Center Stage! (Center Stage! #1)

by Caitlyn Duffy

  Everything started happening super quickly. The theme song roared through the theater, and the audience responded with thunderous applause. Danny Fuego bounced past us all with a microphone headset attached to one ear. He welcomed the studio audience, as well as the at-home viewers. When he wrapped up his introduction with our cue, “…and I’m pleased to present this season’s Center Stage! contestants!” the production assistant waiting backstage with us emphatically motioned for us to move, move, move!

  The lights lowered and shifted to a violet hue, and we sang the lyrics we’d committed to memory as we advanced out onto the stage in unison with the other groups. My lips seemed to move without any orders from my brain, and the song poured out of my throat. I visualized Erick St. John dancing in front of us and found that I didn’t even have to think too hard to remember the simple dance steps we’d learned. Out of the corner of my eye, I sensed one of the television cameras that reminded me a little of the walking machines from Star Wars closing in on me. Somehow, I summoned a smile for it.

  And then, in the blink of an eye, it was over. We froze in the final positions of our dance routine. The lights fell, the audience clapped, and product assistants hurried us off-stage. I hadn’t had time to think about my ill-fitting jacket, or search for my parents among the outlines of heads in the audience. It hadn’t even occurred to me to steal a peek at Elliott for whatever amount of enjoyment I would have gotten out of witnessing him dance.

  Once we were back in the Group 2 prep room, tensions were high. The show was on a live commercial break, and as soon as it was over, Danny Fuego would welcome the very first contestant from Group 1 to the stage. We expected that Jarrett would be the first of us to take the stage because of the order we’d been assigned for rehearsals. He hunkered over the facial steamer in the corner to prepare himself. My mobile phone buzzed like crazy in my bag, but I ignored it. Exchanging text messages with Nicole and Lee would do little to calm my nerves.

  “Alright, guys.” Rob, the evil production assistant, burst into our prep room carrying a clipboard and an armload of lanyards with laminated numbers clipped to them. “Here are your assigned numbers. Ian Jacobson, number two.”

  Confusion and protest erupted in our room as the television monitor indicated to us that the commercial break was ending. “But we already have numbers,” Robin said defiantly with her hands on her hips. “We were given our order on Wednesday.”

  “That was for rehearsals,” Rob explained impatiently. “These are your numbers for tonight. You have to perform in this order because this is how your video introductions have been arranged. No changes.”

  Ian snatched his lanyard from Rob, and Jarrett hastily surrendered the steamer to him. Ian began dramatically huffing the steam. He didn’t have time to dispute the order; he’d be under the hot lights in fewer than five minutes.

  I was handed the lanyard with #34 on it just as I noticed the lanyard with #14 dangling from Christa’s fingers. She stared me down with pure hatred in her eyes.

  “I demand to speak to someone about this,” she barked at Rob. “Where’s Nelly? This isn’t how the show’s supposed to work!”

  “Little lady, I’ve been working on this show for the last four seasons, and this is how it’s always worked in the past,” he informed her. “Jacobson! Let’s go.”

  On the television screen, video footage of Contestant #1’s life back at home in Palo Alto, California was playing. One of her co-workers at a start-up digital company was telling the entire country, “All of us here at Car-Z have always known that Caroline’s going to be a star. She’s just that kind of girl.” The editors cut back to Chase Atwood, who was beaming at the coaches’ table.

  Once Rob had pushed Ian out of the room and left us to quarrel among ourselves, I realized that I’d gotten my wish from earlier in the week. I’d be singing toward the end of the broadcast, exactly as Christa had suggested that typically the performers expected to win did. But I was still unconvinced that this meant the coaches or producers thought I had a higher than average shot at winning. After all, Robin would be singing sixth, the second from Group 2 to take her turn. She seemed completely unconcerned and continued stretching her arms and touching her toes, keeping herself limber as if she were about to do a gymnastics routine out on the stage. I shot Lee a worrisome text message informing him that kids from school should not cast votes for contestant #14.

