by Alyson Noel
“I think you’ll feel differently when you see the final edits.” He inspects his fingernails, acting as though he hasn’t bothered to listen to a single word I just said.
“Doubtful.” I stand before him, arms folded across my chest in an attempt to appear bigger, more authoritative, though he doesn’t seem to notice.
“I hear we got some nice footage of you and Tinsley. Wouldn’t you like to relive that look on her face when the snow started falling? I assume that was the whole point of the snow machines—all of it, really. Tell me, Nick, am I wrong to think you organized the whole show for Tinsley?”
I do my best to hold my own and maintain eye contact with Ezer. But everything he just said makes me feel ashamed and transparent. It’s like he has X-ray vision and can see right through me. Good thing Sparks drove Tinsley home. I’d hate for her to witness this mess.
“Tomorrow, Nick.” Ezer pushes off the couch and slaps a heavy hand on my shoulder, but I’m quick to duck from his reach, so his arm ends up falling loose to his side. He doesn’t react, doesn’t even seem to notice. He just heads for the door, saying, “Ten a.m. sharp. Don’t be late.” Like always, he gets the last word.
As soon as he’s gone, I sink onto my couch, surrounded by a giant mess that’ll stay that way until the cleaning crew arrives in the morning: overturned cups dripping Mojo onto just about every available surface, a broken lamp, turned-up rugs, rearranged furniture…I don’t know how famous people throw parties like this on a regular basis. It’s really destructive.
“For what it’s worth, I thought you handled that well.” At the sound of Plum’s voice, my heart practically leaps from my chest. I had no idea she was here. And I definitely didn’t invite her.
I turn to find her awkwardly folded into the acrylic bubble chair that hangs from the ceiling by a thick silver chain, heels resting on top of her knees like some kind of yoga pretzel, with an open book on her lap resting on top of a folded Santa hat. It seems like she has spent the better part of the night exactly like that.
Still, it’s not like I’m interested in her input, even if it is positive. Knowing this Tinsel Hills Plum, she’s just trying to soften me up so the insult that follows will have greater impact.
“Where’s Dougall?” I ask, sure he’s to blame for inviting her.
She shrugs and makes a face. “How should I know? Up until an hour ago, I was helping my mom.”
Time to hire a new personal chef. One who doesn’t come with an annoying daughter who insists on hanging around for the sole purpose of judging me.
“Ezer had no right to film you without your knowing. I mean, I don’t remember signing a waiver, do you?” She does that thing where one eyebrow goes up and the other stays put. “The second I spotted that camera, I was outta there. Which is kind of a shame, since I missed the part when it started to snow.”
I sink my head into my hands. “I’m pretty sure I signed my life over to Ezer the first day we met.” When my eyes dare to meet hers, I’m surprised to find she’s not wearing her usual hypercritical expression. She seems sincere. Maybe even concerned. Completely free of hidden agendas and ulterior motives. Like she’s somehow morphed into the opposite version of everything I’ve learned about her, reminding me of the Greentree Plum.
We sit like that for a while, no words passing between us other than the ones that come from our eyes. Then she untangles herself, shoves off the chair, and says, “Even with the cameras, as far as parties go, this one was epic.” She tucks her hair behind her ear, but the curls, just like in Greentree, spring right back in place. “Though I’m not sure you should have to go to all that trouble just to get a girl to kiss you.”
I close my eyes and groan. Apparently I’m so transparent even Plum saw right through me.
“It doesn’t have to be so complicated, Nick.” She pauses, waiting for me to acknowledge her words. “It doesn’t have to be some big grand thing. If she wants it to happen, you’ll know by the look in her eyes, the way she lingers in your space.” She slips her bag onto her shoulder, preparing to leave, but as strange as it seems, I can’t let her go. If she has a deeper perspective into these things, then I need her to share it with me so I can stop messing everything up.
“What do you know about it?” I say. Only it comes out sounding defensive and wrong, when what I really wanted to ask was what she knows about Tinsley’s willingness to kiss me—since she’s apparently so good at reading people.
