked for my requests two weeks ago, and I'd giggled for a bit at the thought of demanding bowls of pink M&Ms or something like that before coming up with, "I guess I'd rather have only diet pop. The real stuff is too sweet. Oh, and honey and hot water. And some of those crackers I like from the vending machine if they can get them?" She'd just smiled at me and said, "You'll be a breath of fresh air to the staff at the venues."
The assistant gave me a sweet but tired smile. "I'm going to Starbucks, Misty. Need a snack or anything for after your show?"
As she'd recently arrived from Starbucks with Angel's vanilla latte, I raised my eyebrows. "Weren't you just there?"
"There's cream in the drink, apparently. I watched them make it and it's all skim milk, but I'm told that I didn't watch and I have to go back and watch again."
Jez laughed. "God, that girl."
The assistant smiled. "I say nothing. That's why I still have my job. So, Misty?"
"I'm good, thanks."
She headed off, and I wondered what Angel got out of throwing her attitude around like that. The few times I'd seen her after our first meeting she'd been friendly if condescending, and she gave off such a sweet impression in her interviews, but she was far more sour with anyone she considered her inferior. That group included all of the makeup artists and dressers and assistants, Tim, and Jez who'd told me in confidence that she'd flat-out refused to play for Angel any more after one too many times of being shouted at for supposed incompetence.
Angel was a star without being a jerk, so why did she choose to be one?
"Two minutes," Leah said, coming at me with powder puffs and makeup brushes. "Stand still while I touch you up."
"Good luck with that," Jez said, but I did manage to keep my feet in one spot so Leah could make sure Misty had enough cheek contouring and eye liner to be seen from the back row of seats.
"How do I look?"
She held up a mirror. The vibrant purple eye makeup and hot pink lipstick could probably be seen from space, never mind the back row, and my eyes had the same feverish sparkle they'd had during my launch party.
"You look like Misty," Leah said, then gave me a quick hug without ruffling my carefully arranged pink wig. "You are Misty. Go get 'em."
Unexpectedly, my eyes filled with tears. All of these people, working to make sure I could do this show. Tim, Leah, Jez and Steven and the other musicians, Roberto and Jacques and the flunkies who'd actually made my costumes to their directions, even the backstage staff and the assistants... so many people supporting me. Supporting Misty.
It wasn't fear, exactly, but a solemn feeling overcame me. How many singers had slaved for years for a chance like this? It had just dropped into my lap. I didn't deserve it. Could I handle it?
Jez took me by the shoulders. "Hey. Where'd you go?"
I swallowed hard and made myself smile. "It suddenly feels real."
She patted my shoulder. "You're the real thing, baby. And they're going to know it in just a few seconds."
"Fifteen seconds," the backstage manager called, and Jez and I laughed. I grabbed her in a hug and she squeezed me tight and said into my ear, "The real thing. Go show them."
Then she and the band headed onto the stage, while Steven and I stood listening to the crowd roaring.
"Remember where you're supposed to be?"
I laughed. "After all those rehearsals? For sure."
The dancers flowed past us at precisely the right moment and the crowd roared again.
Then it was my turn.
The wall of sound that hit me when I stepped onto the stage seemed almost visible, shrieking and cheering and clapping at a
level I'd never heard and never imagined. The blindingly bright stage lights turned the crowd to a faceless sea of pink and white, and while I'd known ten thousand people were quite a group seeing them all spread out before me, screaming for me, nearly stopped me in my tracks.
The wisdom of Steven's endless rehearsals became clear, though, as I moved forward without even realizing I was going to. My body knew exactly where to be and it went to my spot like it was the most natural thing on earth.
By the time I reached the microphone the audience energy was firing me up to an almost unbearable level. I struck the pose we'd rehearsed, and held it although I was shaking with the effort to stay still. When at last the band hit the note that freed me to move, and grab my microphone, my "Hey there, Vegas!" was far more excited than I'd managed in rehearsal.
