by Katie Dozier
Veronica appeared, her hair wet, but her makeup still perfect, wrapped in a kimono with blue waves stitched in every imaginable shade of blue.
“But before we can go to the stadium voters, who will decide if you have what it takes to become America’s Next Star , we will get your critique! Tyler?”
“Right, that was a fresh take on the song, though I’m not sure I liked it more slowed down. It was ironic in a way, because the song you chose last week was rather suicidal for your voice, and this week you looked like you were literally committing suicide.”
“Now, let’s hear from Veronica’s mentor, Zelina.”
Zelina jumped up from her gilded chair.
“I mean, come on, guys, that was spectacular!”
The audience roared with applause behind her.
“From your voice, to the most graceful dive I’ve ever seen, you completely nailed it! I hope the audience makes the right choice tonight, because to me, you already are America’s Next Star !”
During the next commercial break, Dad asked me, “Do you wanna vote for Veronica?”
“This isn’t like the other singing shows. It’s just the people in Star Stadium that vote because they’re actually seeing it live.”
“But I thought the way these shows made money was by charging five dollars to text a vote, well that and the ads.”
“No,” I said. “But they still make a ton. I heard tickets for this final started at over two thousand bucks for the cheap seats, and the best ones cost around fifty thousand.”
“That’s even more than it costs to go to the Superbowl!”
“I heard it gets more way more viewers than the Superbowl—so that’s not really surprising, Dad. It’s broadcast live in almost every country that has TV.”
“If the stadium’s so great, why are they tearing it down after this season?”
“Because they built an entire city and even better stadium. It’s a vacation destination and film set all at once!”
“And we’re back,” said Sam. “It’s down to Veronica and Brandon. Our stadium votes are in! America’s Next Star is…”
“I’m rooting for Veronica,” I said. “Even if her singing is a bit pitchy, it’s a lot better than Brandon’s.”
“I guess when you’ve got perfect pitch, everyone else sounds pitchy.” Dad laughed.
On the screen, Sam inhaled deeply. “And the winner is…”
The stadium went completely dark, and then the text, “ America’s Next Star is…” scrolled along a huge screen that circled the stadium.
“Veronica Stylo!”
She dropped down to her knees as Sam put an arm around her, and Zelina brought the girl to her feet.
Veronica’s face was flushed and golden as she smiled and cried. Her name scrolled around the stadium in gold glitter letters, and then she was lifted high into the air, and literally flown around over the screaming spectators.
Although I didn’t tell Dad, I hoped that would eventually be the real birthday present from Mom. And I don’t just mean the flying part, which would actually freak me out.
I mean me, being America’s Next Star .
Even though the idea was even crazier than diving into a fake ocean. And way too crazy to say aloud, even in a rare moment where Dad and I were getting along.
Just in case Mom was put in charge of carrying out birthday wishes, or being my fairy godmother or something—because that’s not at all a childish wish—I sat there on the sofa in the den, my knees pressed up to my chin, watching Veronica beaming on the TV.
And I was full of the kind of hope wilder than even Emily Dickinson ever dreamed of in that poem from Mom’s funeral.
“Hey, what about you auditioning?” Dad said, as info for season ten audition locations scrolled along the stream. “They’re even going to Orlando.”
I waved away the suggestion as if I hadn’t imagined it hundreds of times. The problem was, it almost always went bad—even in my fantasies.
“Nah,” I said. “I’d never get on.”
Back in my room, I pulled the curtain of my closet closed to hide the red dress I knew I’d never wear. As I curled up under my polka-dotted comforter, I remembered my last birthday present, and reached inside of the kangaroo pocket of my hoodie. In cursive—a format that took me about five hundred times longer to decipher than real writing—she wrote:
use the FSU box to wrap the envelope when it arrives in May.
I threw my comforter around until I found the thick envelope that Dad had tried to get me to take earlier. Could this be what Mom meant?
