Five Days of Famous

by Alyson Noel

  He says that like it’s a good thing. Like it’s not exactly why I need to do this. I’m tired of being so invisible that Tinsley and Ivy failed to notice me even when I fell right in front of them. I mean, I’m so easily ignored I didn’t even have a chance to feel stupid. Hard to make a fool of yourself when nobody knows you exist.

  “We could go to my house. Watch a Roswell documentary.” His face animates at the thought of an afternoon spent on his couch, filling up on conspiracy theories and party-size bags of Cheetos. But I’m committed to seeing this through, and I’m sorry if Dougall doesn’t agree. “Fine,” he calls when I shake my head and move on. “Have it your way. You know where to find me.”

  Dougall may mean well, but his doubts are bringing me down when I need to stay positive. Besides, I’m saving my voice for the performance. The less I talk, the better. Which is exactly the excuse I use when Plum appears out of nowhere, or maybe she’s been there all along—hard to tell when I’m so bent on ignoring her.

  “Good luck, Nick!” She flashes a grin so big and hopeful I can’t help but cringe.

  I mean, sheesh. First Dougall bets against me, then Plum acts like some overeager groupie. Somewhere in this crowd lies a whole new set of much cooler friends.

  “You got this!” she says, her fingers unexpectedly circling my wrist in a move so startling, I accidentally look right at her face just in time to see her eyes glint in a way that, for a split second, has me thinking she’s halfway decent looking.

  But before I lose it completely, I scowl and move away.

  I’m beginning to regret that I was ever dumb enough to be nice to her. I mean, just because we used to be friends back in elementary school, when I didn’t know any better, doesn’t mean I don’t know better now. Besides, now is not the time to encourage her. Not when my life is about to take flight.

  I break away from the line of performers and slowly inch toward the side of the stage where Josh Frost and some older guy with slicked-back hair and giant beefy Popeye arms who I recognize as his manager, Ben Ezer (only on Josh’s show everyone just calls him Ezer), sit at a table with thick pads of paper, freshly sharpened pencils, and unopened bottles of water splayed out before them.

  Ezer moves his pencil furiously across a page, but even after I tip on my toes and peer at his paper, I still can’t decide if he’s actually taking notes or is just bored and doodling.

  Josh doesn’t write anything. He keeps his focus on the performers, as though he’s actually enjoying the slaughter of a Top 20 song.

  When the music ends, our principal, Mrs. Partridge, introduces the next act. Ezer leans toward Josh and, speaking out of the side of his mouth, says, “Which band were they impersonating?”

  I admit, the comment totally cracks me up. Especially when you consider how much effort went into Ian White’s hair swoop, modeled after the lead singer’s.

  But then, when Ezer checks his watch and rolls his eyes, it’s clear he’s already tired, bored, and not taking this nearly as seriously as he should. Just seeing that makes my mood take a turn.

  Whenever I’m upset, the first place it shows is my face. My dad used to joke that I should never play poker. Which I didn’t exactly understand until Dougall explained that poker is a game best played by accomplished liars. Which is why his uncle lost everything—his money, his house, his wife, and his family. Apparently he was just like me—he wore the truth right smack in the middle of his face—and yet he still tried to get in on the game.

  Anyway, the point is, that unhappy expression is exactly the one I’m wearing when Josh looks over his shoulder and sees me standing behind him.

  “When are you up?” he asks, his voice rising like he’s trying to lift my mood through sheer tenor alone.

  “Second to last.” I’m forced to choke out the words. I mean, I’m actually having a conversation with Josh Frost!

  “Good luck!” He grins, turning away and nudging Ezer hard with his knee when Ezer pulls out his phone and starts checking his messages.

  Before I can even think of a reply, Mrs. Partridge is tapping my shoulder and giving me her scary face as she points to where the performers are waiting and tells me to get back in line.

  After a bunch of my classmates completely slaughter some of my favorite songs (including a performance by Mac Turtledove that receives way more applause than it deserves), it’s my turn, and I can hardly believe that not one of the competitors thought to sing a Josh Frost song.

