Five Days of Famous

by Alyson Noel

  Determined to prove my worth and prove both Dougalls wrong, I take four and a half slightly shaky steps toward the foul line, then release the ball and watch as it tears down the aisle. Ultimately crashing into the center pin so hard it not only falls but takes all the other pins with it.

  And as soon as the pins are reset, I do it again.

  And again.

  Blowing rack after rack and scoring so many strikes the employees, including the manager, gather to watch. The girls jump up and down, shouting and cheering, and when Dougall joins in, well, it’s just the sort of validation I need to reduce that fiasco of a talent show into nothing more than a distant, hazy memory.

  DECEMBER 20

  4 Days, 14 Hours, 32 Minutes, and 24 Seconds till Christmas

  #LAME-O

  Turns out, just because one is an International Superstar with serious bank, no parental guidance, and therefore no curfew does not mean he doesn’t have to answer to a higher authority.

  In my case, that higher authority is Ezer.

  “What’s this?” He looms over me, shaking his phone in my face.

  I squint one eye open but only so I can locate the nearest spare pillow and pull it over my head until I can no longer see him. Still, his muffled words manage to penetrate.

  “Great way to make use of your Twitter account!” Even from under the pillow I can tell that the words are fueled by high-octane anger. “Using your 140 characters for this little gem: Leaving Jonah K’s lame-o luau! Then, since you presumably had more characters to spare, you added the hashtag WorstPartyEver.” He pulls at the pillow and tries to remove it, but I just tighten my grip. “What the heck, Nick? You serious? Slamming another celebrity like that? What’s gotten into you?”

  The honest answer is, I don’t know. Pieces of the night are just now starting to assemble in my brain—something about my phone being passed around so the girls could take selfies and…and send them out into the world.

  At the time, it seemed like the best idea ever. The girls were enjoying it. Dougall thought it was hilarious. And when I sent that tweet about Jonah, didn’t everyone laugh so hard we practically fell off our seats?

  “Meanwhile,” Ezer continues, adopting an overly dramatic tone, “over on Instagram, there’s a charming pic of you and Dougall with a bunch of half-naked girls who are old enough to babysit the both of you. What the heck were you thinking?”

  “They weren’t half-naked,” I mumble. “They were wearing grass skirts and coconut shells—the party was luau themed…”

  “What? I can’t hear you, Nick. Speak a little louder, please.” Ezer wrenches the pillow from my head, and I don’t try to fight him.

  Images of the night are stampeding through my brain. So much stuff it seems impossible to fit all of that into one single night.

  But according to Twitter, Instagram, and Ezer, we did.

  “They kept all their clothes on the whole entire time, I swear.”

  “Sure, but that’s only because they were barely wearing any to begin with!”

  He’s glaring at me. I can feel it. But as of now, I can’t bring myself to look at him.

  “And they weren’t nearly as old as you claim. Sixteen at most.”

  “Sixteen, really? You sure? You check their IDs, Nick? Because in a town where thirty-year-olds are regularly cast to play teens on TV, that really means a lot.”

  “What’s your problem, anyway?” I sit up so abruptly I forget my bed is not only round but set smack in the middle of my room, which means I nearly fall off the edge. And while I may recover quickly, don’t think he didn’t notice. “Sheesh, would you just relax? Nothing happened. We took some pictures, drove around for a bit, bowled a few rounds, what’s the big deal?” I climb out of bed, about to go into my closet to get dressed, when I see that I already am. Seems I slept in my clothes, and they don’t smell so good.

  They smell like cigarettes—like secondhand smoke, which is what it must be, since I would never do something so stupid as smoke. It’s disgusting. Besides, I distinctly remember signing an antismoking pledge in sixth-grade health class.

  “Nothing happened? You sure, Nick? Maybe you should take a look at your Twitter account, where you live-tweeted your night.”

  I start to reach for the phone, wanting to get to the bottom of who’s responsible for making my T-shirt smell so bad, when Ezer yanks it away before I can reach it.

