Jesse's Girl (Hundred Oaks #6)

by Miranda Kenneally

  “No, we haven’t met.”

  He points at me. “I’ve seen you somewhere.”

  Mom puts an arm around me. “You probably saw her on YouTube singing with Jesse Scott.”

  Liam swallows. “I know that video. The one on the boat, right?”

  A girl standing nearby whispers to another as they scan me up and down, looking fearful.

  “Fame whore,” one says under her breath.

  The other sneers. “Why were you singing with a country star if you’re an eighties rocker?”

  Liam interrupts the haters. “Maya, your performance was great.”

  My hands, which had stopped shaking when I was talking to Liam, shake even worse than before. I hope people don’t expect a Belle Carol encore, which, considering how much Jesse and Holly have to say about my poor mechanics, may not happen. I mean, I want to do well at this audition and would love to make it into the top thirty, but I’ll be so embarrassed if I bomb onstage. Then, I was singing with a three-time Grammy winner. Now? Not so much.

  Mom and Sam go to find seats in the back of the auditorium, and I grab a bottle of water from a refreshments table. I uncap it and sip, taking deep breaths.

  Ten minutes later, an older man in a blue pinstripe suit walks out onstage, smoothing his silver hair. He speaks into the microphone. “If you could take your seats, please.” After everyone has finished tripping over each other to sit and the murmuring has died down, the man continues. “As the executive producer for Wannabe Rocker, on behalf of NBC and Rêve Records, I’d like to welcome you to the season twelve semifinals.”

  Everyone stars cheering and clapping, and my heart pounds.

  “My name is Phil Tyson,” the producer says. “Let me give you a rundown of today’s schedule. Our judges are going to listen to each singer perform.” Mr. Tyson pauses as applause breaks out again. “But this year, we have a new twist.”

  The girl to my right leans over. “There’s always a twist!”

  “This year, if the judges turn out all three lights on your first-round performance, you’re out. You don’t get feedback from the judges. You’re to leave the stage immediately. You will get a critique from our judges only if your lights stay on.”

  Murmurs and gasps fill the auditorium. We don’t get any sort of feedback? That sucks and is kind of heartbreaking. I can’t imagine coming all the way to New York City to perform and then getting kicked off without even knowing why. But it must make for good television. I fidget, trying to get comfy.

  “If you make it through the first round today, you’ll get another chance to perform in front of the judges tomorrow. Same rules apply then—if the lights go off, you’ve been cut. If we still have more than thirty people after that, the judges will listen to you again on Wednesday and Thursday until they’ve narrowed the number down to thirty contestants. Got it?”

  “Got it,” we all chorus.

  Mr. Tyson claps his hands together. “Ready to meet this year’s judges?”

  The noise in the auditorium escalates, reminding me of Jesse’s concert at the Opry.

  “God, I hope one of the judges is Taylor Swift,” the guy on my other side says. “She’s so hot.” He sounds like a real perv; besides, it should be about her music, not her looks.

  The first judge to come out is freaking Dave Matthews, and everyone jumps out of their chairs.

  “Ahhhhh!” I yell. I’m going to be performing in front of freaking. Dave. Matthews.

  He tells us how honored he is to be here. “I hope I get to see some awesome singers today.” Then he takes his seat at the judges’ table in front of the stage.

  The second judge onstage is Joel Madden from Good Charlotte, which makes the girl to my right giddy. She jumps up and down, pumping her fist. Cameramen walk up and down the aisles filming everyone. What a circus this is. I wonder if any of my footage will end up on TV. With so many people auditioning, they’ll probably only show the best and weakest when it comes time to air. That’s usually how it goes.

  Mr. Tyson announces the third judge, Annie Lennox! She sings one of my favorite eighties songs, “Here Comes the Rain Again.” I don’t think my blood has ever pulsed this hard.

  Mr. Tyson says into the mike, “And now for our fourth and final judge this season. The winner of Wannabe Rocker season three, Jesse Scott!”

  I cover my mouth with both hands while all the other contestants clap and holler for Jesse.