“Well, for starters, I am a girl.” She folds her arms across her chest and juts one hip to the side. So sure of herself and the subject it makes me wonder who she might’ve kissed. Possibly someone like the skinny rocker dude she seemed so obsessed with in the magazine?
The thought leaves me deflated.
I’ll never understand what girls are really thinking.
Or why they do the things they do.
Say the things they say.
Like the people they like.
They’re pretty much the biggest mystery in the universe.
“She wanted to kiss me,” I say. I’m not sure why, but I feel the need to explain. I can’t let her leave thinking I’m pathetic and delusional. “It was right there in her eyes—just like you said.”
“Well, okay, then.” Plum lifts her shoulders and drops them back down, as though it’s decided. But it’s not. Not even close.
“But then I saw the camera and…” My voice fades, no point in going on.
“You know what your problem is, Nick?” Her fingers pick at her sleeve as her mouth curves into a grin, as though she can hardly wait to lay it on me.
I shoot her a wary look. As far as she’s concerned, the list of my problems is infinite, and I’m not sure I’m up for hearing it. Still, I feel like I should beat her to the punch, let her know she can’t get to me no matter how hard she might try.
“That I’m a soft sellout who makes manufactured, inauthentic crap I try to disguise as music?” Repeating pretty much the exact same things she told Dougall.
“No, not that.” She waves it away, doesn’t even try to deny it. “You’re a romantic, Nick Dashaway. That’s your real problem. And this town is brutal for people like you.”
She looks at me for a long moment, peering through thick layers of mascara and black eyeliner like she wants to make sure her words have really penetrated.
Satisfied, she makes for the door. And that’s when I realize how much I want her to stay.
But that’s probably only because I don’t want to be alone.
I’ve barely had any time to myself, and I guess I’ve gotten so used to being surrounded by celebrities, fans, and employees of the Nick Dashaway show that I forgot how nice it is to be treated like a normal person.
I’m about to call her back, but I’m a few seconds too late.
“Night, Nick,” she says, almost like it’s an afterthought. Her dark hair swinging over her shoulder, she places the Santa hat on the entry table and leaves me in this big, empty house, all alone with my thoughts.
DECEMBER 22
2 Days, 7 Hours, 32 Minutes, and 43 Seconds till Christmas
GUESS WHO’S COMING TO DINNER
By the third take, we’ve nailed it.
Or at least, that’s what Ezer claims.
If it were up to me, I’d opt to go again, but he insists it’s all there.
“If anything’s missing, we’ll fix it in the edit,” he says.
“But I don’t want it to come off as overdone,” I tell him, surprised to find I’m only three days in and I’m already growing tired of the signature Nick Dashaway manufactured sound. “I want it raw, kind of earthy and gritty. Maybe we should try an acoustic version, just to see?”
Ezer looks at me like I’m crazy. “You’re a star, not an artist. Be happy for that. It means you’re not starving for attention, money, or anything else.”
I start to object, but Tinsley cuts me off. “I’m with Nick.” She shoots me a covert look, like we’re in this together. “It would b
e fun to try, and it might sound even better on the show. You know, make it seem more spontaneous, less rehearsed.”
“Yeah,” I say, encouraged by Tinsley’s argument. “We could put some chairs next to a Christmas tree, and Tinsley could play guitar, and I—”
“I like it.” Ezer nods and squints into the distance, like he’s watching the whole scene unspool on the far wall. “It could work.” The nod grows more convinced.
“Of course, we’ll need a tree,” I say. Which, now that I think about it, is a really strange thing to be missing, considering we’ve been filming the Christmas Countdown since the day I arrived. My house is still only partially decorated.
“It’s handled. Everything’s handled,” Ezer says. “Though I do like Tinsley’s idea. Tell you what, you two get your acoustic version worked out, and if it’s any good, we’ll include it in the tree-trimming episode. Good thinking, Tins.”
