“I’ve got a song.” The lie probably made her nose grow. “It’s going to be a surprise, which is why I’ve kept it under wraps.”
“Tight, tight wraps.” Hudson’s fist flexed. “Not even the producers have heard this.”
However, Greed just guffawed. “You’re as big a liar as your Shoe Girl girlfriend!” The evil laugh bounced off the ceiling and came back to hit Oakley in the face. Reflexively she glanced at her feet, terror-stricken that maybe the old high-tops with neon laces had magically appeared back on her feet, that the Cinderella spell of her boots had worn off, and she was left in rags and with only a pumpkin as transportation.
But no, the boots were still there.
“She wrote it herself.” Hudson was still at her defense. “No one’s heard a word of it. She’s singing it live to an acoustic guitar, which is going to make you look like a pre-fabricated nobody. And I don’t take kindly to my girlfriend being called a liar.”
Was he talking about their version of “Lunch Lady” for her song? Because that was not going to work, and she’d explained that to him in detail. Argh. What was with the one-upping?
“Oh, back down, you little pretty boy. Are you trying to pull a Hudson Oaks resurrected impostor thing? Because you are too tall for that, you boy-band wannabe.”
Oakley and Hudson exchanged a brief glance before Hudson went back to Oakley’s defense, saying, “She’s singing what she wants to, and it’s going to put you in the music hall of shame.”
“Oh, she’s already done that to herself. I saw her audition. I read the comments about Shoe Girl. Even her school chums think she’s a chump.”
Normally, this kind of slam would turn Oakley to a quivering pile of goo, but Hudson was at her side, boots were on her feet, and she was not letting this grimy, skinny wannabe rock star psych her out with his insults.
“I’ll see you on stage.” Staying classy, just like Mom would like, Oakley turned on her heel. “Let’s go, Hudson.”
Another guffaw scraped the ceiling. “Even you are calling him that, huh? Why don’t you get him to sing with you?” More painful haw-hawing ensued. “Why don’t you just get yourself disqualified by breaking all the rules, eh? Singing without a track is a no-no. This is live television, not the preliminaries. Don’t you know anything? No track, no performance.”
Oakley grabbed Hudson’s hand, the one that looked like it might haul off and smack Greed, and pulled him away down the dark hall. The laughter echoed, hollow and mean. She had to get away from it.
There went her secret dream of singing their revamp of Hudson’s song. No track, no performance.
“Let’s leave him in the dust. I don’t care what he says, you are singing our song.”
“I can’t.” Oakley sighed. “The sound people have to have a track.”
“It deserves to be sung. You took it from zero to hero. Your lyrics, Oakley. Your lyrics. For an audience.”
But she couldn’t. Tempting as Hudson’s words were, she knew it would never fly, not without a track, and more that that, not without him at her side.
***
Instead of a theater all-but-empty like the last time she’d sung on stage before judges, she peeked through the wings of the stage’s curtains toward the red-hot lights of the theater area and found that the whole auditorium was packed, and people were screaming on cue. Actually, there was a cue—a light that flipped on and off reading applause. A few people had poster boards in their hands, but she couldn’t make out the words on them. None of them said her name, did they?
Nah.
The hairdresser had probably been trying to inspire false confidence. It hadn’t worked. The only thing that would really make her confident was having Hudson singing with her, backing her up. His presence planted acorns of confidence in her soul, acorns that might grow into mighty oaks over time.
I really like him. And now that he’d found his family, what did that mean for her? He certainly wouldn’t be staying at her house anymore, wearing Sherm’s clothes, sitting at the piano beside her late into the night, writing songs together and laughing—while the chemistry brewed between them.
Because she’d felt it. And he seemed like he had, too.
And it was all going to come to an end.
I’m so lucky I didn’t let him into my heart. Now I’m safe. It can’t get broken when he does the inevitable and leaves, just like Derek Marsden left Mom.
She was such a liar.
“We’re ready for the sound check.” Blue bustled up. She looked like her nerves were eating her alive, and Oakley realized she looked exactly like Oakley felt. “What’s your song? Time’s up. The live studio audience is ready.”
