Treble Maker
Page 7
But Cody didn’t say anything as he sighed heavily, gave Lucas one final hard stare, and strode to the door. It slammed shut behind him, leaving Lucas alone in a room that suddenly felt ten times larger and twenty times colder and loud with thoughts that wouldn’t shut up.
Chapter Five
After a week of practicing, Lucas had figured he knew what performance day would feel like, but the adrenaline rush as the M&Ms finished their song was unlike anything he’d encountered before. He wiped sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand. He’d performed under lights and in front of full houses before, but never with this kind of urgency, this kind of one-shot-to-get-it-right fever. It felt like galloping horses raced around his insides while an invisible whip cracked overhead—faster, crisper, hold that note, smile, flourish, finish strong.
“You did it, bro!” Winston smacked Lucas’s back.
The crowd roared behind them. I didn’t blow it. He’d made it through their individual number in one piece. The M&Ms dissolved into backslapping and fist bumping as they celebrated.
The director had told the groups to be “over-the-top positive” and “don’t hold back your emotions,” and everyone had their own interpretation of the orders. The girl groups had gone totally sappy. He’d seen more female tears in the first half of the show than he had in twenty-odd years of having sisters. The M&Ms were dancing around stage like demented bumper cars. Even O’Malley came over and ruffled Lucas’s hair.
“Well done, M&Ms!” The host, a C-level celebrity best known for being married to an SNL chick, made a gesture to silence the audience. He’d turned a Glee guest stint into this hosting gig, but otherwise he was, as Trevor put it, “aca-clueless.”
“That was a whole lot of fun!” The lone female judge, Melanie Mercury, gushed. Lucas owned several of her songs—perky, upbeat ballads that weren’t going to launch her into Adele territory anytime soon, but she was good background music for studying. He figured the show was supposed to help rescue her flagging career. She offered up a bunch of other platitudes before the host prompted the next judge.
“First, I have to give a shout-out to your low end—fabulous job . . .” The next judge, an R&B producer, glanced down at a sheet of paper. A heavyset white dude, he was famous for his loud ties and his mentorship of several female soul singers. “Lucas, Alex, and Brian. You laid down a track, guys.”
“Yeah, stellar percussion and bass. But your upper range was really stretching. As a result, your high notes were a bit flat.” The other male judge didn’t wait for the R&B judge to finish. A wiry guy who looked to be in his late fifties, he had a British accent and intense attitude, with quick gestures. “Felt like your choreography was reaching too far—you have to make sure your dancing doesn’t detract from your breath control.”
“Agreed. And while it might be democratic to split up the lead, it leaves you without a front man.” The R&B judge jumped back in, cutting off the British judge with a wide movement that almost took out the diminutive female judge.
“But great job!” Melanie wrapped up their review on a positive, if maddeningly vague note. The audience applauded politely as a production assistant led them off the stage. Lucas felt the adrenaline retreat as they left the bright stage for the dim wings.
Fake. It was all so darn fake. The lights. The hand-selected studio audience. The makeup the studio folks had slathered onto his face made him feel more like a circus performer than a singer. Under all of the exhilaration, disappointment crept in. When they performed back home, he could trust the audience—the applause felt real and genuine, as did the group’s togetherness. But the last week had shown him that the group’s togetherness was just as flimsy as the cardboard star set pieces. The costume he wore should have been comfortingly familiar with its Mount Monticello logo, but the costume department had rejected the school’s traditional colors of red and green for a bland beige and maroon that supposedly “looked better under the lights.” As sweat trickled underneath his fitted sweater vest, he was dang sure that the looking better theory definitely didn’t apply to him.
“Don’t listen to the judge.” Lucas put a hand on Trevor’s shoulder as they left the stage. “You’re a terrific lead. Not your fault O’Malley and the others wanted a piece.”
“Whatever.” Trevor’s head bent forward, his shoulders slumping. His wooden steps echoed Lucas’s own; it was hard to feel peppy with elimination looming.
