by Payge Galvin
“My mom hasn’t dressed me since I was six,” I say before I can stop myself. That was the last time I lived with her in that trailer park outside of Yuma. But of course Jasmine doesn’t get my meaning.
“And it shows.”
“Suck it up, Varga,” Luke says from the other side of our shared dressing room. “Let Jasmine make us pretty.”
“That’s the spirit,” she says, tossing the rest on the chair in the corner. “And I want to see every outfit—none of this ‘it doesn’t fit’ crap until I say so.” She claps her hands like a tiny blond drill sergeant. “I’ll be out here waiting for my fashion show.”
I unbuckle my belt and wink at her. “Aw, you’re not staying?”
Jasmine just rolls her eyes and flips through the curtain that separates the dressing room from the rest of the store.
“Hardly the way for America’s Sweetheart to act,” Luke says. I’d get pissed at him, but he grins at me in that stupid way he has that makes it hard to stay mad.
“This half of America’s Sweethearts is getting pretty tired of this shit,” I say, yanking my old, worn jeans down and grabbing a pair of the fancy black ones that Jasmine left for me. After that embarrassing fashion show with Savannah in my hotel room that night I’ve wisely started wearing underwear, but I don’t miss Luke’s glance.
“Trouble in paradise?” he says, pulling his shirt over his head, revealing the large snake tattoo that curls over his brown skin.
“We’re not a couple,” I say, standing on one leg, trying to get the jeans on. They’re way too tight. “You know that.”
“Those photos in the tabloids say otherwise.”
I shake my head. Of course photos from some lurking paparazzi the other night at the club got into some cheap magazines and online blogs. What I didn’t want to admit is that I copied one of the two of us together and put it in my phone. I feel a pull in my chest whenever I look at it—Savannah’s eyes closed as our lips meet in that dark corner booth. Right before she put the brakes on everything. For one second, I thought it was all really going to happen, that Savannah wanted me like I want her. Have always wanted her. But as usual when it comes to all things Savannah, I was wrong.
“That was a mistake,” I say.
“How pissed was Rick?” Luke asks, buttoning up a shirt.
I can’t help smiling as I think about the executive producer’s reaction. “At first, really pissed. Probably more because we ditched his chaperones than anything. But once they figured out it was great for the show’s publicity, we haven’t heard another word about it.” And I’ve barely spoken to Savannah about anything.
“Of course not,” he says. His phone buzzes and he picks it up out of his jeans. “My mom. She’s been bugging me to come to the show.”
“That’s nice,” I say. “Are your parents divorced?”
A shadow crosses Luke’s face, and I know I screwed something up. “No. They’re still married.” He reaches up and messes with one of his earrings—something I’ve seen him do before when he doesn’t know what to say. “Dad doesn’t exactly approve of my lifestyle.”
“Oh.” I don’t know what else to say having so totally stepped in it. “That sucks.”
“It does.” Luke turns in the three-way mirror to look at the new clothes. “Do these make me look straight?”
I laugh. “I don’t know. You look….” I take in the jeans and the tailored shirt. With his slim body and earrings, Luke has an almost androgynous thing going on. “…you look like you.”
He puts both hands on his hips in the most effeminate way he can manage. “And just what’s that supposed to mean?”
“Stop it,” I say, throwing a t-shirt at him. “You look fine. Good. I like it.”
He turns back to the mirror. “All I know is that the world ain’t ready for a faggot as the new American Voice.”
I wince a little at that word, but Luke says it all the time without even blinking. “Not true. Remember that gay guy that was on season two? He made the top ten.”
Luke shakes his head. “And where is he now?”
I shrug.
“Exactly. The world’s image of the perfect American Voice is a sexy blond that they can relate to. Not a brown homo. Pretty soon the American public is going to be voting on our futures—I have to give the people what they want.”
I pull one of the expensive t-shirts over my head. “Well, you look fine to me.”