  We only paid attention when Ian sang because he was the first of us. During his video introduction, we gathered around the television in rapture and watched footage of Ian leading the Center Stage! location camera crew through his neighborhood in Brooklyn, past aluminum-sided row houses and into a bar where his band was warming up. His segment certainly suggested that he was already a bit of a local star back at home. Ian’s performance was pretty solid. He lost his rhythm only once and sang his absurd assignment with conviction, even though it was ludicrous that such a big, tough guy would be happy that it was raining men.

  The cameras turned to Nelly after Ian’s performance. The 1-800 number appeared on the screen, and she provided Ian with the same kind of constructive criticism shrouded in bitter negativity that we’d all—except Christa—come to expect from her.

  “You lost some of your energy on those lower notes,” she told him. She was dolled up like she was performing a Superbowl half-time show later that night, and wore a leopard-print top that looked cheap on her despite it probably having been expensive. Her platinum corkscrew curls glowed under the lights. “You’re going to have to give that some attention because it was all going so well, and then you just lost your spark.”

  Since Nelly lit Ian’s performance on fire, Chase and Lenore were happy to throw oil on it. Only Jay Walk, surprisingly, came to the poor guy’s defense and gave him mad props for tackling such an absurd song. Ian looked like he had been punched in the solar plexus as he thanked the coaches.

  We greeted him with applause and backslapping when he returned to our room (which we wouldn’t do for anyone else). Even despite our supportive reception, it was easy to see the devastating toll that Nelly’s comments had taken on him. “I didn’t have enough time to warm up,” he claimed in self-defense.

  As contestant #12 (an overly sexy woman from Jay Walk’s team who looked like a Victoria’s Secret angel) wrapped up her performance, a peculiar smell pervaded our prep room. The heavily floral scent immediately mingled with the stench of coffee and hair products that we’d been inhaling all night. Christa violently sneezed.

  “What are you doing?” she hissed at Robin, the source of the odor. Robin was putting the cap back on a bottle of Yellow Dress perfume. She had just heavily spritzed herself near the windows, which also just happened to be where the air conditioning vents filling our prep room with air were located.

  “Sorry,” Robin apologized cheerfully. “I smell weird from being in here so long. It’s distracting.”

  Her disingenuous apology did little to subdue Christa’s sneezing. From my corner of the couch, I watched taciturnly as—in a matter of seconds—Christa’s eyes swelled and began watering. She coughed uncontrollably and pushed her way through the room to escape into the busy hallway for fresh air.

  It was at that moment, as I watched Robin fold her arms over her chest and beam up at the television monitor, when I realized that I wasn’t on a reality television competition show. I was in the middle of a game of wits, and no amount of vocal ability was going to help me win. It suddenly seemed very fishy to me indeed that the jacket I’d chosen had been left behind in Studio City.

  Chapter 9

  Live from Hollywood

  I didn’t bother watching most of the other contestants’ performances, too nervous and fearful of being intimidated by them to pay close attention. A tiny Filipina girl named Tia on Lenore’s team had a voice like a volcano and earned herself a ton of applause. She’d no doubt be a threat at some point if I survived past tonight. It was hard not to watch the television monitor while Christa sang, and ever
yone was plenty curious when she didn’t return to the prep room after her song. Instead of observing my competition, I ran through the lyrics of “All for You” in my head about twelve thousand times.

  Marlene returned to our holding room an hour into the show carrying a bag from the super-cool Kelly Wearstler boutique. Taylor and I used to pass that store back in the days when we explored the city (unbeknownst to our parents) on foot and by bus. Although it was just a few blocks from my house, I’d never gone inside.

  “Look what I have for you, star material,” Marlene said, withdrawing from the bag the most awesome, spectacular metallic leather jacket I had ever seen in my life. Of course, now everyone else in the prep room was curious. Even Eunice, who was up next, lifted the towel she’d draped over her head at the facial steamer to take a peek.

  “Nothing like playing favorites,” Chet muttered.

