“I’m so excited to be here,” I said, slowly and gently, smiling at her.
She took a deep breath as we exited the elevator, and she showed me down the hall to the dressing room. The sign on the outside of the door said “Extras/Miscellaneous,” whereas the doors nearby said “TALENT.”
Clearly, I wasn’t the talent.
I walked into the tiny dressing room and saw that it was already quite full, with three people putting on costumes that looked to resemble some kind of parrots or exotic birds. There was a large TV screen on the wall that acted as a set monitor—right now, it just showed the empty stage, where crew members were setting things up with ladders and rope. I found one of the black leather couches that wasn’t strewn with glittery costumes and fabrics and I sat down, pulling out my phone and hoping the others in the room didn’t mind me existing in there with them.
I gleaned from their conversation that they were part of the opening monologue sequence of the show, so they needed to be ready fairly quickly. After ten minutes, the assistant whisked me away to the makeup room, where they applied some sort of mattifying cream or something, and then powdered my face.
I felt like I was in another world entirely, and had no idea what I was doing there—but I kind of loved every minute of it. As I walked back down the hallway to my room, I wondered where Leo was—was he behind one of the doors marked “TALENT”? I knew that was where he belonged.
When I got back to my room the others were gone. The room felt weirdly silent without them there, like stillness after a storm.
I laid down on the couch, hoping to quell my restless brain before having to go out onto the show. I knew that any minute, an assistant would be coming to retrieve me, and I realized my heart was racing, and I was genuinely nervous.
I didn’t know if I was more nervous to have my face shown on network television, or see Leo up there and hope that everything went okay.
Because I wanted so badly for him to do well. I wanted the world to see what I saw.
As I laid there, I heard the faint sounds of heels walking down the hallway and then a respite of silence. And just as I was starting to relax, I heard a distinct sound from the next room over, coming through the walls.
It was a song—I didn’t know how I knew it at first, but I definitely recognized it.
Then I realized: it was the fucking theme music to The Lakeside. That silly soap opera, that was at once the worst thing and the best thing I’d ever watched. And I knew then that Leo must have been next door, watching old episodes of The Lakeside on his phone, probably to calm his nerves.
I smiled so wide that it almost hurt, there in the room next to Leo’s, with only a wall separating us. It would be so easy to just get up, go knock on his door, and kiss him until he forgot his anxieties.
But I knew it didn’t work like that.
So I laid there listening to the faint sounds of the soap opera until another young assistant came and pulled me out to the set, sitting me in the front row of the audience.
Twenty-Three
Leo
I knew it was bad when even The Lakeside didn’t calm me down.
I knew it was worse when the over-caffeinated assistant suddenly ran into the room and broke down crying on the couch across from me.
At first I was just confused. Did she not realize it was my dressing room? Did she not know I was in there? But then I realized that maybe she had nowhere else to go, and that made me sad. But I still didn’t know quite how to deal with it.
I slowly turned down the volume on The Lakeside, notch by notch, until it was silent. It had been a little bit awkward hearing Michaela’s sex noises on the show with the assistant’s sobs laid over the top of them.
When it didn’t look like she was going anywhere soon, I stood up slowly, took a few hesitant steps toward her, and sat on the arm of the couch that she was on.
“Uh,” I said, but it came out as a whisper. I cleared my throat more loudly, and slowly reached out a hand to place on her shoulder. “Are you… is everything… okay?”
“No,” she blubbered, “I’m gonna get fucking fired and it’s all my fucking fault and… and….” She broke out into another visceral sob, burying her hands in her hair. I realized that she couldn’t have been a day older than 20.
“Hey, hey, hey,” I said, moving onto the couch near her and rubbing my hand against her shoulders. “I’m sure it’s all okay—what happened?”
“I fucked everything up,” she sobbed.
“Did you forget what color of M&M’s Kim Kardashian likes best?” I said, trying to make a joke and knowing that Kardashian was the first guest on the show before me.
This only made the assistant sob even more, so I knew I’d made a mistake.
A couple minutes later, she turned to me, eyes red and makeup running. “You can’t tell anyone, if I tell you,” she said, her voice cracked and broken.
“Of course not. I have no one to tell.”
“The… the… musical guest, tonight, you know him? Tucker Vance?”
“I’ve heard of him. I know he’s one of the most famous people in the world right now. But no, I don’t know his music.”
“Wow,” she said, taking a brief respite from her sobs. “You must really be out of touch with pop music. People say he’s the next Coldplay or John Legend.”
“Hey, I’m trying to comfort you right now, cool it with the age-based insults.”
She sniffed. “Well, yeah, he’s mega, mega famous. And… and… I have sort of been sleeping with him for months.”
I raised my eyebrows. “That is not what I’d been expecting to hear.”
She sobbed again. “I found him twenty minutes ago in his dressing room with three other fucking girls! Like, on top of him!”
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” I said, genuinely feeling for her now. “But I don’t think you’ll get fired just because you saw that. It’s… not your fault.”
