by Joe Shine
Claire shoved me out of the elevator. “He’s inside,” she half shouted over the wind and rain.
I turned and squinted at her. “You’re not coming?”
“In that?” she laughed. “Not in these shoes.” The doors began to close. “Good luck!”
I grimaced and pulled my training jacket over my head, then bolted for the cottage. I was soaked by the time I reached the cover of the porch.
Blake must have heard me land on the wooden porch because he called out, “Come on in.”
I hung my soaked jacket on a hook next to the door, shook my wet hair dry like a dog, and went inside.
Man, it was warm in here. Toasty and comfortable. Blake was sitting by the fire sipping tea and there was a bottle of Dr Pepper next to a glass of ice on the table for me. He looked different. Older. Like some great stress had been slowly eating at him since we spoke last. His face looked tired and the charm that seemed to radiate from him was gone. Even his clothes felt off. The khaki pants were frayed at the bottom, and the blue sweater had seen better days.
“Sorry about the weather,” he told me as I took my seat and poured a glass of soda. “It’s programmed to reflect my mood.”
“You mad about something?” I asked.
“A little, but mostly sad,” he said with a pained smile.
“So you’re ‘smad.’”
He chuckled.
My fake smile didn’t reach my eyes. “Not about me, right?” Was this why I’d been called here? Was the stray dog finally being put down?
“No, my dear boy, no. A decision was made that affects us and I do not agree with it. Backs me into a bit of a corner, if you will.”
“Sorry?” I offered. No clue what he was talking about, but glad it wasn’t about me.
He downed the rest of his tea, put the cup on the table, and sighed. “Not your fault in the least, but I appreciate your politeness. You always were a good kid. So, are you ready?”
I nodded. “I’ve been waiting a long time to be linked.” Hope springs eternal.
“Linked?” He seemed genuinely surprised. “You’re not getting linked. Not now and especially not here. No, if we linked you now, there would be no way you could go to your audition. You would only care about Ryo.”
“Oh, then . . .”
“Why are you here?” He stuck out his hand. “I just wanted to wish you luck.”
I shook it, baffled.
“And to stress on you that this isn’t a done deal, Bobby. Our inside man can only grease the wheels so much. If you’re terrible, no amount of grease will cover your squeak. You have the look, but you still need to give him something tangible to work with when he champions you to others. You have to impress.” Now he seemed baffled. “Why do you think we went through all of this if all you had to do was show up?”
How could this not be a done deal? You have the power to kidnap teenagers and turn them into walking weapons, but you don’t have the power to manipulate the outcome of a boy band audition? That’s where your reach stops? How is that possible? How could you honestly not know the outcome of the audition? This mattered?!
“If I don’t impress?” I asked, pissed.
“Then all of this would have been for naught—a waste of time and resources, and we will have no further use for you.” His tone was polite. But the subtext was clear: they would put me down like an animal.
He wasn’t serious, was he? I mean, no further use for me, really? Didn’t need someone to change lightbulbs in the training center even? My life had suddenly boiled down to one simple this or that: boy band or die. Hilarious. Of all the “or die” scenarios Shane had ever considered for his great opening speech, I bet boy band had never been one of them.
“I’ll do my best,” I offered.
“For your sake and ours, I hope that’s good enough,” he said absently. His eyes met mine, and he straightened. “I have no doubt it will be.”
Nice try with the morale booster, buddy. Lesson learned: never threaten someone with death and then try to give them the old “you’ll do fine.”
“You should get going. I’m shifting from ‘smad’ to plain mad. A hurricane is coming.”
I was driven deep into the woods to a private airstrip, where a row of bare-bones no-frills military cargo planes sat. I climbed inside the one they dropped me off at.
“Claire?” I blurted out.
There she was, strapped into one of the standard jump seats that unfolded from the walls. She motioned for me to take the seat across from her. “What are you doing here?” I asked as I sat down.
“I’m your chaperone.”
“My what?”
“You didn’t think we’d let you go alone, did you?”
“Training wheels are coming off soon anyway, so yeah, I guess I did,” I admitted. “So how’d you get stuck with me on this trip?”
“It was my idea,” she admitted.
“Of course it was,” I said, toying with her. “Like I said, there’s no shame in these feelings, Claire. They’re mutual.”
She rolled her eyes as the plane began to move. I instinctively tried to open the window shade so I could look out. But these weren’t shades. In fact, they were painted black. Dang, the mystery of where exactly the FATE Center was would not be solved today, I guessed.
“So what, if anyone asks, are you like my sister or something?”
“If anything, I’d be your mother,” she corrected me.
“My mother? What?! Did you have me when you were like twelve?”
She waved off my comment, but I saw a bit of blush there.
“No one should ask, though. I’m only here to get you to the audition and back. For everything in between, you’ll be on your own. Which brings us to . . .” She reached into her bag and pulled out a folder.
“Okay, you will be auditioning for the role of the bad boy. Shouldn’t be much of a stretch for you.”
She handed me the folder.