  “Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God,” I chant. I thought he was in Philly! I thought he was retiring…I thought he blew this gig when he fell off the yacht! Why didn’t he tell me? “Oh my God…”

  “Please be seated,” Mr. Tyson announces, and the other contestants sit down, but I keep on standing, touching my throat.

  Jesse scans the audience, and his eyes meet mine. His mouth falls open. Then it slowly forms his famous half-cocked smile.

  He grabs a microphone. “Hey, Maya Henry. What’re you doin’ here? And who’s watching my cat?”

  Water Runs Dry

  It sounds like a swarm of angry bees were released in Radio City Music Hall.

  “She should be disqualified!” a guy yells, holding up his iPhone. “Here’s the video of her singing with him!”

  Another girl calls out, “I saw them in People magazine together! It’s a setup.”

  “They talk on Twitter all the time!” another girl yells.

  I’m waiting for somebody to lunge at me with a pitchfork.

  Jesse leaps off the stage with the finesse of a cowboy dismounting a horse and hustles up the aisle to my row of seats. I stumble past people to reach him, and when I do, he picks me up in a hug and twirls me around. I haven’t seen him in more than three weeks, and being in his arms feels like spring becoming summer.

  “I missed you so much,” he whispers.

  “Me too.”

  He brushes his lips against mine. His soft kiss drowns out the ruckus around us. A cameraman gets right up in our faces. I bury my head in Jesse’s white button-down shirt.

  “I thought you were in Philly,” I say.

  “I popped over this morning.” He pulls away and sets his hands on my shoulders, smiling. “I can’t believe you tried out for the show. This is big-time! I’m so, so proud.”

  The shouting gets louder and louder—it’s like I’m in the ring at a boxing match.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” I whisper.

  He raises an eyebrow. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I wanted to do this on my own. I didn’t want you to think I was taking advantage of you by asking for help.” I say the words quietly, and his face falls. “I wanted to surprise you.”

  “Well, you did. I wasn’t allowed to tell anyone I was judging. Only Mark knew.”

  “I thought you blew it when you fell off that yacht.”

  Jesse laughs. “These people love drama. Nearly any news is good news.”

  “But I thought you’re retiring,” I whisper.

  “I made a deal,” he whispers back. “Judge the show for one season, and I can get out of my three-year contract with Rêve.”

  That’s when Mr. Logan comes rushing up with the executive producer Mr. Tyson and two men wearing suits and shiny shoes. They must be producers or something.

  One of them says, “Jesse, Mark, how could you not tell us about this?”

  Mr. Logan smiles and shakes his head at me. “I’m as surprised as you are. I couldn’t get her to play around in a recording booth, and now she tries out for a TV show.”

  The second guy says, “We have a situation here. Perhaps we should talk someplace private?”

  So that’s how I find myself with Jesse, my mom and brother, Mr. Logan, and the producers in the Roxy Suite. It pimps the socks off Jesse’s dressing room at the Opry. It’s full of sparkly crystal china and a rainbow of artwork, not to mention
flat-screen TVs and leather furniture.

  Even though they’ve only met once—before Jesse took me on our date to the Spaghetti Factory—Mom gives Jesse a hug. I’m glad he doesn’t wince or freak out or anything. He acts like a perfect gentleman. Sam gives him a nod, but my brother isn’t happy.

  “I don’t like it when people threaten my sister,” he says with a growl. “I was about to kick some asses in that crowd out there.”

  “Later, dear,” Mom says, patting Sam’s arm. “Right now, let’s hear what the producers have to say.”

  We take seats on the couches. I wipe my palms on my black dress and sit close to Jesse so our thighs touch. Mr. Logan paces, talking into his cell. “Tell Charles to get on the next plane to New York…I don’t care what he says about his golf game, just get him here.”

  “Who’s Charles?” I ask Jesse.

  “My attorney. But it’s fine—I’ll quit so you can perform.”

  Mr. Tyson and the other two producers exchange freaked-out looks.