The crowd shrieked louder in response and I burst out laughing from sheer enthusiasm. "Love you guys," I added, breaking the script without thinking about it, before the band and I launched into the first verse of "Out Loud", and the fans' ecstatic response gave me all the power I needed to tear through my seven songs.
*****
"Damn, girl, seriously." Jez shook her head. "I thought we'd have to scrape you off the light fixtures."
"You still might," I said, and giggled. I'd been giggling constantly since I got off stage, too revved up by the crowd's reaction and the sheer joy of being in front of them to calm down. They'd screamed along with me on "Out Loud" and "Prom Night Promise", and they'd clearly loved the other songs we'd released before the tour and been wildly excited about the two that hadn't officially been released yet. I could have spent the rest of my life on that stage singing for them.
The venue assistant stuck her head in. "Misty, your interviewers are waiting. Is now a good time?"
I, of course, giggled again. "Sure."
She left, and Jez said, "I'm thrilled you liked it that much, but you look stoned. Take a deep breath, okay?"
I didn't want to let go of the energy, but 'Misty Will get high' wasn't the kind of headline I wanted to see. Three deep breaths later, Jez pronounced me "not so much of a druggie" and let the first interviewer in.
For nearly two hours I spoke to a variety of media types, from gossip web sites to the big Vegas newspapers to a high school reporter who was so nervous she burst into tears when she saw me. Once I'd mopped her up, I actually enjoyed her interview more than the others since she didn't just ask the same old questions I'd been hearing from everyone.
When the last interviewer left, I sank onto a couch, suddenly exhausted. I was half-asleep the second my eyes closed, and when I heard my door open I nearly had to pull my eyelids open with my fingers.
"Oh, are you tired?"
Angel stood looming over me, and I struggled to sit up. "A little, yeah. Sounds like your show went well. I could hear the crowd."
She sat gracefully on my couch, narrowly missing my feet. "Yes, I think so. And they sounded fairly happy with you too."
Fairly happy? I'd heard them chanting, "Misty! Misty!" after I went off-stage, and I'd longed to go back out but simply didn't have any more songs even if Angel would have allowed me to take her time. She'd probably heard them too but didn't seem like she wanted to mention it. "I think so. I hope so, anyhow."
"You'll do okay, I think. I wasn't quite sure before but you seem to be able to handle it."
"Thanks," I said, trying not to sound annoyed. Why hadn't she been sure?
"Oh, don't be upset," she said like I'd whined. "It's just, not everyone can do this. I've been aiming for this business for nearly twenty years now. I did my first show in public when I was four, at church, and I've been building my career ever since. It must be strange to start when you're so... well, so much later."
"So old" hung in the air as if she'd actually said it, and I couldn't think of anything to say.
She pushed herself to her feet. "If you need any help, just let me know. I love to see new singers succeed."
I'd believe Tim was a leprechaun before I'd believe that, but I just said, "Thanks."
Thanks for showing me your true colors, which so aren't pure white.
Chapter Fifteen
For the next two weeks, Angel and I and our entourage traveled around the United States. We didn't talk much, she and I, except little casual conversations here and there, but I saw a lot of her and I saw how driven she was. She had to know people were laughing about her dubious level of talent and her claims that she was a real singer not just a half-assed actress, but she never let on. She was absolutely determined to make herself a musical superstar, and as time went on I began to think she'd make it simply because she wouldn't accept the possibility that she couldn't.
If Angel were in my shoes, she'd have six centers running already with more on the way. I hadn't even touched the correspondence course I'd bought to help me prepare to launch one. But I, at least, was enjoying the tour. Angel didn't seem to have any fun at all, unless it was fun carefully planned to enhance her image and give her publicity.
We had one night off, which Angel spent being photographed in various Los Angeles night clubs with a hot and on-the-rise young actor and I spent in my hotel room terrified that I might be getting a cold which would put my participation in the tour at risk. Fortunately all the orange juice I drank and the extra sleep did the trick and I woke up healthy the next day.