  “And if that wasn’t enough, the entire pictorial was also posted to your Instagram, Tumblr, and Facebook accounts.” He shakes his head, takes a deep breath, but the truth is, he looks like he’s about to implode. “What did I tell you about social media, Nick?” He pauses as though I’m seriously supposed to reply. “I said that it’s great for self-promotion—until it’s not. Until you lose control and decide to document your break with reality, which is exactly what you did here.”

  “Okay, whatever. So I made a mistake. What are they gonna do, fire me?”

  I roll my eyes and start to head for my bathroom, stopping dead in my tracks when he says, “No, Nick, no one’s going to fire you. They’ll just stop buying your CDs and watching your show. Oh, and as soon as your sales and ratings plummet, your endorsement deals will dry up. And then, in order to continue living your luxurious lifestyle, you’ll be expected to actually pay for it. But with your money stream gone, you won’t be able to afford it. And while you can ride it out for a few months, it won’t be long before the bank seizes your homes, your cars, all the stuff you hold dear. Your staff will be out of work, because you can’t afford to pay them. And your family will be out on the street, since you’ll lose the homes you bought for them too. But hey, that’s okay, you can all shack up together again in the same three-bedroom, two-and-a-half-bath that you all started in, with nothing left but the memory of your wild night on the town with your supposed friend Dougall and a group of grown women who were only using you to promote themselves.”

  “You’re blaming Dougall?”

  “Is that all you got out of that? Dougall is a problem. A very real problem. The worst kind of hanger-on. He’s riding your coattails. He’s nothing without you, and don’t think he doesn’t know it. But at the moment he’s only a blip on your list, because let me tell you something: that scenario I described is all too real. It happens all the time. There’s no inoculation for failure, especially the kind we bring on ourselves.”

  I shake my head. It’s not like I didn’t hear, ’cause I did. I just don’t get why I’m still here.

  Why I haven’t woken up already and found myself back in Greentree, frozen solid on the bus stop bench.

  How I can let so many people down, including myself, when dreams have no consequences?

  “And if you still don’t believe me, if you’re still delusional enough to think you can just float through your life because no one would dare question the Dashing Nick Dashaway—tell me this: Exactly how are you going to sell your bad behavior to your twelve-year-old fans who are madly in love with you? And, more important, how are you going to sell it to the parents of those twelve-year-old girls who supply the weekly allowance that enables those girls to spend it all on Nick Dashaway crap? Huh, Nick? Tell me, how you gonna do that?”

  “Um, plead temporary insanity due to an overdose of caffeine and a surplus of supermodels?” I try to crack a joke, but it fails miserably.

  “You want to pretend you’re Hugh Hefner, find another fan base!”

  “Who?” I squint, and even though the question was sincere, it only serves to infuriate Ezer.

  He grumbles under his breath and tosses me the phone so I can get a firsthand look at my wild night, which looks way wilder in pictures than I remember it being. The only moment I can clearly grasp is how excited I felt after bowling six strikes in a row. The rest is a blur.

  “Oh, and for the record, those bowlers you kicked out so you could have the place to yourself—”

  I return the phone and frown. “What—you mean my fans? They were practically mobbing me. Be
sides, it was the manager’s call, not mine.”

  “Yeah? Well, it looks like they’ve had a change of heart. Didn’t appreciate getting kicked out in the middle of their games, and they’ve taken to the Internet to vent their outrage. Some serious damage control is in order, Nick. I want you in the studio with Tinsley every day, working on a squeaky-clean Christmas love song that’ll—fingers crossed—make everyone forget about the night of Nick Gone Wild. And when you’re not in the studio, I want you lying low. No showing your face at the Starbucks drive-thru in pursuit of free coffee. No dropping into burger joints and sending Sparks away.”

  “How did you know about that?” I ask. I didn’t even have my new phone at that point.

  “I know everything, Nick.” His expression turns to one of extreme wariness, like all of that anger has morphed into worry.