  With the phone still pressed to his ear, Mr. Logan snaps his fingers and points at Jesse. “You’ll do nothing until Charles gets here. You signed a contract.”

  Jesse crosses his legs, shaking his red cowboy boot, and leans back against the leather sofa like he owns the place. “This is no big deal, right? I mean, I’ll treat Maya like I’ll treat every other singer.”

  “I was under the impression Maya is your girlfriend,” Mr. Tyson says, folding his arms across his chest.

  “We’re not in a relationship exactly,” I ramble. “I mean, we haven’t decided yet—we’re planning to talk when Jesse gets home—”

  “We’re together,” Jesse interrupts, squeezing my hand, and I can’t stop the smile spreading across my face.

  “Every other singer out there will file suit against the network,” the younger producer says.

  Mr. Tyson holds up a hand. “Tom, let’s just take this one step at a time.”

  “I’ll quit,” Jesse says. “I’m not letting Maya give up this opportunity.”

  “What about your deal?” I whisper.

  “Jesse, we’re excited to have you as a judge this year,” Mr. Tyson says. “I want to ensure we start our relationship on the right foot, and—”

  The younger producer interrupts. “The show has already dedicated many resources to ensure Jesse’s a judge this season. We’ve already created the press kits. Our network affiliates will be announcing the judges during today’s news broadcasts. It’s out on social media already. And we’d have to postpone the semifinals until we could find a replacement judge. We’d expect Jesse to pay for any losses the network would incur.”

  “Tom,” Mr. Tyson says. “Calm down.”

  “What if I don’t judge Maya?” Jesse asks. “Bring in a replacement judge just for her performances.”

  “That would probably open us up to even more lawsuits,” Tom says. “All contestants must be on the same playing field, facing the same judges.”

  I take a deep breath. “So I’ll quit.” I’m glad my voice doesn’t break.

  Mr. Logan snaps and points at me like he did to Jesse. “No more until Charles gets here.”

  “But the rules on the application say my daughter can’t know anyone associated with the show,” Mom says, biting her lip.

  Mr. Logan throws his hands up in the air. “That’s it. No one talks until Charles gets here.”

  Jesse jiggles his boot on his knee. “Who wants coffee?”

  “I told you not to talk.” Mr. Logan bops Jesse’s cowboy hat with his little black notebook, and Jesse swats at his manager, grinning. He adjusts his hat, acting like this is no big deal.

  Mom starts sniffling and wipes her nose with a tissue. Sam hasn’t looked up in several minutes. I feel like I played the lottery and won.

  And then all the money got stolen.

  • • •

  Because the heavens opened and angels sent rays of goodness to Mr. Tyson’s heart, I get to perform during the first round of auditions. The producers will decide if I’m allowed to compete after Jesse’s attorney arrives. Mr. Tyson doesn’t want to hold up auditions any longer—they’re already behind schedule thanks to me.

  Mr. Tyson says, “Tom, it’s obvious neither Jesse nor Maya knew the other was going to be here today. Which shouldn’t be a surprise, since we kept Jesse’s participation a closely guarded secret.”

  The younger producer storms out of the Roxy Suite. Mom and Sam grin at that.

  Mr. Tyson turns to Jesse. “But I expect you to be completely impartial today, Mr. Scott. Understand?”

  Jesse nods, yawns, and pats my back. “Shall we?”

  Back in the auditorium, I get heckled like the time I peed my pants in elementary school, but I hold my head high. Mr. Tyson grabs a mike and explains what’s happening. “It remains to be seen if Jesse Scott will be a judge this season—”

  Cue massive booing.

  Mr. Tyson continues, “Or if Maya Henry will be disqualified. Our lawyers will sit with Jesse Scott’s attorneys this afternoon to discuss and come to a resolution, but we do not feel this is a reason to postpone today’s performances.”

  Cue massive applause.

  “As we honestly believe Jesse and Maya did not know the other would be here today, we will permit her to participate in the first round.”

  Cue massive booing.

  “So let’s get started,” Mr. Tyson says, clapping his hands.