Luke takes one look in the mirror again. “Coming from America’s Sweetheart, I’ll take it.”
“Let’s get this over with,” I say, pulling back the curtain to show Jasmine the first of what I’m sure is going to be many outfits this afternoon.
Three hours, fifty changes of clothes and a haircut later, we’re walking back through the lobby of the hotel when I see Savannah and a group of girls coming in from an outing with their stylist. She’s still wearing her regular clothes, but she’s had her makeup done by someone who obviously knew what they were doing, and her long brown hair ends in a cascade of curls down her back. She’s breathtaking.
Everyone gives us a little space as we wait for the elevators, staring straight ahead at the lighted numbers on the wall.
Finally Savannah glances at me. “I like that haircut.”
I run a hand over the back, shorter than I’ve ever had it before. I wonder if she really means that or is just trying to make conversation. “Thanks. You look really nice.”
“It’s way too much makeup if you ask me,” she says. “And they’re making me wear a dress on the next show.” She makes a face.
As soon as she says that, I picture her in something short, with her long slender legs bare and her feet in high heels. I quickly grab the shopping bag I’m holding with both hands and put it in front of me in case the evidence of my thoughts starts to show. “You’ll be great.”
There’s a series of dings as several elevators hit the lobby at the same time. Savannah and her crew get in one, and Luke and I get in the other. As soon as the doors shut, I collapse against the mirrored back wall. I didn’t know it was going to be this hard to see her every day.
Luke shakes his head as the car starts to rise. “You poor dumb bastard.”
***
The packed theater audience erupts in applause as I finish my version of “Someone to Watch Over Me.” Not exactly my favorite song, but I think I did okay adapting a swing version that I found online. I give a little bow and a wave to the people at the back of the theater and then go step on the mark to hear the judge’s comments. The lights are so bright behind them that it’s almost hard to focus on what they’re saying.
“Wonderful as always,” Kurt says. He’s usually not all that critical, having been through this on season one. “Interesting adaptation of a classic, and you really pulled it off.”
“Thank you,” I say into my microphone.
“I was waiting to see what you would do with this selection,” Jake Cutler says. “And you didn’t disappoint, Dillon. You’re starting to get an individual style that’s working for you, regardless of the song choice. Spot on.” I bow a little and smile at him. Except for Gavin, the judges don’t come to rehearsals, so it’s still weird that someone as famous as Jake would even know my name, much less talk to me on national TV.
Natalie looks at me thoughtfully. “I have to admit, I was hoping for a little more from you,” she says. My heart sinks. Natalie is universally known as the nice one of the group. “More individuality, more resonance…I’m not sure what it is that I’m missing, but it wasn’t your best performance.”
I get a sick jolt in my stomach—she’s not going to vote for me in this round, I can feel it. Twenty people are getting cut in the next couple of weeks, and up to now I didn’t think I’d be one of them. I smile at her and force a ‘thank you’ before turning to Gavin.
“Ignore Natalie,” he says with a wave of his hand. “She has no idea what she’s talking about. You took a difficult song for someone with your low register and di
d a wonderful adaptation. I loved it.”
“Thank you,” I say one more time, both to the judges and to the audience who once again bursts into applause as I exit the stage and walk into the wings.
I can hear the bars for the next song starting as I hand the microphone to a tech. We use handheld mics for our stage songs, but we’re all still wearing wireless mics during the whole show—something I’d better get used to if I don’t want embarrassing shit to come up during a screening. I’m about to walk to the green room where everyone waits between performances when I hear Savannah’s name called. Ducking the techs who are running around backstage, I get myself into a position where I can’t be seen from the audience but can see part of the stage. She walks out to center stage full of confidence, but I suck in my breath at the sight of her. Gone are the khaki pants and black combat boots—she’s wearing a form-fitting red dress similar to the one the singer at the piano bar was wearing that night and high shoes with a thin stiletto heel. The only bit of leg I can see is a flash of skin through the side slit as she walks, but even though it’s not short, Savannah is wearing the hell out of that dress. I can’t take my eyes off of her as she sings her version of the song, a throaty, sexy version that I didn’t know she was capable of. As she works the audience, I pretend she’s singing just to me, that it’s me she wants near her forever. The applause is deafening as she finishes with a flourish, and the judges all praise her rendition of a song we’re all now so sick to death of hearing.