  And since I can’t stand for anyone to be disappointed in me, I do my best to convince him it wasn’t nearly as bad as he thinks. “It really wasn’t that big a deal,” I say. “Behind the pictures, it was mostly all talk. Everyone does that back in Greentree. You know, trying to look way cooler than they are.” The moment it’s out, I realize I never should’ve mentioned Greentree, but since it’s too late to take it back, I can only hope Ezer doesn’t call me on it.

  “I don’t know what or where that is, but you’re already cool,” Ezer says. “Now you need to learn how to live up to the responsibility that comes with it.” Even though he’s starting to sound like my dad, like he only has my best interests at heart, he’s been yelling at me for so long it’s hard to make the transition.

  “What’s the point of being an International Superstar if I can’t live my own life?”

  Ezer turns to me, eyes gleaming, lips curving, as though he’s been waiting for me to ask exactly that.

  “The point is to sell records and whatever else you can get your name on before the tide turns, you age out, and someone cuter, younger, and, most important, newer comes along. You want to live your own life? You can either go back to being an invisible nobody or wait until you’re washed up, which, at this rate, shouldn’t take long. You’re no indie rocker, Nick. You’re a squeaky-clean teen dream. You need to start acting like one. Now get yourself together and meet me downstairs. I’ll delete the pics from your account and deal with any immediate fallout. Tinsley’s already at the studio, waiting for you to show up.”

  “Did Tinsley see the pics?” I ask, really hoping she didn’t.

  But Ezer doesn’t reply, so I do as he says and head for the shower.

  UNEXPLAINABLE PHENOMENON

  So far, the strangest part of today is the fact that I’m still here.

  Still in this life.

  Still in this house.

  Still getting yelled at by Ezer for being myself.

  Clearly this is no dream.

  Clearly I’m not slowly freezing to death back in Greentree.

  I’d be long dead by now if that was the case.

  Which leads me to my next theory.

  I’ve seen enough documentaries with the Greentree Dougall about string theory, M theory, vibrating strings, alternate dimensions, time warps, black holes, mysterious portals, and other kinds of unexplainable phenomena to know that weird stuff just might really exist. And while I may not fully understand all of it, I’ve always found it fascinating.

  Still, it’s one thing to be fascinated by a concept—it’s another to find yourself living in one of them.

  How else am I to explain how I went from being a Brainiac Nerd to ending up here, in this bizarre otherland where I’m the most famous teen in the world?

  I mean, one minute I’m approaching death by hypothermia, and the next some insane Christmas trolley is hauling me off to Tinsel Hills…and…

  And…

  And…when that crazy driver asked me where I wanted to go, I said, “To a different, better, much cooler life.”

  And that’s when Plum’s candle blew out.

  Plum!

  She brought all this about!

  She gave me that dumb birthday cupcake with its stupid candle that, even though I don’t understand it, served as some kind of portal that landed me here.

  And didn’t she practically force me to make a wish?

  Didn’t she say something really pushy, like “And choose your wish carefully—sometimes they really do come true!”

  Which means the wish—not the candle—was the portal.

  Only, the candle made the wish possible.

  Whatever. One thing’s for sure: Plum set this in motion. She conjured up the conditions that brought me into this world.

  Question is—why would she do that?

  Is it so I could find myself in a place where the tables are turned and she thinks I’m the biggest dork/loser/sellout?

  If it’s revenge she’s after, then I’m afraid it’s going to backfire.

  Why would I give a flying flip about Plum when I’ve been ordered to spend the next week in a recording studio with Tinsley Barnes as part of my punishment?

  And if I really am in an alternate dimension, and what that trolley driver said was true, then I have four days left to enjoy this life to the fullest before the return ticket expires.

  One minute past midnight.

  Christmas Day.

  My dream deadline.

  I head into the closet to confirm that the ticket is still stashed in the pocket of the hoodie I arrived in. Catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror, I realize what a fool I was to drink so much caffeine in an attempt to go back.