The PA led them to the contestant seating area. The directors wanted reaction shots from the competing groups. Lucas took his seat and shoved his hands in his pockets to avoid accidental nose scratching or strange gestures.
“Next up, we’ve got supergroup Embellish, featuring two of last year’s contenders and YouTube sensation Cody Rivers.”
YouTube sensation? The hairs on Lucas’s neck prickled. Why hadn’t he thought to look up Cody online? Must. Google. Right. Now. He patted his pants before remembering his phone was back in the dressing room. They’d been banned from bringing them out.
The group started on a haunting high note from Cody’s friend Ashley. Then their low end came in—the duck-faced Keith and another dude—and while they weren’t quite as dynamic as some of the groups, they were passable. But it didn’t matter, because when Cody joined in, he completely owned the performance. His voice wove through the audience, a slinky, seductive take on an overplayed pop hit. The theater went extraquiet, the kind of charged stillness that always accompanied great performances, especially with a bunch of music nerds in attendance.
Some of the leads had punched up their parts with showboat runs and hard-to-reach notes. But Cody didn’t need any fluffing to stand out—the tone of his voice and his innate charisma did it for him. The timbre of his voice was like the sea salt caramel sauce Lucas had sampled in Chicago last summer—velvety and smooth caramel, with a classic timeless flavor, but then the pow of the salt—raw, gritty, and one of a kind. His appeal was also in his rock-and-roll eyes, that ability to take an emotional connection to the song and make it sensual and personal. As Cody hit the final note, Lucas couldn’t help applauding.
“Could you try looking like you want to win?” Winston elbowed him.
“What?” Lucas played dumb. “They said react. Pretty sure they didn’t mean to boo.”
“That was terrific!” Melanie gushed from the judges’ table. “So unique!”
She faced the stage, but Lucas could see her face on a big-screen TV the crews had set up for the audience.
Great. She likes everyone.
“Good lead, Cory—” the R&B producer looked down at his notes as a few audience members tittered. “I mean Cody. Good job, but I wouldn’t have minded hearing a bit more from Ashley. And your bass lacked some . . . oomph?”
“Yeah, I agree.” The British judge frowned and removed his wire-rimmed glasses, setting them on his pad of paper. “Outstanding lead, but I would have liked a bit more complexity in the arrangement.” Ouch. “Also, remember presentation matters.”
Double ouch. Unlike most of the groups that went for matching or very similar outfits, each member of Embellish had a unique style—Ashley with her two-tone hair and tiny teal mini dress. The other soprano wore a flowing black dress. Keith wore a black-and-blue-plaid flannel shirt with black jeans, while their VP guy wore all-black dress clothes. Cody had black ear gauges in and had spiked his hair. He wore painted-on teal jeans with a black and aqua T-shirt tight enough to see the outline of his nipple ring.
Wowza. Lucas’s dick so didn’t need that piece of information.
“But great effort, guys!” Melanie’s little hand clap seemed fake.
“Oh, yeah.” Winston bounced in his chair next to Lucas. “They are so going home!”
“I hope not.” Lucas’s stupid mouth didn’t wait for his brain to approve.
“What?” Winston’s eyes went wide, emphasizing his craggy features. “The group everyone thought was the front-runner gets the ax on the first night. Nothing bad about that.”
“Unless you’ll be sad if your boy toy leaves?” Winston slid that in, nice and easy, teasing him with the same almost smile he wore every time he pranked Lucas. Except this brand of teasing was a tad different from when they’d been freshmen and Winston had switched out Lucas’s Cubs shirt for a White Sox jersey.
“What?” Lucas’s mouth felt sticky, like he’d been breathing in a wind tunnel. “My boy toy? No way.”
“I saw the way you looked at him at lunch. Like he was a chocolate chip brownie sundae.”
“Nah . . .” Lucas trailed off, distracted by the image of Cody covered in chocolate. He gulped. “Not interested. He’s a good singer, though.”
