by JL Paul
“I see here that you’ll be singing Somewhere over the Rainbow,” Marissa Castle, the wicked witch of the show snarled. I knew it was her least favorite because unlike my mother, I watched the specials on the making of this show.
“Yes, that’s true,” I said sweetly, smiling like the good little girl I am. Take that, I thought.
“Show us what ya got,” Big D, probably my favorite judge on the show, urged.
So I did. I put every emotion and feeling into every note and heard my voice echo off the auditorium walls, bouncing back to me like a faithful hound. I finished to a short burst of applause from three out of five of the judges. Of course, Chelsea was smiling. Marissa, on the other hand, nodded grudgingly. She turned to her equally evil partner in crime, Richard Daniels who lifted a shoulder. It was as good as a ‘yes,’ though I wasn’t ready to celebrate.
“Lovely, Miss Quinn,” Marissa said. She glanced down at her panel who all nodded. “We’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Thank you,” I said politely with another dazzling, dimpled smile. I almost curtsied but thought that might be a little over the top. Instead, I strolled just as confidently off the stage and into my mother’s overexcited arms.
“You were so wonderful,” she gushed, kissing my cheek.
“Thanks, Mom,” I muttered. “Can we get out of here now?”
“I have to find out what time tomorrow,” she said, flagging down the man with the headset. He handed her a paper after scrawling my name at the top. He flashed me a quick grin then hunted down the next victim.
***
The next day was pretty much the same except I chose to sing a Whitney Houston number – one that didn’t require me to hit as high a note as she could. Yeah, I could sing but nobody can sing like Whitney. I’m talking the pre-Bobby Brown Whitney. The one I also knew Marissa adored. Maybe Gwen was rubbing off on me.
And it worked, much to my beaming mother’s delight. I was dubbed an official contestant of American Star: Indianapolis.
Now I was nervous. Live TV. Marissa and Richard snarling at me. Although I was of legal age, I didn’t drink but I had a feeling I’d turn into a raging alcoholic by the time this ordeal was over.
As I sat backstage with my co-competitors, we received our instructions. I listened carefully although it probably wasn’t necessary. My mother was there, after all, soaking in every single word.
And then Miguel, the head set guy, sprang the news on us. I tried to keep my posture the exact same, not wanting to clue my mother in the least how I absolutely loathed this idea.
“This season, we will do something new to promote the show. We are going to allow the viewing audience a chance to vote for their favorite to sing the National Anthem at the Indianapolis Racers game on Memorial Day. As you are eliminated, your name will also be eliminated from this contest, so whoever receives the most votes out of the survivors will get to sing at the game.”
He looked so proud of himself that I wanted to take his clipboard and smack him upside the head. I scanned my co-competitors again, praying for a sexy, busty blonde or a hot guy – someone that would send the viewers into a lust-filled frenzy and crash the server in their eagerness to vote. However, everyone looked pretty normal. I amended my prayer and asked God for a very talented make-up person instead. Not for me but for one of the others.
I could not step foot in that stadium nor could I stand just feet away from the dugout and sing. I’d die first. Or lose, which was worse in my mother’s eyes.
***
The show started the second week of May and would eliminate two of the original twenty-five competitors each week for ten weeks until the finals. The last five would compete for a record deal.
I have to say I did fairly well my first time on television. I only threw up afterwards. Much later, on the phone, my sister told me how green I looked and that they should have used more make-up. I told her to…copulate with herself. That only amused her further.
My mother, naturally, chose my music – Mariah Carey- and it definitely wouldn’t have been my first choice. I am not extremely comfortable singing in that pitch. I prefer something a little lower with a little more bite to it. Being the good girl that I am, I went along and stepped out on the stage. As my knees knocked into each other, I was afraid I’d fall and the microphone would somehow get lodged up my nose.
Surprisingly, I managed to avoid that sort of incident. When the music started, I managed to only flatten two notes but I chalked that up to nerves. I couldn’t get my feet to move much as they were frozen to the floor as my terrorized eyes watched the cameras follow my every breath. I was happy when I finished and was allowed to flee backstage.