Savannah heads for the wings and is nearly past me when I reach out and grab her arm. I can tell she’s startled, that she didn’t expect me to be here. I want to run my hands over the bare skin on her back as I pull her to me. I want to bury my face into her neck and inhale her scent as I plant kisses down her throat and onto her collarbone. But I don’t. “That was great,” I say, dropping my hand.
“Thanks,” she says, but there’s a sadness in her eyes that I haven’t seen there before. She nods to the camera that’s trained on us and reaches up to give me a kiss on the cheek. A kiss that sends a shiver of electricity through my body, even though I know, more than ever, it’s all just for show.
Chapter 9
Savannah
“We’re one week away from naming the top ten,” Rick says at the next rehearsal, as if we don’t know this already. All thirty of us are onstage, some of us standing, some of us sitting on various set pieces, waiting to hear what they’re going to pull next from their bag of tricks. “And for the last qualifying show, we’re going to have you split up into pairs and do a duet.”
Duet? That’s not so bad. I look over at Dillon who’s sitting on a stool near the left wing, but he doesn’t meet my eyes. I wonder how it’s going to be singing with him again after all this time. I could kill myself for messing things up last week at the piano bar—I should never have let it get even that far. So stupid. But now with his new short haircut and the jeans they’ve been having him wear for the tapings he looks even better than ever, if that’s possible. If we have to sing a love song together, I don’t know how I’m going to handle it.
“You get to pick your song from a list of preapproved titles,” Rick says, looking down at his clipboard. “But we get to pick the couples.”
People start looking around and whispering as he says this.
“First up is Luke and Hailey,” Rick says.
Hailey is sitting next to me, and Luke gives her a thumbs up. I think they’ll work well together, as long as Luke doesn’t out-diva her. Rick goes on to name a few more couples, but I’m barely paying attention until I hear Dillon’s name. And then Mia’s. What? Dillon and Mia? They’re not putting us together? Dillon does look at me now, and I see him shrug just a little. I wonder if he requested this—not to be my partner after I led him on? Mia jumps up and flings her arms around Dillon, and he smiles back at her as she whispers in his ear.
“And last we’re going to have Savannah and Sam. That’s it everybody! See you tomorrow.”
Sam walks over to me and gives me a sly smile. “Hey partner,” he says. Sam is so handsome and has such a great voice—any other girl would be thrilled to have him as their partner. But all I can think is that he’s not Dillon.
“Hey,” I say, trying to focus. “Any idea what song you want to do?”
“We should get together and go over the list,” he says. “They’re having a promo party for the sponsors at one of the casinos tonight—maybe we can come up with something over a drink?”
“Sounds good,” I say, trying desperately not to watch Dillon and Mia as they huddle together.
Sam nods in their direction. “You know the network split you guys up for the ratings, right?”
“Why would they do that?”
“To see what it takes to get America’s Sweethearts jealous.” He glances at them and then down at me. “Looks like it’s working already.”
“It isn’t,” I say. “You know we’re not a couple. I can do whatever I want with whoever I want.”
Sam raises one eyebrow and lets a lock of his blond hair fall over his eyes. “Good to know. I’ll see you tonight.”
I spend much longer than I usually do getting ready for the party, trying to copy my makeup just like that woman in the department store did without looking like a cheap hooker. “Shit,” I say, poking myself in the eye with a pencil.
“You’re sure taking your time,” Hailey says, leaning against the door to the bathroom.
“There’s going to be press at the party,” I say. “I want to look nice.”
“Yeah,” she says, ducking back into our room. “But for who?”