  Probably weren’t up for the challenge—afraid of humiliating themselves in front of an International Superstar.

  I take it as Good Omen #2.*2

  I make for the stage, buzzing with the anticipation of a life that is about to irrevocably change in a very good way. Instead of being known as The Brainiac Nerd Who Sucks at PE, I’m moments away from being crowned The Most Talented Kid at Greentree.

  I’m about to make Nerd History.

  Thing is, the moment I’m standing before the mike, my palms go all clammy, my knees feel like they’re about to disintegrate, and my throat and gut conspire on the most effective way to throw up.

  My eyes dart back and forth, searching the crowd, frantically looking for someone who might actually be rooting for me. Dougall, Sparks, heck, I’m so desperate even Plum will do. But there are so many students and teachers the faces all smear together into a mass of people stomping and clapping, some hurling trash at the stage.

  I can’t do this.

  There’s no way.

  This is not at all how I fully imagined it.

  The noise grows louder as my 150 classmates huddle together, anticipating the moment I’ll go down in flames.

  I swipe my sweat-soaked palms down the front of my jeans and clear my throat repeatedly. I’m just about to claim laryngitis when I remember an early episode of Frost World where Josh talked about his first public performance and how he was sure he was going to hurl, until Ezer reminded him that people just want to be entertained and inspired and that it was Josh’s job to go out and give it to ’em.

  If it’s good enough for Josh, it’s good enough for me.

  Besides, when I think about the performances we were all just subjected to, well, it’s clear these people are in desperate need of a little inspiration.

  I take a steady breath and lean toward the mike. “This one’s for you,” I say, pointing toward the general area where Tinsley Barnes usually sits in assemblies. I cue the music I rehearsed with the band yesterday after school, close my eyes for a moment, and pretend I’m singing to her.

  At first my voice sounds kind of unstable, maybe even what you’d call croaky. But when I pick up the rhythm, everyone starts clapping, singing, and well, that’s when I decide to go with the bigger of the two alternate endings I’d planned.

  Ending #1 basically involves me bolting from the stage in case things go terribly wrong. It also includes an additional scene where I beg my parents to sell everything we own so we can move to a state far away, where nobody knows me.

  But now, with everyone clearly enjoying the show, I go straight for Ending #2, which requires a perfectly executed double-spin-hand-flash-wink-and-grin before I take my final bow and say, “Be nice to everyone—let peace lead your way.”

  The official Josh Frost sign-off.

  While it may sound simple in theory, the nearly simultaneous spinning, hand-flashing, winking, and grinning ends up making me so dizzy that by the time I lean in for the bow, my chin slams the top of the mike so hard it sends a loud bffffffttt sound screaming through the gym.

  “Let peace be your guide,” I mumble, knowing I’ve completely and totally blown it. Hardly able to believe I’d come so far, only to fall apart at the end.

  The crowd was clearly mine. The plan I spent so much time fully imagining was a success! For the entire two minutes and forty-seven seconds I was singing, every single one of my classmates was clapping and singing right along with me.

  Until I flubbed the sign-off and the clapping turned into laugh
ing.

  I turn away, practically racing from the stage, wanting more than anything to avoid looking at Josh, but I force myself anyway. The least I can do is apologize for trying to steal his signature move.

  But when I look over to where he’s sitting, the expression he wears is as unmistakable as a report card smothered with As.

  Josh Frost is nodding.

  Grinning.

  Giving me an enthusiastic thumbs-up.

  And I’m pretty dang sure he didn’t do that for anyone else.

  * * *

  *1 Don’t believe in good omens—they’re not what they seem.

  *2 I really hope I don’t have to remind you about good omens.

  1:52 P.M.—2:16 P.M.

  FROSTED

  An eighth-grade drama die-hard takes the stage last in a blur of jazz hands and clumsy dance moves. But now that I know I’ve got Josh’s vote, I don’t bother watching.