“Live audience. Got it.” Oakley’s upper lip twitched. Was she going to be able to perform live—on television? She’d choked when there were only four judges on a panel. “And they’ll be the decision-makers on the face-off?”
“Yes. That’s correct. If you wow them, they’ll vote you through. We’re not bringing in the official judges until the televised program.”
“But if I make it past the face-off against, um, Greed, then the judging is the same as on the show I’ve seen, right?” Oakley was stalling the only way she could think how.
“Right. Right. Four judges, as always.” Blue sounded exasperated, and Oakley hated putting her off this way when she’d been so nice all along—even though she did work with Roman Levy. “You need three judges’ yes votes to pass you on to the finals.”
Truthfully, Oakley knew these facts by heart. Three. Three yes votes. If she had a rocky start like before, she might not be looked upon so fondly by the crowd, and she might not even need to worry about judges or three yes votes. In the face-off, she needed to start and finish strong.
But with what song? Her heart slammed sideways in her chest. That was the million-dollar question.
“What song, Oakley?” Blue looked ready to flip her lid. “It’s time.” She tapped her wrist, even though no wristwatch was there.
“For the face-off against Greed, you mean?” Her palms were sweating.
“Yes, for the face-off.” Blue looked like she was going to turn blue any second. Or purple. Or … eggplant, more like. “We’re running out of options. If you don’t tell me what you’re singing, I’ll have to default and let Greed win.” Blue’s mouth formed a straight line. Under her breath she said, “And nobody wants that as the image for the show going forward.”
Oakley’s breathing sped up. What was she going to say? She shut her eyes, bit her lips together, and then— she chickened out. Almost without knowing whose voice was speaking, Oakley heard herself saying, “I assume you have access to a track of ‘Love Me Tenderly.’”
Ugh, of all the self-destructive, loathing-inducing sentences to say in all the world.
“‘Love Me Tenderly,’ as in by Jerica Jones? Sure. Great.” Blue’s relief was palpable, the exhale as loud as if it had been blown into a microphone. She lifted her walkie-talkie. “Boys, boot up JJ-fifteen.”
JJ-fifteen! That song was so common it had a simplified code? Disappointment at her own lack of courage made a lump form in Oakley’s stomach.
Defeat made Oakley’s shoulders slump, and she knew she’d just sealed her own fate. She’d have no one else to blame when the audience turned on her. Would they have overripe fruit ready to throw at the dimwit who dared to sing the most hated songs in America?
“See you on the stage. You’re set in fifteen—nope. Make that twelve minutes. We’ll check lights, sound, all of it, and the sound check will also serve as your face-off against Greed.” Blue looked up at her. “And Oakley? Good luck.”
“Thanks, but I’m pretty sure my competition wouldn’t want to hear you say that.”
Blue waved Oakley’s comment away. “He’s without.” Her eyes exuded warmth, like a cup of hot chocolate. “You brought new life to this franchise.”
She had?
“Oh, don’t look so surprised. Your rendition of ‘Sweet Sixteen’
gave singers and people of all kinds the feeling of triumph after tragedy.”
“Tragedy is about right.” Oakley rolled her eyes. “I was the car wreck no one could look away from.”
“Because they hoped you would come out all right. And you did.” Blue’s voice caught. “You did it, Oakley.” She blinked a few times, like tears were about to fall. “Thanks. We need you. Your image. Your freshness and goodness. Without it, this show is going to die.”
For a moment, Oakley thought maybe Blue was flattering her, trying to give her a confidence boost before her performance. But, no. A second, deeper look let her know that wasn’t that at all. Blue’s warmth was sincere. She really did think Oakley’s crash-and-burn-and-rise-from-the-ashes performance had been inspiring.
Warm tingles of relief and hope sprinkled through her. And could that be … confidence? She was going to be all right. The audience wasn’t there to hope for her demise. They were there to cheer her on.
Except that she was singing Jerica Jones.