Dear Ms. Ella Windmill,
We are pleased to welcome you to Florida State University this summer. Enclosed you will find the information for your meal plan, the receipt for the 50% of tuition for 120 credit hours, and the information you requested about our highly-ranked musical theater Bachelor of Fine Arts degree. Your entire freshman meal plan, and half of your undergraduate tuition, have been paid in full.
Since you have qualified for a Florida Bright Futures scholarship, the other 50% of your tuition is covered by your scholarship. This letter is also to remind you that, as per the terms of our tuition payment plan, your tuition is non-refundable. We wish you academic and personal success as you embark on your undergraduate degree at Florida State University.
Please let us know if you have any questions.
Sincerely,
Carol Lamberta
Dean of Student Affairs
The swirling thoughts in my head eventually stopped on a single idea: If Veronica could jump off a cliff, then maybe I could handle diving into something scary too.
Chapter Eighteen
♪ Time to move on ♪
* * *
W hen Huck showed up to drive us the six hours to Tallahassee, my house was riddled with beer bottle caps again, like discarded shells at a gun range. After very time we argued, the fireworks of bottle caps hitting the tile echoed through the stucco walls. But when I was on the verge of leaving, there was so much I knew I should say to Dad. He sat at the kitchen table, staring through the dusty window at the empty row boat tethered to the dock. The reflection of the sun ricocheting on the shallow water gave his face a ghostly glow.
I could’ve said “I’m sorry I destroyed that desk you spent so much money on,” or, “Thanks for checking to see if I’d drowned in the creepy bubble gum balls on my walls,” or “I’m not fat, you asshole, and I am bulimic,” or “Don’t go back to drinking,” or “I love you, Dad.”
When there was so much to say, once again, I couldn’t find any of the words.
I wore the tight FSU sweatshirt that was as white as the roses that had been on Mom’s coffin, and my nails were tinted greenish black from the Dior nail polish I’d removed after wearing for way too long. Chips would appear, and I’d slather another coat of the inky polish over it. Finally removing the buildup on my nails had taken longer than packing for college.
Huck honked outside in his new silver Escalade, which was both a graduation present and another sign that his parents had no idea who he really was.
Dad stumbled over and I stepped away from him, picked up my FSU duffel bag and the box that had wrapped my presents from Mom. From six feet away, I could no longer smell herbs, only him, and the ants were back again, making zebra stripes along the kitchen ceiling.
I didn’t want to remember him with that smell, so I closed the door behind me, hoping it was quiet enough to escape his wrath.
It swung open.
“I love you,” Dad said, as his eyes scanned the crab grass. But before I could reply, he’d closed the door.
Even from outside the car I knew Huck was blasting old school Christina Aguilera. The escalade rocked ever so slightly with his spastic dancing, and as always he was singing along, as if the actual notes of “Genie in a Bottle,” were just suggestions. Even though our friendship had been rather strained since he forgot my birthday on prom night, I couldn’t help but laugh at his butchered warbling of the
90’s classic. I knew he’d been excited about going to college his whole life. Even if it wasn’t his dream school, he was fully embracing the fresh start, and I tried to get on board.
There was barely room for my duffel bag in the back seat. All of his stuff was packed in garnet and gold boxes, labeled in his mom’s all-caps handwriting.
“Hi,” I said. He waved me away until the song finished, locked into his performance.
“I got something for you,” he said, as he popped open the center console. Inside was a little neatly wrapped box, in purple sequined paper.
“I’m sorry again about forgetting your birthday.”
“I told you, it’s okay.”
Inside the paper was a trio of Dior nail polishes, in black, dark red, and gray.
“Because cheap black nails look tacky, but expensive black can be chic!”
“Uh, thanks,” I said. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d even bothered to paint my nails.
Hours later, the shady oaks that were nowhere to be seen in Cocoa Beach—well except on the logo of a certain funeral home—were everywhere in Tallahassee.
