“Masculine,” I finished for him. Right now, Ethan Fox was every gym teacher I’d ever had. He was my dad not understanding why I wanted to be Princess Jasmine for Halloween as a little kid. He was my brother Hugo making fun of me for “throwing like a girl.” It was hard to even look at him.
“Exactly. I mean, there’s a great tradition of truly grounded, masculine dancing in the American musical theatre canon. That’s what I’m trying to tap into. Think, you know, more Gene Kelly in An American in Paris, less Billy Porter in Kinky Boots.”
“Mmm-hmm.” Ethan Fox should be gagging to get Billy Porter in one of his shows. But I kept that thought to myself.
“Think about it, okay?” He reached out and squeezed my shoulder. “I know I shouldn’t say this at this point in the process, but I’m rooting for you.”
Ethan Fox was rooting for me? This situation was way more complicated than the choreography at the dance call. Even with my hurt and disappointment, part of me couldn’t help but feel excited that I had a real shot at this. And Ethan Fox, probably the most famous director working in New York right now, was rooting for me, some unknown kid who’d never booked a professional gig. It was unreal.
Think about it.
I couldn’t promise anything else, but that, at least, I could do.
“GIRL CRUSH!”
by Amelie Stafford for CelebutanteTalk,
a subsidiary of Cabot Media
We’ve got a girl crush, and it’s not just on the divine Miss Pepper Smith! We should have known it wouldn’t take our girl Pep long to perform a royal rebound. Last night, the perfect Pepper was spotted locking lips with an unidentified gorgeous blonde in a too-chic-for-words sequined silver jumpsuit.
Patrons at Il Boccone NYC, the hot new restaurant from up-and-coming chef Blaze Rossi, immediately spotted Pepper canoodling with her date over a plate of pappardelle.
Guess who was also in attendance? Notoriously prickly celebrity chef Gordon Ramsay.
When Gordon started complaining loudly about his improperly prepared pasta, Pepper saved the day by running to the kitchen, whipping up a quick carbonara, and serving it to the chef, who immediately pronounced it the best he’d ever eaten. Is there anything our girl can’t do?! Blaze Rossi offered to make Pepper chef de cuisine on the spot, but unfortunately, she had to decline, citing other pressing engagements.
We here at CelebutanteTalk can’t wait to hear what those pressing engagements are! Perhaps a pasta pop-up of her very own? Rumors have swirled for years that Pepper Smith hosts an extremely exclusive, secret underground supper club whenever she’s in the city, frequented by the likes of Timothée Chalamet and the Hadid sisters. Perhaps it’s time to open the doors so us mere mortals can dine like Pepper does!
Now, there’s only one question all in-the-know New Yorkers are dying to know—who’s the lucky lady who’s captured the heart (or at least the lips) of the toast of the town? We’ve been scanning Pepper’s Insta for clues, but she hasn’t posted anything since her gorgeous shot from the roof-deck pool of SoHo House. (Swipe up on the latest @CelebutanteTalk Instastory to purchase the exact swimsuit Pepper Smith was wearing!) If you recognize the mystery blonde (or have any other Pepper sightings!), please send any information to [email protected].
THE FASHIONS AT THE BISCUIT Barrel were really something else. Although, I’m not sure what exactly I should have expected from a combined restaurant and country store. In addition to learning more than I ever needed to know about bees, I’d also recently discovered that Pauly had a deep and abiding love for the Biscuit Barrel’s hash browns, and now I felt like we’d had breakfast in every Biscuit Barrel in Ohio and Pennsylvania.
We’d played a couple of less-than-stellar shows in Youngstown and Akron—not that there was anything wrong with the shows, but the venues weren’t great, and the seats weren’t full. Delivering a show to empty seats was a lot harder than I thought it would be. I couldn’t wait to get to Pittsburgh tomorrow. No matter how many people were there, I knew someone special would be in the audience: Kevin. He must have been really busy with his first semester—I hadn’t heard from him since I told him we were coming through Pittsburgh—but I couldn’t wait to see him.
Assuming we ever got out of this Biscuit Barrel.