He gives her shoulder a squeeze and leads us outside, and I try not to be overly miffed by how the whole thing went down. If Ezer wants to give Tinsley credit for something that was clearly my idea, so be it. As long as it happens, it doesn’t really matter who gets the acknowledgment.
“Hey, I just thought of something.” Ezer stands before the elevator doors, rubbing his hands together in the way he does when he’s dreaming about large, gleaming piles of money. “The second the episode airs, we’ll make the songs available for purchase. We’ll see if we can swing an exclusive with iTunes—I’m sure they’ll be thrilled to have it. Heck, we’ll give ’em both the studio version and the acoustic version so we can watch ’em duke it out for number one. Either way you’ll score the number one and number two spots on the charts!”
It’s a good plan, there’s no denying it. Still, I find it funny how he acts like it’s all for my benefit, like he doesn’t get a hefty chunk of the cut. Maybe I’ve never been to his house, but my guess is, he’s living large.
“How come you never invite me over to your house?” I shield my eyes from the sun as I follow him and Tinsley outside. “How come you’re always at my house and I’m never at yours?”
“You want to come over?” Ezer pauses before his big black Escalade.
I nod, my gaze never once veering from his. I want to see where he lives. Maybe get a peek at Tinsley’s room. Any excuse to be near her and hopefully finish the moment I started at the party.
“Well, all right, then. Why don’t you stop by for dinner tonight?”
I hold his gaze, not sure I trust that it’s really that easy. But when I switch to Tinsley and see her smile excitedly, that’s when I realize just how paranoid working with Ezer has made me.
“Great,” I say. “See you at seven.”
Just as I figured, Ezer is living the good life.
His house is big. Sprawling. Like a castle, with lots of stone and big turrets. The only things missing are a drawbridge and a moat filled with alligators.
First thing I do when the maid answers the door and leads me inside is check for cameras.
Did I mention how paranoid he’s made me?
If there’s one thing I know for sure, it’s that Ezer wouldn’t dream of missing a filmable moment for the Twelve Days of Dashaway Christmas Countdown, but for tonight anyway we seem to be clear.
Guess he values his own privacy more than mine.
The maid directs me to the den, where Tinsley sits on the couch near the fireplace, strumming her guitar and singing softly, as though she hasn’t just spent the entire day doing just that, while Ezer barks into his cell phone from somewhere in the next room.
“Nick—hey, I’ll just be a sec.” He butts his head in, fixes a hand over the speaker as he whisper-yells, “Why don’t you two practice a bit?” Then, before we can answer, he’s back to yelling into his phone.
Tinsley slides over, making room for me. She starts from the beginning as I clear my throat, wait a few beats, then pick up on cue. She looks so pretty in her blue dress, with her hair falling in soft waves around her face, it’s all I can do to keep my focus on singing. With our voices blending so well, I’m kind of lost in the music when Ezer appears before us, claps his hands loudly, and says, “That’s it. That’s exactly what I’m looking for. Now, if you can just duplicate that at the studio tomorrow, we’ll be swimming in platinum!”
I close my eyes and groan. I’m so sick of the studio. While it’s nice having access to Tinsley for hours on end, it’s mostly spent working. Not to mention that there’s no way I’ll ever get to kiss her in that boring, sterile room that’s always crowded with Ezer and sound geeks.
“But that’s enough shop talk for today,” he says. “Let’s get you two fed. You’re going to need plenty of energy for tomorrow.” He herds us into a dining room that fits right in with the modern castle theme, with its supersized table, big iron candelabras running down the center, heavy wood chairs with legs carved like claws, and so many heaping platters of food it’s hard to take them in all at once. When Ezer takes his place at the head, lowering himself onto a large velvet cushion, the only thing missing is a crown.
Even though I kind of make fun of him and his castle house in my head, I have to admit, the food is really good and the conversation’s not nearly as boring as I expected. Maybe it’s the luxury of actually sitting down to a meal as opposed to always eating on the run, maybe it’s the goblet of wine in Ezer’s hand—whatever the cause, pretty much for the first time ever, Ezer loosens up and actually talks about stuff that has nothing to do with untapped endorsement possibilities, the show’s ratings, or the number of units “Twelve Days” has sold on iTunes.