  In my head I can still hear the crowd clapping and singing, can still see the approval on Josh’s face. The arc of his thumb as he jabbed it toward me, as if to silently say, You got this!

  And to think it’s just the beginning.

  Won’t be long before that kind of praise becomes a regular thing.

  When the music ends, our class president hogs the mike and drones on and on about all of the supposedly exciting things happening at Greentree after winter break and blah, blah, blah.

  I mean, is she serious? Can’t she see there’s not a single person here (other than her) who gives a flying flip about any of that?

  The only thing these people are interested in is hearing the name of the winner so they know who to suck up to for the rest of the year.

  The other performers gather behind me. All of them are busy high-fiving and complimenting each other’s mediocre performances. But not me. I sneak away from the group and linger near the stage. Better to be close to the steps when they announce me as the winner.

  Also, if I lean in just so, I can actually make out a lot of what Ezer and Josh Frost are saying.

  I inch closer, straining to hear. Barely able to breathe when Josh says, “I’m liking that kid at the end.”

  Kid at the end?

  A slow panic churns in my gut.

  Does he mean the kid at the end-end? The high-kicking, jazz-handing drama nerd?

  The one I ignored?

  Is it possible the thumbs-up and eye-smile didn’t mean what I thought?

  “That last one?” Ezer’s expression betrays just how he feels about that. “You’re joking.”

  “No. The one who went right before him.” Josh reaches for his water and twists the cap back and forth as though he’s actually nervous about stating his opinion to Ezer, even though everyone knows Ezer works for him.

  “Ah. ‘Twelve Days.’ ” Ezer’s voice is impossible to read.

  “That’s it. He’s the one.” Josh takes a long, steady drink as I use all of my strength to force my grin into submission.

  “I don’t know.” Ezer frowns. “He’s a little rough around the edges. And the way he copied your signature move—didn’t that strike you as overly ingratiating?”

  “Like you can ever be overly ingratiating in this business?” Josh laughs at a joke I’m not sure I get. Shaking his head, he adds, “He reminds me of myself when I was his age. I was rough too. Besides, that kind of awkwardness and adulation always makes for good TV.”

  That’s it. That’s all I needed to hear.

  Who cares if Josh called me awkward—I’m in!

  In just a matter of seconds it’ll be goodbye, Brainiac Nerd—hello, International Superstar!

  Dreams really do come true.

  I’m living proof.

  I make my way toward the rest of the performers and high-five with the rest of them, even lob a few fake compliments of my own, all the while feeling sorry that they don’t stand a chance.

  There can be only one winner.

  And it just so happens it’s me.

  I gush over Chloe Fields’s total fail of a song.

  I even say something nice to Ian White about his hair swoop.

  It’s just like Josh always says: Be nice to everyone—let peace lead your way.

  I glance toward the stage, inwardly rehearsing a few fake surprised expressions when Josh starts by congratulating everyone on a job well done…how Greentree is bursting with talent…and on and on to the point where I really wish he’d just announce me already so I can start my new life.

  Still, despite my excitement, I remind myself to stay humble and cool. To wait for my full name to be called before I react.

  And yet, the second Josh says, “And the winner of the Greentree Talent Show is—” I leap right past my fake surprised look and bolt for the stage wearing a grin so big, my face feels like it’s cleaved right in half.

  My right foot is just about to meet the first step when Mac Turtledove shoves past me so hard I lose my balance, my knees crumble, and I land smack on the edge.

  “Move it, loser,” Mac barks, leaving me clutching both knees in pain and watching through unbelieving eyes as he claims his place beside Josh.*1

  The sight of them standing together is all it takes to get the crowd on their feet, clapping and screaming like crazy, as the opening strains of Josh’s new hit single, “Twelve Days,” blares through the gym.

  “Why don’t you help me out here in case I forget the lyrics!” Josh laughs, tossing an arm around Mac’s shoulders as though they’re old friends.