Pauly was busy trying to beat the peg game they had on every table, and Dad was trying to get the waitress to give him some kind of fancy coffee drink that I was pretty sure was out of the purview of a Biscuit Barrel barista, so who knew how long that would take. While they were otherwise occupied, I was shopping. I pulled a sweater off the rack, agog at the bright red cardinal sitting inside a snow globe that boasted real falling snow glitter. This was so hideous it was almost cool? I faced the mirror, holding the sweater up to my shoulders, wondering what Dad would do if I rolled up for our next show wearing this monstrosity instead of one of my typically chic all-black ensembles.
Behind me, a handsome, stubbled face rose over my shoulder. I watched my jaw drop in the mirror as Boone Wyant ambled closer, his hands in the pockets of his jeans. He was wearing a cozy flannel shirt over another tight Henley, and I was starting to think that between Boone and Archie, I might have some kind of undiagnosed clinical addiction to Henleys. A flirty grin broke out across his face as our reflections made eye contact.
“If anyone could pull that off, it’s you, Josie McCoy.”
“So you really are stalking me.” I put the sweater back on the rack and turned to face him, trying to play it cool, even though I was feeling decidedly uncool. The fact that I was wearing an old pair of River Vixens sweatpants and a plain black hoodie definitely wasn’t helping matters. I always felt my best when I was dressed in something performance ready, but even I didn’t see the point of riding around in a van while dressed to the nines. Now, however, I wished I was looking a little bit more like my usual fabulous self. If nothing else, the height advantage of a good pair of heels would have been nice. I tried to stand a bit taller in my favorite pair of pink-and-black Nikes, unused to the way Boone towered over me.
“Swear I’m not!” He held up his hands. “I just have an addiction to Goo Goo Clusters.”
“Now you’re just making up words.”
“Absolutely not.”
Boone moved forward, an arm outstretched. He leaned over me, so close that for a wild moment I thought he was about to kiss me. He wasn’t, of course. Obviously. We didn’t even know each other. And a Biscuit Barrel gift shop wasn’t exactly conducive to romance.
But being that close to Boone made me feel some kind of way. He smelled like clean laundry and a little bit of leather, and I couldn’t resist breathing deep.
“Got it,” Boone said, grunting slightly with effort. From the shelf behind my head, he pulled out two square, blue candy wrappers. “Goo Goo Clusters,” he announced. “This is the pecan flavor, my favorite. Caramel, marshmallow, pecans, chocolate, all the best things. And made right in Nashville,” he added proudly.
“Do you work for the board of tourism there or something?” I rolled my eyes, but his hometown pride was kind of cute. “Is the city of Nashville sponsoring you? If I go to one of your shows, will I find ‘Visit Nashville’ stickers plastered all over your amp?”
“You wanna come to one of my shows?” The excitement that lit up his eyes was pretty flattering. “Any chance you’ll be in Pittsburgh tomorrow night? I’m playing Lonesome Cowboy.”
“Lonesome Cowboy?” I repeated, wondering what kind of venue that was.
“Yeah. It’s a bar.” He ducked his head a little, like he was embarrassed. “But it’s a great venue. Always an awesome crowd. More country fans than you’d think in Pittsburgh. I always love the energy of a bar crowd.”
“I know what you mean.” I thought of how much fun it had been to sing at La Bonne Nuit. Last I’d heard, it was more dance club than speakeasy, but I’d still had some great nights there.
“So? You heading anywhere near Pittsburgh?” he prompted.
“I’
m playing Pittsburgh tomorrow night. So I’ll be there, but otherwise occupied.”
“You might be able to come, anyway. I’m doing an eight p.m. and a late-night show, so you could come after your gig. Where are you playing?”
“Carnegie Hall.”
“Fancy.” He whistled.
“It’s not the one in New York—”
“It’s still real nice. Beautiful venue. You’re gonna love it.”
“Have you been there? How long have you been on the road for?” I asked curiously.
“On my own, just for the past couple months, since I turned eighteen. But when I was younger, I used to tour with my parents and brothers, before my parents took over the day-to-day operations at the Heartless Café. We had a family folk band.”
“You’re kidding.” I snorted, imagining Boone running around in a sailor suit like a little Von Trapp.