Huck giggled as he made a quick left turn.
“Look,” he said, as he pointed to a huge building.
“Yeah, it’s pretty weird looking. Isn’t that the capital?”
“Aw, sweetie, I forgot—you don’t know. I wasn’t trying to give a history lesson. It is the most phallic thing I’ve ever seen…aside from literally a dick.”
I laughed even though we both knew I didn’t totally get the joke.
We followed the GPS to the side of FSU, passing a big fountain where Mom told me she’d once helped dye the water red and put gold glitter in on a game day versus the Gators.
Even though I’d only seen it once in the flesh, it was plastered all over FSU brochures everywhere, always with smiling, perfectly beautiful people in graduation robes.
After a row of plantation style house with Greek letters, we pulled into campus by a big brick building. I vaguely recalled that Mom had been in a sorority here, but had no idea which one.
We pulled in by a large red brick building listed on my dorm assignment sheet. Landis Hall.
“You sure you don’t want me to park and help?” Huck asked.
“Thanks, but there’s nowhere to park.” Even the fire lane was full of SUVs being unloaded. “I still don’t see why I can’t be your roommate in your new apartment. We always said we would be.”
He rolled his eyes.
“You know why. I’m just…I’m not ready to tell them yet. Plus, it’s only a one bedroom.”
“ Only a one-bedroom. From what I heard, I’ll basically be sharing a jail cell with a complete stranger.”
But at least I wouldn’t have to drown in bubblegum balls or bottle caps or ants again.
“See you later,” I said as I took a deep breath, leaving the sanctuary of Huck’s Escalade.
As I looked across Landis Green, every student seemed to be walking with confidence in the too-yellow afternoon sun. Every plaid shirt seemed starched, every garnet backpack as light as if it had never known the burden of carrying books.
Everyone had read the same memo—to wear garnet and gold. And my formerly white FSU sweatshirt—that I’d spilled coke all over when Huck swerved onto I-95—wasn’t enough to make me feel like one of the tribe.
With garnet hoodies and gold track pants, the place looked like an overdone school commercial on the last orientation day. Parents walked a distance from their freshmen, but swayed with their motions, like dogs on a leash.
I fought the urge to think of what this moment would have been if Mom was still alive, and replayed the college scene from the movie The Blind Side in my head by way of a substitute. Instead of tears, I offered other new students my fake smiles. Inside, the carpet was dark green, and squished a bit under my feet when I walked down the hall, until the white door to my new room was finally right in front of me.
Inside of the small cinder-block room, there was a sunny side by a small window, and then another bed, in a darkish corner. Two desks with peeling particle board were pushed up against each other. There was a little corroded sink.
On the sunny side, the twin bed was made with a hot pink comforter and pillows in the shape of gerbera daisies. On the open closet, there was an identical flower curtain, and a fuzzy bathrobe that also matched.
By my roommate’s MacBook was a lamp with a lightbulb that changed between light pink, yellow, and orange. A bejeweled pencil cup held pens capped with fake flowers. I didn’t even think to bring any pencils with me, yet even her writing utensils had jewelry.
On her dresser, there was a photo of what I had to assume was her with her two parents and her little brother—though they all displayed shockingly white teeth in their scrunched smiles—so maybe it was just the fake picture that came with the rhinestone frame. Either that or my roommate and her whole freaking family were models.
On my side, was a mini fridge that seemed to be leaking chocolate ice cream. As I looked down at my feet, I realized that I had stepped in it and had already ruined something on her perfect side of the room as I had tracked it onto her Gerber daisy rug.
And that’s how I ended up going through my roommate’s stuff before I’d even met her—trying to find carpet cleaner among the cute miniature bottles of “Energizing Mint Foot Scrub” and “Preserved Lemon Dish Soap.” I managed to get out most of it before noticing that what had to be my side was affixed with tons of multicolored blank Post-it notes. They were the same kind I’d use to leave those messages in changing rooms.