The next day, I had to reappear for the results show. It was rather annoying. They lined us up to face the firing squad (judges) who picked apart our performances. Then, they would choose five competitors and give them a chance to perform again. The two that failed to impress were booted.
When my name was called, I stepped forward to receive my critique. First in the line was Stephen Cashmain, lead singer for one of my favorite bands. He winked and I couldn’t hold in my smile.
“I liked your selection, Miss Aubrey,” he began in that raspy voice that I always had to close my eyes when listening. Dangerous when driving, definitely. “Mariah Carey is not the easiest. But you nailed it, sweetheart. I say you move on.”
My grin widened as I looked to sweet Chelsea. “Oh I agree,” she gushed which was her fashion. “Your voice is amazing! I can’t believe your range. I vote that you move on.”
Yay, I thought. Next.
Big D grinned. He looked dangerous but I knew he was a softie. I watched the specials, remember? “Girl, not only do you look good but you sound good. Keep on.”
I thanked him and took a deep breath to face Richard. He studied me, head cocked to the side. “I agree you have the voice but you haven’t made any of the songs you’ve done for us yours. I’ll move you on but you’re going to have to insert your style if you want to make it to the finals.”
Not too bad. I nodded and turned to the always evil witch Marissa. She, of course, agreed with Richard. “You hardly moved. You need to get into the music. Pretend that you wrote it. Sing it with more feeling. I’ll allow you to move on only because I know there were worse performances than yours.”
“Thanks,” I said with my dimpled smile and stepped back in line. The things I muttered to myself about Marissa were things I was certain my mother wouldn't approve.
Finally the ‘worst five’ performed and two were booted. I groaned for one of them was a young man I thought had potential to woe the largely female audience. I'd hoped he’d be a shoo-in for the National Anthem thing.
Of course that was not to be. Not with my luck. As Memorial Day raced closer, my popularity on the show and online grew. After the second show, someone dubbed me The American Sweetheart and the name stuck. My mother absolutely loved it. My father grunted in his recliner. My sister laughed hysterically. Me, I puked.
I blamed my mother for that horrid moniker. She chose my outfits, my music, even the way I wore my hair. She had me looking like an overgrown, brunette Shirley Temple.
I became obsessive over the National Anthem voting and checked it hourly. I voted as many times as I could, for other people, but it didn’t matter. I was a hometown girl, even though the show was televised nationally, and the people of Indianapolis wanted their Sweetheart singing for their Racers. It further hurt my chances of losing that all the remaining contestants were from places like Chicago and Cleveland. No other Indianapolis natives had survived.
So I began to deal with the latest hand dealt by fate. I watched more and more Racers game in preparation for seeing Jess in the flesh. Maybe.
A new idea buoyed my spirits as I began to observe others singing the National Anthem. They didn’t appear to have any contact whatsoever with the players. Hopefully, I’d be shuffled in and out so quickly, Jess wouldn’t even notice. That was my dream anyway and I
stuck to it like flypaper.
I allowed myself to get more excited about the show. I even shook off Marissa and Richard’s nasty remarks the last week before Memorial Day. Who cared? The other three judges obviously loved my – gag – sweetheart image and passed me on to the next week easily.
But I did worry to some degree what Richard kept pounding into my head. He was right, I admitted. I wasn’t getting into my music like I usually did. Maybe once the whole Memorial Day crap was over I would be able to just let the music flow over me again. I must be too tense.
The Friday before Memorial Day, my mother received a call from Miguel with instructions for the game. I was resigned to the fact that I would be doing it and blocked Jess Rivers from my brain. It would totally suck if The American Sweetheart forgot the words to the National Anthem.
***
Indianapolis Racers Stadium was decked out for Memorial Day. Red, white, and blue banners hung everywhere and soldiers dressed in camouflage roamed the concourse. My mother, Miguel, and I followed the PR man for the Racers to a sort of holding area near the field. My hands trembled as I ignored the players – some close enough for me to touch – saunter out of the dugout to warm up.