  “I’d have done the same for any of you if your wardrobe had been compromised,” Marlene quickly shot back. “This isn’t about favorites. It’s about fairness.”

  I blocked out what everyone else in my group was saying about the incredible gift I was being given—or loaned—I wasn’t sure which. I slid into the crinkly leather garment. The arms were a little too long, and Marlene swiftly cuffed them up. When I stepped in front of the mirror, I couldn’t conceal my pleasure with my appearance. I looked cool. I also looked older than sixteen, which was, in my opinion, a good thing.

  “Oh my God,” I said, barely even hearing my own voice. “Marlene, this is... amazing.”

  “It’s perfect.” Marlene twisted the tag off the collar.

  “I won’t spill anything on it. You can take it back right after the taping,” I said, wondering if she had paid for such an obscenely expensive gift with her own, personal money. Maybe she’d be able to “expense it” the same way that my dad charged back to Boeing the cups of coffee and seafood dinners he consumed while traveling for work.

  “Don’t think about that, Allison,” Marlene told me as we both looked at our reflections in the mirror. She lowered her voice and added, “Just sing your heart out.”

  Everyone in Group 2 had completely lost interest in the broadcast by the time it was my turn. After me, the last of us to sing would be Jarrett, who was anguishing since he’d been ready to rock almost two hours earlier. Marlene stood watch over me as I inhaled hot steam with a towel over my head, a little worried that the steam would deflate the waves that the stylists had put in my hair. When evil Rob arrived to fetch me, Marlene slapped me on both of my shoulders and told me sternly, “Knock ’em dead, kid.”

  The fluorescent lights overhead in the hallway seemed to flicker, and I felt as nervous as if I was being wheeled toward a surgical room for a major operation. My peripheral vision turned white. I could see only directly ahead. The back of Rob’s head. The green double doors through which we would pass with the flashing ON AIR sign hanging over of them. Breathe, breathe, breathe.

  The coaches’ commentary on the last contestant’s performance muffled inside my ears. My pulse felt like it was being charged by the firing of a cannon every other second. A million thoughts raced through my mind about my parents’ whereabouts, Elliott’s order in the performance lineup in relation to my own, and whether or not Marlene would watch me sing.

  “Our very own hometown girl, Miss Allison Burch!” I heard Danny Fuego announce.

  I took a step forward, thinking that was my cue, but Rob blocked me to prevent me from crossing the stage. First, my video introduction would have to play. I knew that, we’d covered it a million times that week, but of course, when it was time to remember, I’d forgotten. The production staff at Center Stage! had trimmed all the footage they’d shot of me, my parents and my friends down to about thirty seconds. They opened (so thoughtfully) with the clip of Buster wretching behind me on the sofa, which drew laughter from the audience. They then presented quotes from Mom, Dad, and Lee. The video ended on my quote, “I think I have a great voice, and fierce determination. Whether or not that’s enough to win is up to America to decide.”

  Rob emphatically motioned for me to get moving.

  I forced a smile as I traversed the stage. Except for the boots that pinched my toes, which were noticeably too tight now that I was moving at a clip, I felt like I wasn’t even inside my own body. I tried to be aware of the camera’s positions, but there was simply no time even to spot them; the stage lights were practically blinding. Unlike in rehearsal, Danny wasn’t lingering on stage, waiting to ask me questions. The band began playing my song before I’d even hit my mark in the middle of the stage. Marlene hadn’t been kidding; they did rush through the contestants on the season premiere. The timing was impeccable. But it was also all wrong. The tempo at which the band was playing my song was the slower version which Lee and I had developed. Not the version Nelly had ordered.

  My voice tremored with panic as I began singing, and I wanted to scream, “Wait! I need a do-over!” Deciding just to go for it because I had no choice, I found my balance just as I’d practiced at home. I belted out the song while trying to avoid looking over the edge of the stage to where Nelly, Chase, Lenore, and Jay Walk sat listening. I did my best not to think about the insults Nelly was probably going to hurl at me as soon as I finished.