But other than that one night, we did a concert every night. Performing the same seven songs over and over, with every aspect of the show so tightly planned and rehearsed there wasn't room for even a drop of creativity, annoyed me when I thought about it during the day, but once it was time to go out and actually do the show nothing else mattered. I loved it. I loved the crowd's energy, somehow the same at every show even though the people who made up that crowd were different, loved the feeling of putting my songs out there and watching them soak them up, loved the audience shouting my name as I left the stage.
And of course, I loved the meteoric rise of my singles up the music charts.
Cindy kept me up-to-date by email and by couriering packages of key letters to my various hotels. She let me know when "Prom Night Promise", which I was gradually beginning to like, hit number two, and I wasn't even a bit disappointed it wasn't number one because "Out Loud" owned that spot. My third song, "Strike It Right," a dance-club favorite about striking the perfect pose on the dance floor, was at number five and my others were slowly climbing as well, but despite the success I still wished I could do my own songs instead of Tim's. I longed to sing something that was all mine.
I happened to mention that off-hand to Jez after the Thursday show, our third-last concert before returning to Toronto to prepare for the Canada Day show on July first, and she said, "Well, write something yourself and I'll polish up the music for you since you can't spare too much time. Then you can record it if Mom approves."
Though Jo had told me not to try writing while on tour, saying I needed to focus instead on my still-developing performance skills, I had written several verses and fragments of songs over the last two weeks, jotting them down when they occurred to me. So that night, after the interviews were done and I'd been returned to my hotel suite by a team of security guards, I set to work.
Once I started, I couldn't stop. The first fragment I picked up didn't pan out, but the next few did and soon I had a full song with a rough version of the melody ready for Jez to flesh out for me. Then another. Halfway through the next I glanced at my computer's clock and was shocked to realize I'd been at it nearly four hours. I had a television appearance the next day and should have been sound asleep all that time. I should also have been exhausted, after a busy day of interviews and sound checks and then the concert, but instead I was still buzzing with a kind of energy I hadn't felt for a while. The crowds gave me energy but they also took it from me; writing songs gave me a vibrant glow I'd never felt from anything else.
I kept going even though the third song quickly became uncooperative. I'd been thinking a lo
t about the whole 'is Misty a fatso or anorexic?' thing the media had been doing with me, and I couldn't stand it. My fans were young girls, and watching me being torn apart for the maybe one pound Marcus hadn't yet been able to make me shed couldn't be good for them. The third song was about that, about being in your body and not letting someone else's criticisms push you out of it, but I couldn't get the last line to work.
I wanted to say something about it not mattering if you were thin or fat, but I didn't want to use those words and no others were coming to my mind. Getting some sleep and then working on it in the morning might have been the wiser plan but I just wanted to make it happen. I tried and tried, then took a break when the first wave of frustration hit. Since I hadn't yet delved into the envelope Cindy had sent me, I cracked it open for a distraction.
A few letters from fans, since we'd decided that I'd answer a couple a week and she'd send form letters and pictures back to the rest.
A note from Tim saying he'd written three new songs I might like, and the lyrics to said songs. I skimmed them and did like them: still light but with more depth than 'find the perfect dance pose and everything will be great'. Tim understood what I wanted in my songs and he was writing great ones now, writing them just for me instead of whichever singer ended up with them. I wanted to do my own but his were getting better all the time.
And another fax.
Everyone's watching to see how you do. But don't forget what really matters to you.
I drummed my fingers on the desk. Cindy had asked around but nobody had admitted to sending the first sweet fax. Or to the very first fax, the vaguely threatening one, although that wasn't a surprise. This one, though, definitely went with the other sweet one. Someone was supporting me.
What really mattered to me?
I went back to my song and I stayed with it until, as the sun began to come up, I found the last line.
"What you weigh doesn't matter at all. It's what you do that will make you a star."
Toronto Collection Volume 2 (Toronto Series #6-9) Page 8