But for who? That’s the question I ask myself as we walk into the party an hour later. There were two shuttles waiting outside of the hotel for us and as soon as I saw Dillon and Mia get on one, I made sure to get onto the other. There are a few American Voice contestants who are underage and have chaperones watching them like hawks. Thank God I’m not one of them, I think as I walk over to the bar and order a drink. I’m feeling a little overexposed and pulling my skirt down when I feel a hand on the small of my back.
“You should wear short skirts more often,” Dillon says as I turn around to face him.
I know my cheeks are red as I look up at him. “My stylist said that there would be press here tonight and that…” Thinking about it now, I feel stupid. “…that it would be good for my career.”
Dillon looks around the room. We’ve all been shaved, styled and had our hair cut just perfectly—the more polished versions of the singers we auditioned as. “She’s right.”
“I like your haircut,” I say, reaching up to run my hand over the short hairs on the back of his neck. He twitches his neck and raises his shoulders, so I know that got to him.
“Thanks,” he says. “Not too hipster?”
“No. Perfect.” There’s a camera clicking nearby, and I see some media working the room, trying to get ‘candid’ shots of all of us.
Dillon sees it too. “We should probably give them a little something to talk about,” he says. “America’s Sweethearts and all that.” He slips an arm around my waist, and I lean into him, a comfortable habit I don’t want to give up.
“Yeah,” I agree. “We don’t want it to look like we’re fighting.” I smile at a guy with a camera across the room.
“Are we fighting?” Dillon doesn’t look at me, but smiles at the same photographer.
I swallow hard. “I don’t want to be. I want things to go back to the way they were.” As soon as I say it, I know it’s not true. I don’t want to just be friends. I want things to go back to the way they were in the booth that night.
“Deal,” Dillon says, leaning down to give me a kiss on the cheek. I love the fleeting connection, but I want so much more.
“Can I get you a drink?” he asks.
“I’ve got one,” I say, taking a sip. It’s seriously strong—the bartenders in this place aren’t kidding around.
“Well, I think I’m going to need one.
Or two,” he says, turning toward the bar.
Mia pops up on his other side, dressed in a cute, full dress and her signature cowboy boots. “Oooh, get me one too?”
“Sure,” he says, smiling at her.
I can’t stand the way she looks at him. Mostly because I know I look at him the same way, and I hate having it thrown in my face. I wonder if he’s sleeping with her. And if he’d tell me if he was.
I see Sam on the other side of the room and meet his eye. “I’ve got to go talk to Sam,” I say. “About our song.”
“You look amazing,” Sam says as I reach him. I can smell whisky on his breath, and I’m guessing he had a few practice drinks in his room before showing up here.
“Thanks,” I say.
“I had some thoughts on our song,” he says, clumsily pulling his phone out of his pocket. “I was thinking ‘Nobody’ by Keith Sweat and Athena Cage would be a good choice. Here.” He hands me his earbuds and switches it on. The song is sultry and within both of our ranges, but is undeniably sexual.
“The producers approved that?” I ask, handing them back to him.
“Not yet,” he says. “But I think I can get it on the approved list in time.” He grins at me. “Might have to change a few lyrics, but I think the rest is good to go.”
“Sure,” I say. “We can start rehearsing it tomorrow.”
“Looking forward to it,” he says, tipping his drink back.
I feel his hand on my thigh, so I quickly twist away from him. Sam’s drunk, so I’m not going to make a big deal out of it. “Hey, there’s my roommate. I’ll be back in a minute.”
Hailey waves to me, and I join her and some of the other contestants over by the food table. “What’s going on with you and Sam?” she whispers.
I pull my skirt down again. “Nothing. Just talking about the duet.”
“Be careful,” she says, looking around. “This place is crawling with cameras. Don’t want America’s Sweetheart to get a bad rep.”
“Don’t worry,” I say, downing the rest of my drink.
The party is barely an hour old when I hear some music from the other side of the room.