He wasn’t sure why he hadn’t told Winston that Cody was the reason he could dance now. The other night felt too . . . fragile to share. Like telling someone would crack the memory, turn it into some ugly thing.
“He’s not exactly bring-home-to-mama material, is he?” Winston said with a smirk.
Don’t I know it! Cody wasn’t dating material at all. He’d managed to avoid Cody since their dance lesson, but that didn’t stop Lucas from thinking about it every other moment. The memory was like a mosquito bite—itching him at the most inopportune times.
“Don’t worry,” he said to Winston, hoping he sounded a lot more confident than he felt. “I haven’t forgotten my principles.”
Winston snorted. Lucas knew Winston wasn’t entirely sold on Mount Monticello’s strict code of conduct. But Winston’s full-ride scholarship went a long way toward ensuring compliance.
Blessedly, Winston dropped the issue and saved his sarcasm for commenting on the next several performances. None of the groups got over-the-top praise, but no one got the same mixed opinions as Embellished and the M&Ms. Sweat beaded on Lucas’s neck. The groups were done performing, which meant it was time for the next move in this crazy game they were playing.
“Now that we’ve seen all the groups, the judges will confer.” The host spoke into the camera. “When we come back, it’s time for the first elimination!”
When the episode aired, viewers would see a commercial break. But in reality, mania ruled as groups reassembled backstage, waiting to be led to their marks for the elimination announcement. Out front, the judges huddled at their table, a PA ready to whisk their results to the host for the big reveal. The prop guys wheeled out risers to accommodate the whole cast.
The amp-up-the-emotions director shouted a reminder to “look nervous!”.
The Divas all held hands and looked suitably weepy. One group laced arms around one another like they were forming a human wall. The Embellish members huddled around Cody, who looked pale. Ashley clutched his arm.
“No offense, bro, but you try to hold my hand and I’m done,” Winston whispered to Lucas.
“I’m not nervous,” Lucas lied, even though he felt like frogs were hopping around in his stomach. Someone was leaving tonight. Groups had worked months on auditions. The lucky ones had come to LA for a week of endless rehearsals and hard work. But for three groups, it would all end here. Their members would have to hope for the slim chance of a pickup by another group tomorrow, when they filmed the reveal of the sudden-death saves.
Lucas knew his own chance at a save was nil. Winston and Trevor might have a shot at being picked up if the M&Ms didn’t move on, but most likely his whole group would be booking flights home.
And they’ll blame me.
He didn’t have to pretend to look like he was going to vomit—his mouth tingled and he tasted bile.
“All right,” the host drawled, straightening his already straight tie, “the judges want me to share that this was superhard and very close. We salute you all for outstanding work. But not all groups can advance. Let’s take a quick recap of tonight’s performances.” The host paused for what would presumably later be a break for a video montage. “And now . . . the first group safe is . . .”
The pause dragged out forever, the cameras lingering on the frozen smiles of the contestants.
Lucas didn’t feel frozen. Whatever expression he was wearing was gonna drip down his chin and drizzle to the floor. Every gaze in the arena burned, and now he was melting, sinking into the stage. Come on, come on. Say it already.
Oh, come on. Cody swallowed hard. The cameras panned back over the stage, strobe lights going nuts as the host drew out the suspense.
“Divas Unite! You are safe, ladies.”
The girls started squealing before the host finished talking. Big whoop. They were a gimmick. None of them alone were all that good, but because they had a chick who could beatbox and one who could hit some baritone notes, the judges had fallen all over themselves praising the group.
Three groups saved turned into five, then seven, then finally eight. With each new addition, it got harder to push breath from his lungs. Come on. Why weren’t they one of the first ones called? Stupid homophobic judge with his whole “presentation matters.” Bullshit. More like, why you got to look so queer? Because I’m fabulous, bitch.