“Hey, what’s that tone? You’re basically in a family band right now, missy.”
“You can go ahead and add ‘missy’ to the list of no-no names, along with ‘darlin’,’ ‘ma’am,’ please don’t even think about busting out ‘sweetheart’ …” I ticked them off on my fingers.
“My bad. Apology Goo Goo?” He held one out to me.
“Seems a little early in the morning for all that caramel-chocolate-marshmallow whatever.”
“It’s never too early to Goo Goo.”
He walked confidently toward the register. Somehow, I’d forgotten about all the grief I’d caught from Dad the last time I’d hung out with Boone Wyant. But this was breakfast. Full-on daylight. In a public place, surrounded by witnesses.
Surely, this was a different situation altogether.
He grabbed two glass bottles of Coke from a vintage cooler next to the register filled with ice and drinks.
“Candy and soda?” I watched him place the bottles on the counter with the Goo Goo Clusters. “Let me guess: ‘Dentist’ isn’t on your list of backup careers.”
“I don’t have a list of backup careers,” he said. “There’s only music. That’s all I can do. That’s all I am. So I’m gonna make it, because I have to.”
Yes. That was exactly how I felt, too. I always hated when people—always adults, usually men—insisted I needed some kind of backup plan, like my dreams of making it were nothing but dreams. Like it was impossible for anyone to make a living through music. Of course, that wasn’t true. I’d watched Dad work as a successful musician my whole life.
But I was going to be a bigger star than Dad. Someday, everyone would know the name Josie McCoy.
“You got a couple minutes?” Boone asked, a Biscuit Barrel plastic bag swinging from his wrist.
“A few.” Still no sign of Dad or Pauly. “Maybe.”
“Come rock with me.”
He held open the door, and I walked through, then took a seat in one of the red rocking chairs on the Biscuit Barrel porch that boasted quite the expansive view of the parking lot and the highway beyond it. Really picturesque, postcard-worthy stuff.
Boone settled into the chair next to me; it creaked slightly under his weight. Using the arm of the chair, he knocked off the bottle cap and handed me a Coke. I took a sip, trying to remember the last time I’d had a soda, the dark liquid fizzy and too sweet. He tossed me a candy and it landed neatly in my lap. I ripped open the wrapper and bit in.
“Okay, that’s pretty good,” I said through a mouthful of Goo Goo. “And here I was, just assuming you’d be at Biscuit Barrel for the biscuits.”
“I would never.” He shook his head emphatically. “It’s Meemaw’s biscuits or bust.”
“Meemaw?
“My grandma.” He took another bite of Goo Goo Cluster. A little chocolate lingered on his lower lip. “Even though she’s supposed to be retired, she still makes all the biscuits for the restaurant. She’d drive up here and tan my hide if she thought I was eating mass-produced biscuits. Bring shame on the family.”
“You’ve got a little something. Right there.” I gestured to my lip, and his tongue snuck out to lick on exactly the wrong side. “No, not there.” I laughed. “Over here.” I gestured again, and he wiped at his lip with his thumb, still wrong. “Come here.”
I leaned forward off my rocking chair. With my thumb, I brushed gently along his lower lip.
“There,” I said. “Got it.”
But I didn’t pull away, and neither did he.
“Well, this looks cozy.”
“Dad!” Like a shot, I leaned back into my chair. Dad stood above me, clutching a Biscuit Barrel to-go cup, his fedora pulled low on his brow. Wisely, Pauly walked right by us toward the van, a bulging plastic bag swinging from his wrist.
I really hoped he bought the cardinal-in-a-snow-globe sweater.
“Look who I ran into,” I said, gesturing to Boone like I was showing off a prize on a game show. “It’s your favorite murderer.”
“Your safety isn’t a joke, Josie,” Dad growled.
“Boone Wyant, sir.” Boone leapt up out of the rocking chair and stuck out his hand. “It’s an honor to meet you. I’m a big fan. You’re our greatest living jazz musician. And I’m not a murderer. Sir.”
“Hmm,” Dad said, like the jury was still out on that one, but he shook Boone’s hand, anyway.