“Well, I… I… kind of threw my phone at him—and it hit him right in the face, and like, made him bleed, and he… he stormed out and said he’ll never step foot on this show again.”
“….Oh,” I said, not sure what to say.
“So, yeah, I’m fucking getting fired, because taping starts in twenty goddamn minutes and we have no musical guest and it’s all my fault.”
Now I started to develop a pit in my stomach. She was right—she definitely would be getting fired over this. I couldn’t exactly say that to her, though.
In a way, I felt like I saw part of myself in this young, blubbering girl: I’d been burned badly by a rockstar, too, though with me, it was much more of a public affair. Some part of me felt like I had to help her—like through helping her, I’d be helping a younger version of myself.
And then an idea flashed through my head. A dumb, horrible, awful, sinister fucking idea.
And I became infinitely terrified and also very quickly realized that there was no other option.
So I swallowed hard, my hands already shaking, and I spoke the words to her that I knew I’d end up regretting.
“I’ll do it,” I said.
She looked up at me, sniffling and furrowing her brow. “What?”
“You said that guy is the next Coldplay or John Legend, right?”
“…Yeah….”
“So he plays piano?”
She nodded, wiping at her eyes.
“So there’s a piano, out there on the stage, tuned and ready and waiting for a musical guest?”
“Yes.”
I swallowed again, running a hand through my hair. “I’ll do it.”
I got up, pacing around the room, one step short of hyperventilating. It was as if the young assistant’s freakout had been transferred to me entirely: she was now placidly calm, and I felt like I’d just signed up to be in a bear fight. I laid down on the floor, staring up at the ceiling, and started muttering an endless string of ohmygods under my breath, over and over again.
“Um...” she said, looking down
at me.
“It’s okay. Yep. It’s okay. I can do it. I can, I can… go out there, and put my fingers on the keys, and I can do it. On television. In front of people. Yep. No problem.” My voice got higher and more strained with every abortive sentence.
“So—wait a minute—you can play the piano? I thought you were in, like, New Kids On The Block or something? Don’t you just dance around?”
“Yeah, I can play some stuff,” I said, looking up at her. “And no, I was in 5*Star.”
“Right,” she said, looking at me like I was some sort of strange person lying on the floor of a dressing room. “Let me go ask the producers. If they let you do this, I owe you my life.”
I realized what a mistake I’d just made. She was probably 20 years old. 20. She could likely get a new job tomorrow if she tried. Why the fuck did I have to do this? Why did I offer? What the hell was wrong with me? Was there any gin in the dressing room?
I was vaguely aware of her getting up, blowing her nose nothing short of fifty times, and then leaving the room. Five minutes later there were 3 crew members standing above me, looking down at me dubiously, and I decided it was probably a good time to stand up.
I faced them, and they questioned me.
“You play piano?”
“Yes.”
“And you’ll be the musical guest?”
“God help me, yes.”
The three of them moved to the corner of the room to talk amongst themselves, as if it wasn’t completely obvious that I could hear every word they were saying.
“Well, how bad could it be?”
“If it’s bad, at least we’ll get attention from it.”
“Yeah, maybe it’ll go viral or something.”
“Stan is going to love this. He loves when the panel guest is also the musical guest.”
“Yeah, I mean, I sure as fuck know Stan will prefer him to no musical guest.”
“Right.”
They walked the two steps back toward me.
“You’re on, Leo Stone. Don’t let us down.”
The interview portion of the show felt like walking through a dream.
I think my anxiety had grown to a point where I no longer felt completely in my body—instead, I was on autopilot, and it may have been the best thing that could have happened for the interview itself.
And it was completely different than the last show I’d been on—people seemed genuinely interested in what I had to say, not just interested in making fun of me and cracking cheap jokes.
As the short segment of my interview came to a close, Stan Ballard turned to me from his desk.
“So, Leo. I hear you have not one but two surprises for us today on the show.”
The audience applauded, but I could just barely make out their faces with the harsh bright lights pointed at me.
I nodded. “Well, the first thing I have to share is that I actually have a project I’ve been working on this year that I’m incredibly excited to share. Stan, I’ve been working on completing a biography. It’s not written by me, of course—I’m no writer—but I’ve been working with a young, accomplished writer named Jamie Sheffield. The book is slated to come out later this year.”
The audience applauded again, and Stan Ballard actually joined them.
“That really is exciting, Leo—I’m sure the world will be ready to hear about the stories from your career. We actually do have Jamie here with us tonight—”
On the TV screen monitors in front of me, I could see what was being taped. And I saw as two cameramen walked over to the front row of the audience and zoomed in close to Jamie’s face.
He was here.
In the audience.
Here for me, with a huge smile on his face, in the front row.
I came crashing back down to Earth. I was no longer on autopilot. My heart started racing again, knowing that he was here, remembering that my next announcement would be that I was the musical guest.
I took a deep breath, watching the monitors as they pressed a microphone into Jamie’s hand.