He forced his shoulders to relax beneath his scratchy shirt, rolling them, already preparing to shrug disappointments away. Didn’t matter, right? He’d changed gears a thousand times in his beat-up van, changed gears a thousand times in his life. If this show was gonna go down this way, he didn’t need to be a part of it—
“With only two slots remaining, we’re about to have some very disappointed faces up here.” The host sounded jubilant at the prospect. “The second-to-last safe group is . . .”
“Is . . . the Sport Tones!” The clean-cut guys from an East Coast Ivy were a better-dressed, liberal version of the M&Ms. The M&Ms obviously realized the announcement was their death knell. They looked like someone had kicked their grandmother and forced her to buy booze on a Sunday. Lucas’s mouth was a thin white shadow of its usual lushness. Cody knew it didn’t matter that Lucas had made it through their number without screwing up and had even earned praise from the judges. His teammates would blame him, even though it was their nasal-sounding tenors and overreaching dance that did them in. Hell. Cody didn’t want to feel sympathy, but it was there anyway, a warm pressure behind his sternum.
An ominous drumroll sounded, and the cameras panned back and forth over the remaining groups. Cody sucked in a breath, holding it while the host went through another long pause.
“And the last group standing is . . .” The lights hit Cody’s eyes and his breath rushed out in a whoosh. “Embellish.”
Oh. Thank. Fuck.
Cody bent forward, resting his hands on his knees. He didn’t need any damn director telling him to act emotional. He felt like he’d been shot, only to discover it was a paintball bullet. Adrenaline pounded in his ears, and his hands and feet tingled.
Ashley jumped up and down, before bending to hug him. He looked over her shoulders at the other three groups and immediately wished he hadn’t. Lucas’s group was huddled together, arms around one another’s shoulders like a football team plotting a play. Lucas was on the fringes of the clump of sad little sweater vests, not quite touching anyone else. His eyes met Cody’s for a split second, then he looked back at his so-called friends.
Triple hell. Winning was supposed to be a terrific rush, but looking at Lucas was seriously deflating his buzz. Cody forced a wide smile onto his face. Lucas and the corn-fed boys would be fine back with the Bible thumpers.
He followed the herd backstage, where the winners and losers mingled with a lot of hugging and crying and half-sincere congrats and apologies. Techs wheeled set pieces around, and red-shirted PAs scurried around as if unsure where they were supposed to be next.
“I’m outta here.” Keith broke away from the rest of the group, heading for the hallway to the b
ack entrance. Unlike the rest of them, he wasn’t smiling, not even a little.
“Think he knows?” Ashley frowned.
“What do you think?” Jeff wrapped his arms around Raven, who was dancing in place, the black fabric of her skirt swishing around them both. “You might as well have put a Bass Wanted ad on craigslist.”
“Well, we have to let go of someone.” Ashley rolled her eyes. “The show said they didn’t want any groups passing on the sudden-death round. You want to volunteer your spot?”
“No.” Raven shook her head. “But we didn’t have that rule last season. I think it’s hella stupid of them.”
Cody watched Keith push through the crowd, going past the clump of dejected M&Ms. He’d known that reality singing shows were all about stupid politics and pointless hoops, but now that he was the one doing the jumping he was feeling more like a tool than he’d expected. Cody rolled his shoulders. Whatever. In the last four years, he’d learned all about the nasty side of the music biz and he was gonna use his hard-earned knowledge. If this was what it took to get a real deal at last, he’d play the stupid game.
“Only thing that matters is that we’re not on the bottom next week.” Everyone knew that the last save was the most at risk for future elimination. He untangled himself from Ashley and forced a smile to the other two. “Catch you guys later.”
“Wait—” Ashley tried to stop him. “You’re not coming to the after party?”
The after party was scheduled at a sports bar and grill. Cody had no interest in watching sad guys trying to drown their sorrows in cheeseburgers and watered-down drinks or in pretending to socialize with other groups, everyone acting like they were BFFs for a night before plotting how to backstab one another in the morning.