Jess was pitching today. I’d known that for awhile. Like I said, I’d worked out the five man rotation and figured it in my head the day Miguel told us of this dreaded event.
From my own, personal training of the singing of the National Anthem, I learned that the starting pitcher usually warmed up in the bullpen which was located on the far end of the stadium, near left field. Far enough away from the dugout which was where I was to exit and enter the field. I figured I was safe.
But nothing had prepared me for the throwing of the first pitch. A local soldier had that honor, thankfully, but who else would catch it but his favorite player?
As the announcement came, the soldier walked out on the field and Jess sprinted from the bullpen to take his place behind the plate. The ball was thrown and caught and Jess trotted out to shake the man’s hand. When he walked him to the dugout, he caught my glance. An irritating smirk crossed his lips and in that second I knew that he knew I’d be here. Anger burned my veins as I also suddenly knew the arrogant ass more than likely voted for me to be here.
As the PR man led me to the field, Jess nodded at me. Lifting my chin to ignore him, I heard his soft chuckle. We reached the microphone stand and I turned to face the crowd, shocked to see Jess standing against the dugout rail, baseball in his hands. I’d hoped he’d return to the bullpen or at least sit in the dugout but no, of course he wouldn’t.
The players for both teams lined outside of their dugouts to face the flag. The announcer asked patrons to remove their hats and informed them who I was. A smattering of applause filled me with enough confidence to ignore Jess and allow music to fill my body. I belted each note perfectly and even waved when I finished.
My mother was talking with Miguel, paying me no attention, as I began my agonizing journey past Jess. Just as I thought I might make it out unscathed, Jess grabbed my arm, startling me, and crammed a baseball in my hand. He gave me a wink and released me.
Sighing, I took my bag from my mother, not looking back. We weren’t staying for the game.
“What’s that?” she asked, eyeing the ball in my hand.
“Oh, one of the players signed it for me,” I said as I shoved it into my bag. “Maybe I’ll give it to Dad.”
She nodded, already forgetting about it. She loathed sports.
When I finally reached the privacy of my own room, I took the baseball out and found his scrawled autograph. And there, below his signature, a telephone number with the words ‘call me’ underneath. I groaned and fought the urge to sling the damn thing through my bedroom window.
Chapter Three
“So call him, sissy,” Gwen said, insulting instead of endearing. “He obviously wants to see you or else he wouldn’t have gone through the effort.”
My father had left for his office earlier and my mother had followed soon after, claiming to need material for a new outfit for me. Oh joy. I had taken that opportunity to call Gwen with my latest whine.
“I don’t know that I want to ever speak to him again,” I declared petulantly.
“Stop being a baby,” Gwen chastised. “Call him and see what he wants.”
“You were supposed to remind me how broken-hearted I was,” I fumed. It wasn’t fair at all. She was my sister, not his.
“You were a teenager. Now you’re a big girl.”
“Goodbye, Gwen.” I waited for her laughter. I wasn’t disappointed.
“Call me later.”
Ending the call, I snatched the baseball off my nightstand. I turned it over and over in my hand until I stopped on his signature. I dropped the phone to my bed and ran a finger lightly over his scratchy writing. The J and the first R were huge but the rest of the letters looked like chicken scratch. I wondered how long it took him to perfect it.
But the numbers were perfectly legible as were the instructions below them. Could I call him? Should I? I closed my eyes and pictured him again. His hair was longer than it had been in high school, curling slightly above his collar. His eyes, still a smoldering gray.
Picking up my phone, I punched the numbers before I could change my mind. It rang three times and I was beginning to think I might be off the hook but alas, he finally answered with a curt ‘hello.’
“Jess?” The Jess I knew, er…well…used to know, wasn’t quite so cranky.
“Yeah. Who’s this?” Someone needed a quick rubdown by a sexy sports trainer.
“It’s me, Aubrey.”
“Well, well, well. I never thought you’d actually call.” His grumpy tone quickly lifted only to be replaced with amusement.