  I’ve been acting so dumb I can hardly believe it.

  Seriously. Talk about some major bonehead activity.

  I mean, wasn’t my image as a Brainiac Nerd a full-time job back in Greentree?

  At least here I have an image worth keeping.

  Not to mention how worked up I got after seeing Tinsley with Mac Turtledove, acting as though I couldn’t possibly compete, which, in retrospect, is hilarious.

  Just because Mac is still taller than me—has bigger muscles than me—is better looking than me—doesn’t mean he can compete with my International Superstar status.

  Tinsley deserves someone better than Mac.

  Someone like me.

  Besides, what exactly would I return to?

  A life as an invisible nobody, where Tinsley Barnes literally walks right over me without slowing down?

  A mean, bratty sister and completely stressed-out parents worried about back taxes and year-end financials?

  Why would I ever want to return to that when I can stay right here in Tinsel Hills and live out my life as the hottest, most celebrated star in the world with the kind of family and friends I’ve always dreamed of having? I mean, it may take some doing to get used to the new version of Sir Dasher Dashaway, but with Holly acting so nice and my parents so happy and relaxed and letting me do whatever I want, it’s definitely worth the trade-off.

  I’ve got four days to decide, but really, the choice is already made.

  I zip the pocket shut and make my way downstairs, where Plum’s mom, Lisa, catches me on my way out the door, trying to hand me a glass filled with something that looks like green slime.

  “Ezer said you’re not feeling well. I thought this might help.”

  I eyeball it suspiciously, making no move to take it.

  “It’s a—hangover cure.” She shifts uncomfortably when she says it. Like she’s embarrassed for me that it’s come to this.

  “I’m not hungover.” I wave it away. “Never felt better!” I add, directing the words to where Plum watches me from behind the cover of a book that looks as serious, dark, and boring as she is.

  For a second I consider pumping her for some info—seeing what she might know about the cupcake, the wish, and how I ended up here. But then I think: Who even cares? I’m here. It’s awesome. And I have no plans to go back to my former life as an invisible loser. Also, I’m positive our conversation would be just as painful as our last one, and I’m definit
ely not up for that this morning.

  Once I’m settled in the limo, Tinsley texts me a photo of her insanely beautiful self, grinning as she holds two red Starbucks cups in her hands.

  They won’t stay hot forever. Better hurry! she writes, completely unaware of the irony behind her words.

  I won’t stay hot forever.

  Tinsley won’t wait forever.

  I need to hurry.

  Still, I take it as a sign that I’m on the right track, tell Sparks to make it quick, then slam the divider shut and sprawl across my seat, feet propped on the window, as I stare at the picture of Tinsley until the limo pulls up to the curb.

  DECEMBER 21

  3 Days, 6 Hours, 23 Minutes, and 12 Seconds till Christmas

  COOL LIKE THAT

  Just as I’d always suspected, it’s absolutely, one hundred percent true that girls really do like bad boys. Guys who seem a little unpredictable at times. Maybe even a little rough around the edges.

  I went straight from Ezer’s meltdown regarding my wild night on the town with Dougall to the studio where Tinsley was waiting with my red Christmas-themed Starbucks cup, and it was obvious there’d been a power shift. I reached for my drink without bothering to confirm it was mine. And from the way she’d looked at me, well, I was clearly in the driver’s seat.

  She sat on a stool, legs crossed at the knees, and waved her cell phone at me. “Surprised you even showed up after a night like that.” Her voice was a little sharp and high-pitched, but I didn’t respond.

  I took my time sipping my Peppermint Mocha, which, by the way, is the number one trick to having power. Not the sipping the Peppermint Mocha part but the making her wait part. The thing about power is, you have to own it and use it in order not to lose it.

  Then, when I was good and ready, I looked at her and said, “I thought Ezer deleted all that.”

  Her lips pressed together as her eyes appraised me in a whole new way. “He can’t delete my screen shots.” She frowned at her shoes while I did a little fist-pumping victory dance in my head.