***
“Check, check. One, two.” Oakley spoke into the microphone for the third time. A crew member had adjusted the mic about a dozen times to get it just right. “Check, check.”
“Good. Now, let’s take it from the top with your track.”
Oakley stepped onto the stage, and the crowd went crazy. One guy yelled, “Oakley! Oakley! Marry me, Oakley!”
She couldn’t see him through the blinding red and white lighting. Her eyes shot a glance toward the wings where she pictured Hudson waiting, giving her the thumbs-up and a gentle nod. He wasn’t really there, but instead in the friends and family waiting room, but just imagining him nearby made her spine straighten and her courage rise.
This was happening.
“And now, if you’re ready,” Troy the announcer said to the audience and she heard it through her earpiece, “Oakley M. from Oregon.”
Three. Three yes votes.
Was it even humanly possible to get three yes votes with a Jerica Jones song? She should stop the music, tell them she wasn’t doing it. Tell them that impersonating Jerica’s chewed-on Rs and her flat vowels violated Oakley’s conscience. Tell them that to sing like Jerica did on this song—and all her others—was a crime against vocal coaching maxims everywhere.
It was too late now. Her track had started, its wailing guitar a bad match for the lyrics. Oakley felt all deer-in-the-headlights, her feet cemented in place on the stage, the lights pouring their heat over her, and the air smelling like stale smoke.
And, as she could have predicted, from the first notes of the Jerica Jones intro, the audience, which had been cheering from the second she set foot on stage, looked suddenly deflated. Like they weren’t with her anymore. Like she’d disappointed them.
Jerica Jones! What was she thinking? The crowd’s lack of energy nearly tripped her up, but she pushed through, just like she had before when things had gone wrong.
“Tenderly our eyes meet,” she sang. “Tenderly you sigh.” Ugh. Brinn had been right: this song idea stunk. “Tenderly our souls touch, reaching for the sky.”
She paused for an early guitar solo, trying to un-cement her legs and do some kind of step-together move, a little awkward choreography. She should stick to the vocals. Her headset itched. She resisted the urge to scratch her face beneath it.
“Tender, tender, tender is our love.” Her voice came loud and clear through the sound system. She was on key, and her voice was clear and free of any renegade vibrato. She went for the high, punching notes of the chorus. “Love me, love me tenderly.”
Yep. She nailed it. She knew she sounded even better than Jerica Jones herself had when she’d recorded this overplayed hit two years ago.
“Sounds good, Oakley M.” The voice came through her headset from the tech crew. “That’s a go for live TV.”
“Wow. All I can say is wow.” The voice of the emcee, Troy, came through her headset next. It was strange to hear his famous voice without seeing his boyish face. “Now we’ll just see how the audience thinks you measure up against the competition during his sound check. Wow. All I can say is wow. Audience?”
But the audience wasn’t wowed. And to be honest, neither was Oakley herself. She finished out the song, gave the audience a smile, and they gave a polite but tepid response, like she’d let them down.
I wasn’t true to me. A sick sludge washed through her gut.
“Thank you,” she said and left the stage to a respectable, albeit uninspiring round of applause. However, as she reached the wings, something stopped her—maybe it was self-respect. She halted, turned on the heel of her boot and came back to the stage. “Hey, can I ask something?” she said into her com headset to whoever was listening. “Really quick? I know you’re on a time crunch here.”
“Not while on stage, Oakley M.,” a staffer intoned through her earpiece. “You need to clear the area for Greed to perform.”
“And now,” Troy said, “Greed!” At Greed’s name a rumble went through the audience.
“I just need to know whether I can sing a cappella, or to acoustic guitar or something, like I did with the Girl Crazy song before when I was in Portland.”
She was being shuffled offstage by a man with meaty hands, a black turtleneck and a limp. However, as she melted toward the curtains, someone from the audience hollered, “We loved that performance, Oakley. You have to sing more Girl Crazy!”
“We do tracks for the live shows.” The tech guy’s disembodied voice did not sound amused through her earpiece. “Tracks only.”