“This is your new cover. We kept it simple. Instead of a kid from the streets of Austin, you’re now from Tyler. In that folder you’ll find information about the city, why no one will remember you, the fact that you were homeschooled, and any other information vital to pulling off the ruse. Read it. Know it. Believe it.”
“You gonna quiz me on this?” I joked.
“Yes, actually,” she said in all seriousness.
She really did it. Periodically she’d stop me and quiz me on what I’d just read. She was relentless throughout the entire flight and it didn’t stop on the cab ride to the convention center either. By the time we got there, I really was Bobby Sky from Tyler, Texas, and my dream was to be in a boy band.
Now, I knew there’d be a crowd, but I hadn’t expected this. Yeah, I’d seen pictures from when American Idol had come to Austin back in the day, but I’d never gone near the auditions. It really wasn’t my thing. But seeing pictures of something like this and actually being in the middle of it is not the same. This was total madness. A cattle call of teen boys.
“Showtime,” Claire said as she slid out of the cab.
I took a deep breath and slid out behind her. She got back in.
“Whoa, what?” I asked.
“You said it yourself: the training wheels have to come off at some point. And besides, wouldn’t me being there be an issue?” she asked, raising her eyebrow. One last quiz of my cover.
I racked my brain and came up with, “I had to sneak up here because my parents don’t support my singing. I’ll probably catch hell for it. Oh, and a real bad boy wouldn’t have his mom with him.”
“Not even a hot one like me,” she joked. “Good luck.”
“Boy band or die,” I teased and gave a mocking fist pump.
“Text me when you’re done, and we’ll meet back here.”
I nodded.
�
�You’re not going to run, are you?”
“Only if you’re coming with me.”
She rolled her eyes and shook her head playfully. “The Drake, please,” she told the driver.
In truth I hadn’t even considered making a run for it. The thought lasted for a second, tops. Boy band or not, this was who I was, what I was. There was also the knowledge of what, or specifically who, would come after me if I even tried to run. Yeah, not gonna test those waters. I turned and headed to join the mass of teenage boys waiting to get inside the center.
A young skater kid stopped by and asked, “What’s going on?”
“Open auditions,” I told him.
“For what?”
“Singing. A nationwide search for a (gulp) boy band.”
“Lame,” he said, putting his earbuds in and skating off.
I hear ya, buddy.
Surrounded by competition, I started to feel a little nervous. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been to any audition, let alone something as big as this. I wonder if anyone else here was facing an “or die” ultimatum like me. I doubted it.
Some kid with an amazing voice was singing up ahead of me. Oh, great, the nerves are really coming back now. Wait, I can practically kill a man with a look at this point. How can any of this make me nervous!?! I knew the answer to that: no matter how many singing lessons I had, no matter how good Brance said I was, in my mind I was still the little kid in elementary school who always got tossed into the chorus. Tree-number-seven-type roles. Or once I was even “doorknob.” My singing confidence was built on those super-solid foundations and no amount of world-class training could change that self-doubt.
The line surged forward and my heart beat harder. Okay, enough is enough, stupid nerves. Sit back down. If you get up again, I’ll beat the crap out of you. I don’t suck. I know that. Yeah, I’m not as talented as probably most of the kids around me, but that didn’t matter. I don’t think FATE would have wasted their time on me if they didn’t think I was good enough, right? Good enough. That’s what I’m going for. Great? Not a chance, but good enough? That I had. My whole life could be called good enough. At the Pearly Gates if St. Peter asked me how I’d say my life had gone, I could have shrugged and honestly answered, “Good enough.”
As the line moved closer and closer, I got calmer and calmer, so by the time the herd reached the inside of the convention center, I was good to go again. At one point during the march we passed a pair of police officers and I instinctively ducked my head and avoided eye contact. Old habits die hard. Their radios were crackling as usual, and their eyes scanned the crowd, but neither gave me a second look.
I followed along with the mass of boys, some of whom were accompanied by a parent or two, down a hallway, around a corner, and into a massive open space the size of at least a few football fields. The space was sectioned off into walled zones, but to our immediate left the wall was lined with tables. On the wall above each table was a sign with a range of letters such as a-b and c-d, etc. Lines were already thick and heavy for each table.
“Using your last name, please check in at the appropriate table,” yelled a hoarse, exhausted girl in the middle.
I immediately went for g-h and stood there for five full minutes before remembering my last name now started with an S. I quickly relocated to the s-t line. I couldn’t see anyone singing, but I could hear it coming from all over somewhere beyond the makeshift walls. My line was long, but it moved along steadily enough to not be annoying.
When it was finally my turn, I told the guy manning the table, “Sky, Bobby.”
He looked at me like “Are you serious?!” but scanned through his list and tapped on my name when he saw it. He scribbled down a six-digit number on a piece of paper that looked like the bib thing marathon runners wore and handed it to me.
“Hold this up under your chin and look here,” he said, sounding tired and bored.
“Like a mug shot?” I joked. Finally, some familiar territory. I knew I could ace mug shots.
“Uh, sure,” he said, not amused. After snapping the picture, he added, “Now put it on and head to audition queue . . . thirty-seven.”
I peeled off the sticky tape on the back, slapped it on my stomach, and looked around for queue thirty-seven. It took some wandering, but I found it after a few minutes.