“You told me to,” I pointed out. I guess his cranky mood transferred to me.
“Yeah but since when do you listen to anyone but your mother?”
I growled. “Would you like me to hang up now?”
“Nah. I was hoping you’d meet me for lunch today.”
Was he for real? Of course he was. Jess was pretty much straight forward.
“Maybe I don’t want to,” I said. Not totally mature, I know. Shoot me.
He barked out a laugh. “You know you do, that’s why you called. Come on, Aubrey Rose.”
“Jess, you know I hate that name. You’re not exactly endearing yourself to me.”
“Sorry, sweetheart. I’m at Champs. Meet me here in an hour. I’m buying.”
He hung up without waiting for an answer, but he knew I would be there.
I rifled through my closet, searching for the perfect casual outfit. After taking a quick shower, I dried my hair, one eye constantly on my watch. Running to my room, I pulled on a fairly new pair of jeans and my favorite band t-shirt before shoving my feet into flip flops. I could have taken my time and been late – he’d wait. But the thumping of my heart clued me in to exactly how much I wanted to see him.
***
I found him resting his forearms on the bar, leaning against it as he chatting with the pretty bartender. When my heart fell, I nearly turned around and walked right out the door but I’m stubborn if nothing else. I plastered a false smile on my lips and sauntered to them. Wrapping my hands around his thick bicep, I smiled brighter. If he was inviting me to lunch then I damn sure was not going to allow some eyelash-batting hussy to tear his attention away.
“Hey, Jess!”
He peered down at me, a little surprised, but his lips quickly curled into a tiny smirk. His gray eyes looked straight down into my soul as he lifted a hand to place on mine. “Hey, Aubrey.”
“I knew you looked familiar!” the bartender exclaimed. “I saw you on American Star!”
Stifling a groan, I gave her half a smile. She pushed a cocktail napkin and a pen at me, begging for an autograph. This was a first for me. Jess extricated his arm from my grasp and crossed it with his other over his chest, watching curiously. Sighing, I scribbled my name q
uickly, hoping she would accidently use the napkin to sop up a spill.
“I’ll talk to you later, Tess,” Jess said, taking me by the arm. I snorted, couldn’t help it. “What?”
“Tess. And Jess.” My giggles broke the barrier and tumbled out of my mouth. I knew it was nerves because my pulse was still pounding and my heart was trying desperately to keep up. But it sounded natural and Jess didn’t comment. “You two should date. You could have a son and name him Wes.”
He rolled his eyes as he tugged a little harder on my arm, dragging me to a table. “No wonder you don’t drink.”
“Ha ha ha,” I said in a snarky tone. I sank into a chair and watched as he folded his lean frame into the one next to me. He yelled to Tess to bring us a couple burgers and Cokes, eyes never leaving my face. My heart overtook my pulse and I was certain he could see it pounding underneath my shirt.
“You look good, Aubrey,” he said as casually as if he was telling me it was going to rain tomorrow. He cocked his head, studying me thoroughly. “Still as hot as you were in school, maybe a little more so.”
The blush flooded my cheeks before I could even try to hide it. “You never called me hot in school,” I mumbled, embarrassed. I didn’t know what else to say.
He chuckled. “I didn’t think I had to at that time. Maybe I should have, huh?” He didn’t wait for my answer, thank goodness, because he reached out and ran a long finger down my cheek, rendering me speechless. “Nah, the other guys might have heard me and taken another look at you. Then they would have seen that I was right.”
“Okay, Jess, enough. What do want?” I’d intended my question to be sharp, cutting, but instead it came out almost tearful.
He lifted a shoulder, lips in a straight line. “I just thought it would be nice to get together for lunch. We’re friends, right?”
“Sure, Jess. Best buds,” I scoffed, not hiding my scorn. “That’s why we’ve burned the telephone and internet lines with all our communication.”
He rolled his eyes and leaned back in his chair. “So we haven’t spoken for awhile; we’ve both been busy. Why can’t we catch up now and keep in touch?”