  And when the two of them start singing, it sounds as though they’ve been rehearsing for weeks. Except for the part where Mac flubs a few lyrics and everyone pretends not to notice.

  It’s a hideous sight, but I can’t seem to stop watching, much less convince myself to get up and get the heck out before it gets any worse.

  While Josh and Mac charm the crowd, Ezer collects his belongings like the gym is on fire and he’s desperate to flee, so I hobble over to where he stands, clear my throat, and say, “There’s been a mistake.” Kind of semi-shouting so he’ll hear me over the music, but he completely ignores me.

  Despite the shooting pain in my legs, despite a gut that feels like it’s waging a serious protest against everything I ate over the course of the last several weeks, I move closer, desperate to fix this before it’s too late.

  “Excuse me,” I say. “But there’s been a—”

  “No mistake, kid.” He barks the words over his shoulder like he can’t be bothered to actually face me.

  “But I think there was,” I insist. “No, I mean, I’m sure there was. That was supposed to be me up there. I’m one hundred and ten percent sure of it.”

  That got him to look, his hard, squinty gaze floating over my face as he says, “Oh yeah? And what makes you think that?”

  “I was standing right here when I heard Josh vote for the kid near the end who sang ‘Twelve Days.’ That kid was me. I’m that kid.”

  Ezer grunts and closes his eyes in the same way my mom does when she’s striving for patience and inwardly counting to ten. “Turns out I have the power to veto, so I did.” He turns away, as though the argument’s over.

  “But—” I glare at the back of his neck, like a tree stump holding up an enormous head. My voice sounds pathetic and wimpy, but still, I push the words past. “The rules clearly state that Josh is supposed to choose the winner. Josh Frost. Not you!” For whatever reason, that makes him laugh.

  “Listen, kid.” Ezer glances between the stage and me. “You know that indefinable thing that makes someone a star—someone worth watching?”

  I stare at him, barely able to breathe.

  “You ain’t got it.”

  The words are like an arrow to my heart.

  Yet I still manage to protest. “And Mac Turtledove does?” I know it sounds childish. It sounds even worse in person.

  But when Ezer points to the stage, where Josh and Mac are well into the finale, I hate to admit it, but there’s no denying he’s right.

&
nbsp; There’s a reason Mac Turtledove’s name is enshrined in a heart on nearly every girl’s notebook.

  He has it.

  That indefinable thing that makes people want to watch him.

  Be near him.

  Worship him from afar.

  “Everyone wants to be a star,” Ezer says. “For most, it’s just a big waste of time. Do yourself a favor and find another dream—something a little more reasonable. May hurt to hear it now, but trust me, someday you’ll look back and thank me. Nothing wrong with knowing your limits.”*2

  The song ends.

  Josh and Mac exit the stage.

  And my new life is officially over before it could begin.

  * * *

  *1 I really hate Mac Turtledove.

  *2 This is the exact opposite of what Josh Frost says. He’s always encouraging us fans to go after our dreams, but now I’m wondering if he really means it.

  2:32 P.M.—2:41 P.M.

  SUGARPLUM FAIRY

  I’m halfway home when I hear it—the all-too-familiar gasping, wheezing sound of Plum Bailey’s voice.

  “Nick!” She races to catch up, panting so loudly I can no longer pretend not to hear. “I can’t believe you didn’t win! You were, like, a million times better than that phony Mac Turtledove!”

  Before I can stop myself, I laugh. I mean, it’s not like I want to encourage her. I guess I’m just so used to girls slobbering all over Turtledove, it’s shocking to hear one of them call him a phony.

  “Seriously,” she says, going on and on about Mac being a big wannabe who gave a bogus performance as I glare at the long stretch of sidewalk unspooling before me that, in reality, isn’t actually all that long, but with Plum so determined to stalk me, well, it feels like it goes on forever.

  She probably thinks that by trashing Mac, she’ll make me feel better, but the truth is, pointing out how I lost to a poseur just makes it worse.