by Alyson Noel
“No. Um.” I swallow, take another look at Sir Dasher Dashaway, and try to make peace with the horrible sight of him. But it’s too much to ask, so I turn away and say, “I’m good. We’re good. Let’s shoot.”
I head back to my mark as the director calls, “Twelve Days of Dashaway Christmas Countdown. Day one—scene one—take two. From the top!”
COOKIE CUTTER
We’re in the middle of shooting the last scene of the day, the one where Holly “accidentally” decorates my cheek with a blob of frosting so I can retaliate by drawing a red-icing mustache on her face. And while that’s going down, Sir Dasher Dashaway will, right on cue, jump onto the counter and eat a bunch of the cookies when we’re not looking, only to have my parents walk into the room and—instead of getting upset like most parents would—throw their hands up and join in the fun.
I don’t think I need to explain how not a single thing about this reality show is even the slightest bit real.
Every “spontaneous” moment is carefully scripted.
Including the concealed ramp tiny Sir Dasher Dashaway needs to “jump” onto the kitchen counter.
While I’m sure the edited version will portray just the amount of lighthearted fun the audience loves, the actual reality is that Holly had an allergic reaction to the icing that made her face swell up and turn red, and Sir Dasher Dashaway ate so many cookies he vomited all over the floor and had to be replaced with a stunt dog who I’m told regularly stands in as his double.
From what I’ve learned so far, acting “real” for a reality show is so exhausting I’m starting to wonder if I had it all wrong about how great it would be to live a life like Josh Frost’s.
Oh, and did I mention that we’re on our thirteenth take?
But who’s counting?
I’m just about to call “Cut” on this dream, thank everyone for participating, and find a way to wake up and get back to my normally scheduled life, when Tinsley Barnes enters.
The same Tinsley Barnes from back in Greentree.
Only better, if you can believe it.
Her hair looks like it’s been washed with melted-down gold bars.
Her eyes resemble two very rare sapphires.
And as for her body, well, let’s just say it’s a little more…exaggerated in all the right places.
But what really stands out is the way this new Tinsley looks at me.
And by that I mean she actually looks at me.
Like, on purpose.
As though it wasn’t some horrible accident she instantly regrets.
I take a steadying breath and force myself to return the look. Only to see her lips lift at the sides as she switches her gaze to her shoes.
“Nick—wake up! You’re on!” the director calls, which is kind of embarrassing, since he caught me in the act of staring at Tinsley. But now that I’ve got an audience I actually care about, well, I put on a performance so good, the next words out of his mouth are “And…cut! That’s a wrap!”
Everyone springs into action, dismantling the lights and cameras in a way so frenzied it reminds me of the moment when the final bell rings back at Greentree. Which of course gets me thinking about Dougall—the one person who has yet to make an appearance (other than Plum, who clearly has no place in this dream), and it’s kind of too bad, because it might be fun to see him looking like a celebrity.
I unhook my mike, toss it onto the counter, and make a beeline for Ezer. Not that I have anything important to say, but since Tinsley’s standing beside him, it’s pretty much all the incentive I need.
Also, it’ll give me a chance to make sure she really did look at me in the way that I think, because if it turns out I’m right, I may not be in such a hurry to wake up from this dream.
Ezer looks at me but doesn’t say anything, which makes it kind of awkward, since I don’t know what to say either. So I end up standing there like an idiot, shuffling from foot to foot while trying not to stare too hard at Tinsley.
Despite repeatedly reminding myself that in this particular place and time I’m an International Superstar, I’m so used to being a dork that deep down I still feel like one.
Which means I still act like one.
“You remember Tinsley?” Ezer finally says after a long, painful silence. “I think you met a few years back. She’s one of your biggest fans.” He pats her on the shoulder. “She’s got a great set of pipes too. Maybe you two could collaborate sometime?”