  As I grew closer to the last line of the song and focused intently, wanting to finish strong, I realized I couldn’t remember the lyrics. The very same lyrics I’d been chanting in my head all evening. The teleprompter would be of no help; it was too slow to provide me with the lines in time to keep up with the song.

  “There ain’t nothing, baby, that I wouldn’t do. You gave me your everything…” I sang, and then—desperately, not wanting to choke as I made up the last, missing line—I improvised, “So I’m saving it all for you.”

  The audience’s clapping and whistling poured over me like a hot shower. My muscles relaxed. With a burst of regret, I realized that I hadn’t moved around as much as Erick St. John had directed, but then, maybe I had. I had been so nervous, I couldn’t remember what I’d been doing with my arms and legs while I’d been singing. But thankfully, it was over.

  The crowd fell quiet, and the stage lights dimmed enough that I could see Nelly with perfect clarity as she leaned forward toward her microphone on the coaches’ desk. It was obvious from the saccharine smile on her lips that she had some choice words for me. Right before she began speaking, something devastatingly horrible occurred to me: the lyric I’d made up in desperation sounded like a pledge of virginity.

  I was already turning crimson when Nelly began to tear into me. Saving it all for you, I thought to myself with deep, burning shame. Within three hours, Oliver Teague would hear me profess to remain a virgin, in song. Not that there was anything wrong with being a virgin, it just wasn’t the kind of proclamation I ever would have intentionally made on national television. I was going to need identity-altering plastic surgery and a fake passport to start my life over in a foreign country if I ever made it off that stage.

  “Allison,” Nelly said sternly. “What was that last line about, girl? You know that a professional singer doesn’t take liberties with lyrics during live performances.”

  She went on and on, scolding me for forgetting the line, but thankfully not making mention of my shaky beginning. When it was Chase’s turn, I braced myself for more harsh words, and then felt like sticking my tongue out at Nelly when he said, “I thought you did a fine job with that song, Allison. And as for the last line? I would never have known you’d changed it.”

  Lenore and Jay Walk were similarly understanding, and then Danny Fuego cruised across the stage. He reminded audiences at home to vote for me, Allison Burch, #34, before announcing that Elliott Mercer would be next. Was it possible that they’d really have him sing after me, just like in auditions? It was possible. Even though a production assistant had pushed me into the shadows, I lingered behind the curtains backstage to watch Elliott’s introductory video play on the enormous video screen pos
itioned over the stage.

  “Ever since I was a little kid, I’ve known that what I care about most in life… is music.”

  The clip opened with a shot of Elliott on the front steps of a run-down, one-story house strumming his guitar.

  “’Kid started with the guitar when he was three years old,” a haggard-looking woman with bad teeth told the camera. “His father taught him to play, and that meant the world to him when he was a little boy. He wanted to be just like his daddy.”

  I looked away from the video screen for just a second, and clear across the stage I saw Elliott waiting on the other side. Before I could stop myself, I raised my hand in a friendly wave. I wanted to wish him good luck, even though technically he was probably my stiffest competition. I felt my dimples form in my cheeks when the shadow outline of his body waved back.

  Next there was footage of Elliott riding shotgun in a car at sunset, the orange rays of the sun over-saturating the camera in a few frames, as the car drove past a giant chain grocery store. “I bag groceries there after school,” Elliott spoke directly to the camera. “It’s a good job because I don’t have to think too much while I’m working, and I can write lyrics in my head during my shifts.”

  In the last frame, Elliott sat on some big desert rocks against a deep blue sky with rolling clouds overhead. “What would I do if I won?” Elliott shrugged. “Don’t know. Keep on doing what I’m doing now, I guess. Just writing music as best I can.”

  Elliott walked across the stage to applause, and I couldn’t believe my ears: the song he’d been assigned to sing was a classic Pound love song, “Lovergirl.” While it could be reasoned that singing a gushy love song was probably a challenge for sardonic, mumbling Elliott, it was still totally unfair. Every teenage girl in America was going to phone in a vote for him after hearing him profess his love in that gravelly voice.