As I reached the end of my designated line, someone yelled, “Hey, you!”
I ignored the yell, even though I got the feeling it was directed at me. No way. Nobody knew me here.
“I said, hey you,” the same voice said directly behind me as a hand touched my shoulder and spun me around.
Standing behind me was a small, nerdy girl with an iPad, glasses, and an earpiece connected to a walkie-talkie, looking up at me like she would rather be anywhere else. I feel ya, sister.
“I think I found him,” she said flatly into her earpiece.
I think I found him? Huh? Then it hit me, right, the insider was probably greasing some of those wheels Blake had been going on and on about. She held up her iPad next to my face, which had my mug shot from earlier on it.
“Yeah, he does actually look like the picture . . . It’s not just a perfect angle . . . Will do,” she said in response to whoever was on the other line. “Follow me,” she told me.
“Where?” Even in a rigged game, it’s always good to know where you’re going.
“To your audition.”
“Isn’t that what’s going on here?”
“You don’t want to audition here. Come on.”
That caught me a bit off guard. Greasy wheels or not, the point of all this was I’d go through the motions. It had to look legit. How could not auditioning like everyone else be okay? “Or die” began dancing along sadistically in my head.
She leaned in closer and whispered, “You want to have a real shot at being in the band?”
I nodded.
“Then you don’t audition here; you audition somewhere else. That call I got meant they saw something they liked. These other kids”—she motioned with her head to the others—“are just crossing something off their bucket list. If they’re auditioning here, it means they don’t actually stand a chance. The call I got means the way you look means you do, so come on,” she practically commanded while nodding back at the door I’d entered through.
“Bobby Sky, really?” she asked me as I followed her.
“Yep.”
“Seriously, is that your real name?”
“Yep.” Nope.
“Growing up must have sucked.”
“Yep.”
“You know more words than ‘yep’?”
“Yep.” I smiled widely.
“Cute.”
We exited the main room out into a side hallway. She asked me to confirm my address, cell number, and birthday—all made up, of course—as she led me up two escalators, down another long hallway, and into a smaller, more private room. It reminded me of the ones in singing reality shows on TV, except there were no cameras and no elaborate decorations. A group of ten or so people ranging in age from twentysomething to fiftysomething sat in generic foldout chairs behind a couple of collapsible buffet tables. Sodas and a few trays of snacks were on a table off to the side. Nothing fancy. Once we’d entered, all eyes shifted to us, or more precisely, to me. I wondered which one was my insider buddy.
“Oh my God, he’s perfect,” said a heavyset man still comically trying to look young and hip. His thinning hair was in a frosted fauxhawk, his collar was popped, and his jeans had more bedazzling than a chandelier.
“He’s even better in person,” a younger but even more stupidly dressed man muttered.
The reactions of the other members of the audience were equally as strange and enthusiastic. Most of it was inaudible, but I for sure heard “bad boy” and “rocker” thrown around repeatedly in a giddy discussi
on amongst them. Okay, so this was already going well, but it was weird, too. These people, whoever they were, seemed important and for some reason genuinely excited to see me. No one, aside from my mother, had ever been excited to see me, and even that had been rare. Maybe these wheels had been a bit overgreased. What had this guy told them about me?
“Thank you, Genie,” said a confident, attractive, well-dressed fortysomething woman in the middle of the group. “We’ll handle it from here.”
The girl who’d brought me up, Genie apparently, nodded slightly and walked out.
“Bobby Sky?” the woman asked me once Genie was gone.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I love the manners, but my friends call me Linda, please.”
“Yes, ma’ . . . I mean, Linda,” I corrected with a smile.
“Okay then, Bobby . . .”
“Hutch,” I interrupted softly. “My friends call me Hutch.” No sooner had the words left my mouth than I cringed. It was habit. I’d spent my whole life telling people to call me Hutch, so it was second nature.
“Hutch then,” she said with a smirk as she scribbled something down.
“You know what? Bobby’s fine,” I blurted out.
“You sure?”
“Yeah, yeah, let’s go with Bobby. Sorry.”
“Not a problem. It’s your name,” she said. I could tell some of her excitement was gone now, thanks to my awesome name snafu. I needed to get her back on the Sky train. Oh, wow, that sounds so terrible I bet it becomes a thing. All aboard the Sky train. Ugh, I think I just threw up in my mouth a little.
“Okay then, Bobby, tell us a little about yourself,” she asked me.
“Like what?” What did this have to do with singing?
“Whatever you want. Just be yourself. Tell us who you are.” She held up the “application” I’d submitted online. “Something not on this.”
“Okay, well,” I said as I took a deep breath and tried to figure out where to begin or what to say. The application had basically been my entire cover.
This had not been part of the plan. Sing my way up the food chain until I reached the decision makers and then show them I was at least worthy of consideration for boy-band-ness—that had been the plan. Our man would do the rest. There was no “Tell us about yourself or who you are.” I hadn’t practiced this. I wasn’t really prepared for this. Yeah, I had a fake cover that I knew inside and out, but that was for answering questions about where I was from, not who I was.