I lift my gaze just as Tinsley lifts hers, her deep blue eyes meeting mine as I croak out something that sounds vaguely like “Sure, anytime,” while the dork who lives deep down inside dances like Snoopy when Charlie Brown puts food in his bowl.
Tinsley blushes, like a wave of pink has splashed over her cheeks. And knowing it’s all because of me pretty much makes this the best moment of my entire life.
“Great.” Ezer grins, looking the happiest I’ve seen him all day. “I’ve got a few songs in mind. Maybe you two can take a look?”
I nod like I’m okay either way, but deep down inside the happy dance continues.
“Nick, you’re clear for the rest of the day, and Tinsley, you have some time to spare.”
“Up to you.” Tinsley pulls her shoulders in and clasps her hands to her lap as she sways from side to side. It’s a move I’ve seen her pull countless times in Greentree when she’s talking to Mac Turtledove, only now she’s doing it for me.
“Yeah. Sure. Why not?” I shrug like the International Superstar that I am. Trying not to hyperventilate when Tinsley moves so close there’s only a few inches between us.
“I’m so honored you’re willing to take a chance on me.” The blush of her cheeks deepens in a way that’s impossible to resist. “I know how busy you are.”
I keep my cool and just nod in return, as if to say: My life as an International Superstar keeps me incredibly busy, but I always have time for a fan like you.
“I know Uncle Ezer would love to get something recorded for the final Christmas episode, but again, it’s yours to decide, Nick.”
The first thing I think is Tinsley’s related to Ezer?
Though it’s quickly replaced with Tinsley Barnes knows my name!
She looks to Ezer for confirmation, the two of them exchanging a look I can’t read, but who cares?
Recording a song together means spending a lot of time together.
Just when I thought I was ready to bail, this dream takes a turn that definitely makes it worth living.
“Why don’t you two head out to the pool?” Ezer says. “I’ll have Lisa bring you some drinks.”
I have a pool?
Cool!
And though I have no idea where it is, that doesn’t stop me from leading Tinsley toward a sliding glass door I hope leads to my backyard, opening it wide as I say, “After you.”
ALL THE SMOOTH MOVES
Turns out, my backyard is an exact replica of a tropical paradise.
Not that I’ve ever been to a tropical paradise, but it’s the kind of backyard you’d expect to find in Hawaii, Tahiti, or even L.A.
But I could just as easily be smacked down in the middle of Antarctica, and I’d be just as happy.
With Tinsley sitting beside me, her feet dangling in the water, a pile of potential songs resting between us—well, the grove of palm trees, the giant pool with the lazy river, the three waterfalls, the swim-up bar, the Jacuzzi, the fake beach, and the grotto all pale in comparison.
I try not to stare, to just focus on the pile of songs. But it’s hard to concentrate on much of anything when Tinsley’s eyes go all pretty and squinty and her voice lilts in this adorable way as she hums the tunes to herself.
“What do you think of this one?” She looks up just in time to catch me staring, so I quickly shift my focus to the sheet of music she’s holding.
“Um, yeah,” I say, not wanting to let on that here, like in Greentree, I have no idea how to read music.
“Should we try it?” she asks. “You
know, just for fun?”
“Sure, but you start and I’ll join in,” I’m quick to say, hoping to cover the fact that I have no idea how to begin.
The second she starts singing, it’s like everything else ceases to exist. Ezer was right. Tinsley’s “pipes” are incredible. Her voice is soft yet strong, mesmerizing and sure. Which is strange, because that is the one flaw of the Greentree Tinsley. If the last few years of talent shows and school plays are anything to go by, her singing voice is the worst.
She shoots me a sideways glance, waiting for me to join in. While I’m not really sure how this will go, I clear my throat, hope for the best, and join her.
And the truth is, I sound awful.
Like really, truly awful.
So awful Tinsley actually loses her place, and I’m pretty sure this is the moment when the dream falls apart.
Except I keep singing, keep plowing through, and after a bit, while it’s nowhere near great, it’s good enough to finish the song and not ruin it completely.