“Oh.” She was trying to think of how to beg for an exception, but a familiar-looking beefy crew member came up to her. He looked like he could twist her in two.
“We need the stage for the next number, please.” The guy was huge, with the name Farley embroidered on his black turtleneck shirt. Not him again! He’d shoved her onstage during her first audition. “Come on. Move it.”
“Yo, backstage whomever!” She shouted into her tiny microphone. “I’m not singing that song again.” Her boots seemed to tighten around her ankles and stand her up straighter. “I am going to sing something else.”
And do right by herself.
Farley frowned so deeply the tips of his mustache touched his black turtleneck shirt. He checked his watch and then lifted his walkie-talkie to his ear. It looked to Oakley like they were discussing her. After a second he gave a nod.
“If the song you’re doing is the right length. Where’s your track?”
Track. Uh, that was the kicker.
He practically lifted her off the stage.
Greed stepped on.
***
“Track?” Oakley’s voice cracked as she was being shuffled into the wings while the audience went wild for Greed behind her. “I know I need one. I can probably get one.”
“If you don’t have one right this second, they can’t let you do it.” Farley was laying down the law, his mustache twitching as he did so. “They run a tight schedule here, and the show itself is even tighter.”
“I know. It’s just that—”
“You need to be true to yourself as an artist?” The tech fellow in her headset snorted. “Please.”
“Nope.” Farley shook his head, as well. “Rules are rules. You have to have a track. Everyone has to have a track.”
“Safer that way.” The man on her headset chimed in unhelpfully. “Tracks keep the time right for commercial breaks. We need to time things to the second.”
Oh. That made sense. Dang it. The problem was, she didn’t have a track for their rewrite of that awful “Lunch Lady” song. No one did. It was obscure and unreleased, and—
“Now, I have to remove you from the com channel. It’s Greed’s sound check.”
Greed was going live. The audience was going to love him and hate her, and she was going to go home like the big loser she’d been named by the Populars.
The Populars would finally be right about her.
She sank to the ground, ha
ting herself for her personal betrayal.
“Look, Farley.” She took off her headset and took him aside, her tone confidential. “I’m not going to sing Jerica’s song. I just can’t do that to the audience again. Once was enough—more than enough.”
Silence greeted her. She wasn’t sure whether he’d even heard her due to his headset being on, or whether he was silently acquiescing her point.
“The rules don’t allow last minute song choices. Mr. Levy would say it’s not professional.”
Farley’s words got cut off. Greed was taking the stage and the audience hollered like they’d been paid to be loud.
“We’re a go for both Oakley and Greed.” Over Farley’s walkie-talkie, the tech guy approved the second microphone. It was happening now. “Check, check.”
Check right on out of here, Oakley M. from Oregon, he could have said. Dejection made her weigh an extra hundred pounds.
Greed’s music came up, and he wafted his long red hair around on stage, prancing along to the beat. Greed, not surprisingly, chose a classic rock song, and he performed it in the style of Mick Jagger, lips protruding and everything. From this vantage point, Oakley could see his every move. In fact, she could almost catch the flecks of sweat coming off him.
He was good. Really good. But he was singing the wrong song, one that had hit radio waves last year and made only a small splash. In fact, Oakley wouldn’t have heard it if it hadn’t been for Clyde and his never-ending, in-person music podcast. The audience didn’t catch on quickly, and it was falling flat.
She felt bad for him.
Almost. Because she remembered his sneer and insults. After that, pity was harder to muster.
But then, he got to the guitar solo, which really wailed, and he did a dance reminiscent of Napoleon Dynamite’s. Oakley’s heart sank as the audience started to warm up to the guy. One section—the near set of seats, all with Greed signs—started waving their cell phones in the air like lighters. Others were clapping to the beat.
She was so dead.
A great flushing sounded in her ears—the sound of her dreams going down life’s drain. She wasn’t going to be The Next Radio Star.
My 90s Boy Band Boyfriend: A YA Time Travel Rockstar Romance (Teen Queens Book 2) Page 27