Just as I had thrown away the evidence, the door opened. I pressed my foot on the rug, hiding the worst part of the stain with my shoe.
The first face and voice I heard was from the little boy in the photo.
“Hey, there’s someone in your room!”
A brunette in kitten heels and French-tipped acrylic nails pushed past him.
“Oh my god, it’s you! Roommate! I thought maybe you weren’t coming! I’ve been here for almost a week for summer sorority rush! Aren’t you going to rush?! You’re pretty!”
“Hi, I’m Ella. Nice to meet you,” I said, while feeling like I had put a pin into a balloon with my lack of exclamation points.
She tossed a pair of Tiffany & Co. sunglasses off her head and tossed them on her desk as she took in my stained nails, sweatshirt, and black Converses. Her eyes danced for a moment on her new rug, and I brought my feet closer together to hide more of the stain.
Her voice went down an octave, and she took my hand without really grasping, shaking it once before stepping backwards.
“Oh, yeah, nice to meet you, I’m Tiffanie. And this is my brother, and my parents. Well I just came back to change into my higher heels for dinner.”
She sat down, and pulled off her kitten heels in favor of pastel yellow five-inch heels that I’m sure Huck would call, “stripper heels.”
“I just couldn’t walk to all six of my sorority call-backs in these! We’re going to that Japanese place downtown, Jasmine’s, for sushi before they leave.”
She issued a slight eye roll in their direction, shielding her face for the moment. As she crossed to the door, she turned back and said, “Oh, you don’t wanna come do you?”
“Oh, no it’s okay.”
“You’re probably having dinner with your family too, huh! Last night before we’re on our own. Where are they? They could meet my parents! And me!”
“Oh, well, they’re just waiting for me to unpack, wanted a little time to myself in the room before they leave.”
Tiffanie mouthed, “I know,” with another dramatic flurry of her intensely long eyelashes.
“Well, see you soon!” she said. “Oh sorry about all those Post-it's my little brother put up, I really thought you weren’t actually coming. You don’t mind taking them down, right?”
I surveyed the hundreds of neon Post-its that looked like a quilt covering my precious few square feet of space.
“No, I don’t mind. Enjoy the sushi!” I forced the exclamation a little too loudly.
“Okay, well, bye, roommate!”
Her stock photo family chirped, “Nice to meet you!” in perfect unison.
Chapter Nineteen
♪ Eleanor Rigby ♪
* * *
A week later, as I joined the herd leaving my Psych 101 class, I clutched my book of soprano solos . On the front was the mask from Phantom of the Opera , and I’d decided that, “Wishing You Were Somehow Here Again,” was my best shot of getting in. I raked my fingers through the pages, as if the fluttering of the thick paper was my entrance music into a fighting ring.
I held the book with a label out, as if it was my security badge that allowed me entry to the school of music as I passed an outdoor amphitheater framed by apple trees.
So far, the most I’d done to prepare for the audition in the weeks I’d been at school was to listen to a zillion versions of it on YouTube, which ranged from the inspiring: Sarah Brightman in the West End—who was praised instead of mocked for her big eyes—to a guy trying to sing it at Thespian competition which only left me wishing he’d decided not to compete.
I read the sheet music over and over like a baffling question on the SATs. The pamphlet Mom had sent to me said that, “Those students awaiting admittance to the Theater Major Program are welcome to use the open rehearsal room within the Music Department.” So why did I feel like I was trespassing?
Once inside, the arched stone building held the scent of old sheet music. I heard distant singing, the clashing chords of dozens of pianos, but one sound above all others: a single violin playing.
I thought that the violinist must be some professor giving a lesson, and I was drawn to the door of his rehearsal room like I was drawn to think of Mom’s hummingbird cake on every special occasion. As I approached the door, I knew that I recognized the tune.
Dum, dum, dum, dum dum dum dum, dum…