“That was a little rough.” She laughs. “I guess we should’ve warmed up.”
Nice of Tinsley to include herself in the blame, but I think we both know I sounded like a frog dying of heatstroke.
“Still, it has potential—don’t you think?” Her eyes get all gleamy as she reaches toward me and places the tips of her fingers on the top of my knee. “But it’s really up to you, Nick. What do you think—should we try it again?”
What do I think?
I think: Tinsley Barnes has her hand on my knee! Tinsley Barnes is actually, on purpose, engaging in physical contact with me!
What I say is “Yeah, I can see its potential,” in a voice so hoarse I have to clear it three times to get it back to normal.
Still, it doesn’t seem to stop her from keeping her hand on my knee and giving it a little squeeze.
It’s all I can do to keep my cool as I wipe my palm discreetly down the leg of my jeans, making sure it’ll be nice and dry when I place it over Tinsley’s hand.
Which is exactly what I’m about to do when someone creeps up from behind and says, “Lisa told me to bring these to you.”
The hand that was veering toward Tinsley’s falls limp to my side as my vision goes in and out of focus, barely comprehending what I’m seeing, despite the alarm in my head. Plum!
Even in my one perfect dream, in my one perfect moment, Plum Bailey manages to show up and ruin everything.
And the weird thing is, she looks just as out of place as the old Plum—only different.
Instead of being blond and tan like everyone else around here, she’s as pale as ever and dressed mostly in black, with hair dyed to match. Also, the braces are gone, leaving a set of perfectly straight white teeth in their wake. She’s like an edgy, alternative version of Plum, and yet she’s still clearly Plum.
Tinsley starts checking her cell phone while Plum lifts two frosty glasses of lemonade from her tray and places them beside us.
Her stubby, black-painted nails impatiently drum the side of her leg as she meets my gaze long enough to ask, “Do you need anything else?”
The question is simple. One I should be able to answer without hesitation. And yet I’m so upset by her appearance, not to mention the possibility that she might actually work for me, that all I can do is sit there and stare.
I can’t afford to have Plum hanging around, fawning all over me.
She’ll only get in the way.
But I must’ve stared for too long, because the next thing I know, Tinsley’s getting to her feet, saying, “Um, I think I should leave,” as she shoots an unreadable look between Plum and me.
“What? No, don’t go!” I say, veering so far from cool, I would be embarrassed if I wasn’t so desperate. “She’s just—” I jab a thumb toward Plum, having no idea how to finish that thought. I know who she is in Greentree, but I have no idea who she is here.
Plum scowls, heaves a loud, overly dramatic sigh, and storms toward the house like she can’t get away from us quickly enough.
I turn back to Tinsley, having no idea what just happened, but I’m fully prepared to beg her to stay if that’s what it takes, when I see she’s not the one who misunderstood. I did.
Crossing the lawn, making his way to the pool, is a guy who looks a lot like Mac Turtledove.
But that’s only because he is Mac Turtledove.
And from the way he and Tinsley look at each other, well, it’s clear he’s the reason she’s in such a hurry to leave.
Her face lights up when she sees him, then she turns to me and says, “If you’re up for it, I’ll ask Ezer to set up some studio time.”
The best I can do is shrug and pretend not to care either way, my brain hijacked by the thought that my dream has just turned into a nightmare.
Like Tinsley’s, Mac’s makeover is more a matter of adding a few enhancements, as opposed to big, major changes like my parents and Holly got.
Then again, as with Tinsley, there wasn’t much to improve.
Still, the differences are right there for anyone to see.
Like the extra inches added to his height.
The additional muscles that seem like they’re glued on top of the ones he already had.
And the undeniable haze of cool that announces itself from afar.
And the worst part is, it’s not like he actually needed any of that.
“Hey, babe.” He snakes a hand around Tinsley’s waist and pulls her close to his side. And the way she smiles in response makes me wonder if this is maybe her dream and not mine.