  Jesse comes out from backstage carrying a coffee mug. He tips his cowboy hat at the contestants and takes a seat at the judges’ table.

  A stagehand explains that we’re auditioning in numerical order. I peer down at the 156 on my bib. I have a long time to wait. What if Jesse’s lawyer arrives before I get to audition and decides that I can’t? I suck in a deep breath and try to relax.

  “Number one,” the stagehand shouts, and a guy struts onstage, plugs his guitar into an amp, plays a lick, and says he’ll be singing “Under the Bridge” by the Red Hot Chili Peppers.

  But Jesus, if the Red Hot Chili Peppers heard the way the guitarist messed up that easy progression, they’d probably throw tomatoes and eggs at the stage. After about ten seconds, the lights on one side of the stage go out. I can’t tell which judge did it, but I don’t blame them. Five seconds later, the lights on the other side shut off, leaving a strip of light down the center. Three seconds after that, the stage goes dark. Number One’s dreams of stardom are over. Just like that. He mopes off the stage. It must suck to come all this way and get no feedback as to why the judges turned off the lights.

  The guy to my left whispers, “They’re harsh. I won’t even make it past the first round.”

  “Don’t give up yet,” I tell him.

  The stagehand calls for number two.

  A girl dressed in a plaid skirt and French braids saunters onto the stage and announces she’s singing “Don’t Speak” by No Doubt. Her performance is not bad, but I’m not getting any soul out of her. Men in the audience, however, stand up and cheer for her. Or for her outfit. I don’t know which. Only one light goes out.

  “Not bad,” Dave Matthews says into his mike. “I’d like to see what else you’ve got.”

  “You have talent,” Annie Lennox adds.

  “I like your vibe,” Joel Madden comments.

  Jesse sips his coffee before speaking into the microphone. “I turned out the lights. I was bored.”

  The crowd gasps.

  Ten singers later, it becomes apparent that Jesse is the “harsh” judge.

  Jesse tells a rocker girl that “if you don’t loosen up, your body’s gonna freeze. Do some yoga or something.”

  I almost burst out laughing when he tells one guy that his voice reminds him of Sebastian from The Little Mermaid. “You’re singing out of your nose, not your stomach.”

  He
tells a boy who looks younger than I am, “Go out and live a little, ’cause there’s no emotion in your voice.”

  I peer at the producers, and they’re engrossed and nodding at each other. They love Jesse’s drama.

  Liam the jazz pianist plays next, and he is awesome. He has this strange Irish rocker, jazzy vibe. No lights turn off during his rendition of “The Way You Look Tonight.”

  I cheer as Jesse gives his first positive critique of the day: “Big-time.”

  During the break, I go to the bathroom. Two girls are bawling because they had their lights turned off. I give them tissues and tell them how much I liked their duet. They thank me as they wipe their noses. What will they do after this when they go home? Practice more? Go solo? Find a third member? Whatever they do, I hope they don’t lose hope after this one audition.

  The most amazing singer so far is a girl—she can’t be older than eight or nine—who performs a slow version of “Since You’ve Been Gone.” Everyone hollers and whoops for her, including the judges.

  Jesse tells her, “If you made an album today, I’d buy it,” and the girl starts crying right there on the stage. I’m happy for the little girl, and for Jesse, because I can tell how much he loved making her life change.

  The stagehands are ushering contestants on and off the stage like it’s a science, so by the lunch break, we’re already up to number 148. All but thirty-two singers get cut! What is that? One in five odds?

  I’m up after lunch.

  Lunch?

  “Oh my God.” I scan the spread they’ve laid out for us in the Rainbow Room. The restaurant is at the very top of the building and has gorgeous views of the Empire State Building and Central Park. I wish Mom and Sam could see this, but lunch is contestants only. I take pictures of the city below until the buffet lines die down.

  I grab a plate and head for the pasta station. Jesse’s face appears over my shoulder. “That’s too heavy. You shouldn’t eat that before your performance.”

  “Well, what do you suggest? A Tofurky?”

  Jesse starts laughing and leads me to a table covered in sushi, which is something I’ve never had before.