It’s so nice hanging out like this, almost like we’re a family, that I find myself wishing I could stretch each moment just a little bit longer so the night would never have to end. It also makes me determined to spend more time with my actual family, since the only time I ever get to see them is when we’re filming the show, and even then every moment is micromanaged and scripted. Once, when I complained to Ezer, he claimed he had no choice but to keep us apart. They’ll just get in the way, he said, which doesn’t make any sense. From what little time I’ve spent with them, they seem really nice and supportive, always willing to pitch in and help. Holly included, which is not something I could ever say about the Greentree Holly.
I’m beginning to think Ezer has major control issues.
When the dessert course is presented, I’m about to dig in, but then Ezer and Tinsley both decline theirs, so I decline mine as well. And the next thing I know, the plates are being cleared, Ezer is back to yelling into his cell phone, and that warm family feeling is gone.
Tinsley leads me into the den, and the moment we’re alone, she does a spot-on impersonation of Ezer that gets me laughing so hard I’m practically wheezing. But when we settle onto the couch and she tells me how Ezer isn’t technically her uncle—how her parents died when she was a baby, and Ezer, her dad’s best friend, stepped in to raise her, well, suddenly it’s not so easy to laugh at him anymore.
It’s pretty much the last thing I expected. I guess because it’s a surprisingly nice and decent thing to do, and I didn’t expect that of Ezer.
“In the early years he raised me all on his own.” She leans back against the cushions and crosses one leg over the other as her gaze blurs into memory. “He couldn’t afford a nanny until I was around eight and he started managing a boy band that shot straight to the top. When the money started pouring in, the first thing he did was buy this house and hire someone to look after me. I wouldn’t have any of this if it wasn’t for him.”
The second I hear that, I can’t help but feel guilty for mentally accusing him of being a control freak when all along he’s just been doing his best to protect me.
“When the band broke up, he planned to take an extended vacation, maybe even walk away from it all.” She rubs her lips together and looks right at me. “But then he heard you sing, and he figured the vacation could wait.”
I lean in, eager to hear more while als
o trying to pretend like I’ve heard this story before, like I actually lived it.
“He said you were rough around the edges but it wasn’t anything that good training couldn’t fix.”
Her lips curve into a smile, and she looks so pretty I’m forced to turn my attention to the glass of Mojo the maid just placed before me.
How could I have gotten it so wrong? All this time I’ve been annoyed with Ezer, thinking he was the bad guy, always getting in my way and telling me what to do, when in reality it’s not like that at all.
“Said you reminded him of himself when he was your age.”
Hunh?
I guess I was so engrossed in my thoughts, I lost track of what Tinsley was saying. But that got my attention, mostly because it’s exactly what Josh Frost said.
“Ezer used to sing?” As much as I try to picture it, it’s impossible to imagine. It’s easier to see him as one of those WWE wrestlers than as a teen heartthrob.
“No, silly. I’d have thought you would’ve known that.”
She pushes me playfully on the shoulder, and her hand lingers a few seconds longer than necessary. But I’m so busy trying to think of something to say to cover the flub I forget to enjoy the feel of Tinsley’s touch. And just when I start to, her hand returns to her lap.
“He meant you’re both ambitious, driven to succeed. Ezer tried to sing, but it didn’t take long to realize he just didn’t have it—you know, that thing that makes someone worth watching?”
She tilts her head to the side and scrunches her nose the tiniest bit, but no matter how irresistible she may look, I can’t help thinking: Yeah, that thing. That indefinable thing I didn’t have in Greentree but I surely do here, even though I’m exactly the same.
“Anyway, it’s cute how he thinks of you as his son.”
I wait for the punch line, sure that she’s joking. From the way Ezer’s always lecturing me, I figured he thought of me as his biggest annoyance. But when she leaves it at that, I say, “Are you serious?”