“Boone’s going to Pittsburgh, too.” I was sort of enjoying watching the two of them face off from the comfort of my rocking chair. Dad’s ire was a lot funnier when it wasn’t directed at me. Boone was really sweating in that flannel.
“Not because of Josie. Sir. I mean, not that I wouldn’t go see your show. But my tour just happened to be booked through Pittsburgh, too. Sir.”
“Well, I’m sure whatever honky-tonk has booked you will be grateful for your musical stylings,” Dad said dismissively.
“I’m playing the Lonesome Cowboy tomorrow night. I’d be honored if you and Josie would come to the late show.” I had to admire his nerve. If Dad was looking at me the way he was looking at Boone, I wouldn’t have invited him anywhere. But also, like, LOL at inviting me somewhere with my dad. If this was Boone shooting his shot, he sure went about it differently than the guys back home. “I’ll make sure your names are on the list for the good seats. And leave you some drink tickets at the door.”
“I’m sober. And thank you so much for offering to ply my eighteen-year-old daughter with alcohol.”
“Soda!” Boone squawked. “They have soda!”
It was time to put this nervous white boy out of his misery.
“Okay, Dad.” I stood up, placing a calming hand on Dad’s arm. “Why don’t we get on the road. See you in Pittsburgh, Boone.”
Dad harrumphed.
“What do you think, Dad? Should we catch some country music while we’re in Pittsburgh?” I teased as we walked toward the van. I knew that was about as likely as Dad opening our next set with “Milkshake.”
“If I wanted to hear someone cry into their beer about women and trucks, I’d just ask Pauly about his ex-wife.”
That had not come up during our many conversations about bees.
As the van pulled out of the parking lot, Boone was back in his rocker, soda in one hand, candy in the other. He lifted up his bottle in a toast, and I waved at him, even though I knew he couldn’t see me through the tinted windows. There were a lot of Comfort Motels and Biscuit Barrels in the world, and yet, somehow, we’d ended up in the same place. Twice. I didn’t believe in fate—I’d seen too many terrible things happen to good people to think there was some kind of grand design—but it was hard not to wonder why I kept running into him.
I didn’t have to wonder why I kept thinking about him, though. There was the killer smile and the broad shoulders and the low voice that churned my insides like butter … and … well. All of that.
Maybe Kevin would want to go to the Lonesome Cowboy. Surely, Dad couldn’t object to me spending a little more time with my favorite stepbrother …
I had a good feeling about Pittsburgh.
A very good
feeling.
BRINGING A GARMENT BAG INTO Lacy’s was definitely a first for me.
Well, not that I’d ever carried out one of my own. I’d helped Veronica carry plenty of garment bags out of the store, but all my Lacy’s purchases had been more of the something-small-and-inexpensive-enough-to-fit-in-a-tote-bag variety.
Now, clutching my garment bag tightly to my chest, I emerged from the chaos outside into the cool, controlled comfort of Lacy’s. Keeping an eye on the elaborate wall clock, desperate not to be late, I hustled past the makeup counters and perfume spritzers, my heels tapping an anxious staccato tempo on the floor.
The shoes had probably been a mistake. I should have worn flats or at least something with a stacked heel, but instead, I’d chosen this pair, with their spindly heels and delicate T-strap, because I wanted to show off the leatherwork I’d done on the toe. But they were going to look a lot less impressive if I started limping from my rapidly developing blisters.
I reached the elevator and pressed the button. Luckily, it illuminated immediately, and the doors slid open. Wow. Even the elevators in Lacy’s had chandeliers.
God, it was all just perfect.
“Hold the door!”
I turned to see a girl around my age running toward me, long braids flying behind her—very Zoë Kravitz chic. She had a garment bag and a coat slung over her arms. I stuck my arm out to hold the door open, and she slid into the elevator. Up close, I could see the sky-blue suspenders holding up her high-waisted black jeans had little cat faces embroidered on them. They looked too clever to have been commercially made—I wondered if we were going to the same place.
“Thanks,” she wheezed, dragging her arm across a bead of sweat on her forehead. “The G train stopped for no reason for ages, and I thought I’d never make it in time. Deja Birungi,” she introduced herself, freeing one hand from under her garment bag and holding it out to me.
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