“Jamie, how has it been working with Leo, here? Were you starstruck getting to meet someone from 5*Star?”
Jamie blushed a little. “At first, I was, yeah,” he said, and the sound of his voice was like a warm hug. “But just a few minutes after meeting him, I knew it would be okay. Leo is down to earth, kind, and really talented.”
“Thank you so much Jamie—and Leo,” Stan said, turning back to me. “So excited to hear about your book. Now, what is the other thing you had to tell us all tonight? I hear you’ve got a surprise in store?”
I swallowed. “Well… yes.”
I tried to look out into the audience and find Jamie, but the cameramen had walked away again, and all I could see were blinding lights.
I took a deep breath. When I spoke, my voice sounded shaky, but I hoped that the audience wouldn’t be able to tell. “Not very many people know this about me, but I actually… play piano, and have for many years. I didn’t do it while I was in 5*Star, but it’s been a lifelong practice of mine. And… and tonight, I’m going to be playing for you all.”
There was applause, but I could barely comprehend it, because I was shaking again, and regretting ever agreeing to this.
“Wow, Leo, you sure are full of surprises tonight. Well, we can’t wait to hear you play—we need to go to commercial break now, but ladies and gentlemen, when we return—Leo Stone from 5*Star… on piano!”
I got out of my seat and breathed deep as two show producers came to my side and ushered me over to the stage with the piano. It was lit beautifully, in a cool blue light, and I sat down on the smooth polished surface of the piano bench.
Despite everything, I could at least acknowledge that the piano was a beauty. A Steinway, ten times nicer than the piano I had at home, and utterly gorgeous in every way. I ran my hands over the keys, briefly in awe.
One of the producers was at my side again, fixing my makeup, then informing me of how Stan would announce my name again, and then a producer would point at me to signal that I could play. They adjusted the microphone so that it was at the correct height, and had me to a quick microphone check for the sound crew.
I sat with a slight tremor in my hand, going over the opening notes of my piece in my head. I had it memorized long ago, and I knew I didn’t need sheet music, but now I was beginning to doubt every decision I’d made in my life, up to and including not having sheet music for this performance.
But there was no way I could have had it. It was at home, tucked away in some folder in my music room. I would be playing by memory.
Time crept by glacially and seemed to speed past in an instant, and before I knew it, the lights were on again, focused at Stan Ballard as the audience quieted to begin recording again.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome back. Now, if you’ve just tuned in, you’re in for a real treat. Remember 5*Star? And Leo Stone? Well, we’ve learned tonight that he not only is publishing a biography later this year, but tonight he is playing—for the first time—piano for us, here on the show. This is an exclusive, and Leo is sharing it here with us. We couldn’t be more excited. So without further ado, ladies and gentleman—Leo Stone!”
Applause filled the studio, and the lights on Stan’s side of the stage dimmed. Four cameras were close to my face. The dim, glowy blue lighting came up around the piano, and a producer pointed at me to begin as the audience’s applause lessened and then stopped.
I paused for one breath.
Two.
Then looked out into the audience, and now—in the dimmer light—I could see Jamie’s face beaming at me, his hands clasped tightly together, held next to his chest.
I turned back to the microphone and looked straight into camera one.
“This is dedicated to someone out there who believes in me,” I said, then looked down to the keys, and brought my hands up.
And everything seemed to still as I played the first few notes, the ones I’d played a hundred time
s at home, but now were being televised to millions. I played, and the world kept turning. I lost myself completely in the melody, the exquisite, buttery-soft but also firm response of the Steinway’s keys, the atmospheric blue light giving way to darkness as I squeezed my eyes shut during the more intense moments of the piece.
I didn’t think about the world, or Stan Ballard, or the monstrous cameras in my face. I thought about the melody, the progression of notes and chords, and of Jamie. Because even when I wasn’t looking to him, I knew he was there with me, hanging on every note, believing in me, always there for me in all the ways I couldn’t be there for myself.
But now, we were both here. And I played the last few bars of the song, slowly remembering where I was and who I was, and I felt pins and needles throughout my whole body.
When the lights went bright again and the audience erupted into applause, some of them even standing up, I felt as if my body might vibrate off the Earth completely. I was shaking again, but not from anxiety anymore—from catharsis, and disbelief, and I think from utter joy.
I was smiling, then, and standing up from the seat to shake Stan Ballard’s hand as he thanked me profusely and told the crowd goodnight. I was out of breath even though I’d just been sitting at a piano, and I was completely dazed.
“Wow,” Stan was saying into my ear as the band played through the show’s end credits, “I gotta say, Leo, I had no idea you had that in you. That was really fantastic.”
I just smiled at him like an idiot. “Thank you. Thank you.”
And then I was being whisked away again by show producers, back into the backstage area, everything still in a blur. Someone shoved a water bottle into my hand, I caught several wide-eyed “Holy shit, man, that was great,” comments from the crew, and overall felt like I must have switched lives with someone so much better than me in every way.
Your Fallen Star: Under the Stars Book 1 Page 20