Tinsley hugs the pile of songs to her chest, looking a little uncomfortable when she says, “Nick, Mac. Mac, Nick,” her beautiful head bobbing toward each of us.
“Nice spread.” Mac surveys my yard like he’s planning for the day when he’ll live somewhere bigger, better, a place where Tinsley will never want to leave.
“So—” Tinsley pauses in a way that could be adorable under different circumstances. “See you soon?”
I nod, hoping to appear noncommittal, but nobody’s fooled. And if that wasn’t enough, I then decide to reach into my pocket and pretend to check the messages on a cell phone that no longer works.
And don’t think they don’t notice that too.
Make that smooth move number two.
When they’re finally gone, I retrace my steps back to my house and go in search of one of the gazillions of people who seem to work for me so I can ask them to brew up a strong pot of coffee.
It’s time to wake up.
STARBUCKS EXPRESS
First thing I see when I head into the kitchen is Plum talking to Dougall.
Only it takes me a moment to realize it’s Dougall.
Mostly because he looks like the kind of Hollywood hipster who wouldn’t know the first thing about Bigfoot, UFOs, or wormholes.
His usual Einstein-fro is now tamed, he’s wearing dark skinny jeans that look a lot like mine, and there’s a black leather cord hanging from his neck with a silver skull attached to the end. With his multipierced ears covered with small silver hoops and his black V-neck tee clinging to a set of muscles the Greentree version of Dougall doesn’t own, he’s definitely tied with Sir Dasher Dashaway for the prize of Most Surprising Makeover.
“Hey, Nick.” He glances toward me in a way that causes his hair to sweep over his eyes.
I nod, but only barely. Sure, it’s kind of cool to see my best friend since third grade looking like an off-duty movie star, which is exactly how I wanted him to look. I mean, if he’d dressed like that back in Greentree, we would’ve easily clinched our popularity. But here in Tinsel Hills, where nearly everyone seems to work with a stylist, it does nothing to help me. All I care about now is getting a triple shot of caffeine so I can wake up.
Getting eclipsed by Mac Turtledove in real life is one thing—in a dream it’s just cruel.
“Coffee. Where can I get some?” I direct the question at Plum, since she seems so at home in my kitchen.
She lifts her gaze from her magazine as though it requires every ounce of effort just to acknowledge my presence. “My mom will be back in a minute. She ran out to the store to food-shop for you.” Her voice is as full of contempt as her face.
I stand there, stunned, not knowing what surprises me more: the fact that she really, really (and I mean really) seems to hate me or that she just mentioned her mom buying my food.
But then I remember that Plum’s mom is named Lisa, so I’m guessing it’s the same Lisa who told her to deliver lemonade to Tinsley and me. She probably works as my personal chef or something. Which is kind of cool if you think about it—having a personal chef, I mean.
Still, because of it, Plum probably spends a lot of time hanging around my house resenting the heck out of me, and I can’t understand why I’d include something as awful as that in my dream.
Except for maybe the fact that I’ve always hoped Plum would stop liking me so much.
Which, if that’s the case, then I guess it could count as another wish come true.
Thing is, if my wishes are all coming true, then I ask yet again: Why is Mac Turtledove here?
“You have a need for caffeine, we’ll hit a Starbucks, bro.” Dougall pushes a hand through his hair and moves away from the counter as though it’s decided.
“There’s a Starbucks?” I search for a camera, wondering if it’s more product placement, like with Holly’s necklace.
This dream brought to you by Tiffany’s silver heart necklace and Starbucks’ Venti Caramel Frappuccino!
Just one day on the set of my reality show and I’m already becoming jaded and cynical.
“Yeah, right, pick a corner, any corner.” Dougall shakes his head and laughs like I made a joke as Plum flips through her magazine, scowling at a picture of me, only to settle on one of some skinny tattooed singer with a pained expression on his face, looking as though she’d be perfectly happy gazing at him for the rest of eternity.
“Plum, you coming?” Dougall asks, before I can stop him.