by Katie Dozier
I turned to leave, but Kara stood in my way.
“How can I help?”
“Look there’s no need, Kara. It would likely get you fired.”
“You aren’t the only one that they’ve bossed around one too many times.”
I gave her a hug before a plan came out of me like a chick finally getting to fly.
The first part was easy, because it was exactly what we would’ve done if everything was normal. Kara escorted me up to the pre-stage holding area. But when no one was looking, we took Blondie and a bunch of E.T.’s empty Reese’s Pieces boxes into a little viewing room they’d forced me in many times.
“Play dead,” Kara whispered to Blondie. “And stay.”
Did I mention that the plan depended on a willful, goofy pup behaving exactly as she was told?
As I heard the click of Zelina’s heels heading to the bathroom just out of our view, I scattered the empty movie theater candy boxes around Blondie. I added some brown makeup to her muzzle for extra insurance.
“Damnit!” Kara said, a little too loudly at first before adjusting to a whisper. “I forgot that my Beam would only get you to the stage.”
“But isn’t the stage exactly where I need to go?”
Kara shook her head. “On the stage they’ll cut your mic off in under a second and pull you down to the Core as soon as they figure out what’s going on. I have an idea, but we have to have Tyler or Zelina’s Beam.”
As fate would have it, we heard a toilet flush and Zelina came out in a silver dress using a nail to scratch her red skin under her Beam.
“Hi Zelina,” I said. “It is so wonderful to see you again!”
She half grunted over her shoulder. I gave Kara a nudge.
“Zelina? So sorry to bother you but E.T. said your Beam was really bothering you and that I could go ahead and remove it now if you’d like?”
She raised a painted-on eyebrow.
“He said he was sorry and meant to have me do it sooner.”
Zelina shrugged as if she didn’t really care why it was happening as long as it was being taken off. As Kara began to go through the complicated steps of removing Zelina’s device, I realized that everything I was trying to do would be lost if I went out there dressed like a damn blueberry.
I looked for something, anything, that could count as an outfit without drawing suspicion. The only thing in my view that would even cover me was a cardboard box. I inched towards it and rationalized that at least it was as chic as curbside garbage could get.
“Oh Ella,” a voice called out like a bird. “I think you’re looking for this,” said Katherine Egg.
In her hand was a hanger with a simple white A-line dress painted with shades of blue.
“How?”
“I heard the whole plan, dear. Quite brilliant, well except for the lack of consideration for costume choice of course. But luckily you have me. Hurry now, and be careful. The paint on the dress is still wet.”
I tore off my blueberry costume right in front of Katherine Egg and stepped into the painted silk.
“Beautiful,” she said. “And the final touch.”
She pinned a white origami shape to my hair.
“A windmill for Ella Windmill.”
I smiled at her.
“And my dress is the wind?”
“ You are the wind, my dear,” she said, and left before I could so much as thank her.
With only minutes to go, I ran up to Kara, and she slipped me Zelina’s acrylic Beam, which I held under my skirt.
“It’s time,” I said.
“Break a leg. And third door down,” she said. “Wait. What about Tyler and Sam? They’re up there already.”
“They’ll either stop me or they won’t. Either way we’ve already gotten a lot farther than I thought.”
I nodded at her, knowing there was some chance that I would never see Kara again.
Behind me she called out in her best attempt at terror, “Oh my god Blondie ate six boxes of Reese’s Pieces. She’s passed out! Get a medic! Get E.T.! Help!”
And just as I turned towards the corridor that I never thought I would, I caught a glimpse of E.T.’s face hauling ass towards Blondie. I almost felt bad as I ran to the third door, and scanned Zelina’s Beam. It opened instantly.
Chapter Seventy-Six
♪ I Will Hold On Forever ♪
* * *
T he ground was frozen against my bare feet, and Solar Stadium was under a comforter of darkness while commercials aired. It was black enough that I could barely see my hand in front of me, and crawled the three steps to my destination—a table for two that was half a football field, and thousands of fans, away from the main stage.
“Finally decide to show up Zee?” Tyler said to me in the darkness.
As the lights shot on to illuminate Sam standing in front of a 1950’s microphone by the judges’ table, I buried my face into my hair. I knew if I could just manage not to be discovered for the next ten seconds, I was almost guaranteed to get to sing at least a note.
“And we’re back,” Sam said.
I stood up with my hair and origami windmill disguising my face, and made my way towards the retro microphone, even though Tyler tried to grab my wrist.
I gathered my breath as Sam started to introduce me (thinking I’d be on the main stage about to breathe fire).
“Let’s welcome recently reinstated Ella Windmill, singing ‘Toxic.’”
I jumped in front of the retro silver microphone. Sam fell backwards off the small platform and the fans caught him and mistook the error for a request to crowdsurf. I tried to ignore Tyler’s wide open jaw.
“Uh, actually I am going to sing a song I wrote this time. I wrote it when I was living in the rehearsal rooms at FSU, after I was voted off. It’s called, ‘I Will Hold On Forever.’”
When I inhaled for the last time before singing, it was like the last rush of wind that makes a plane go from being on the ground to flying.
“I dare you to see more of me than eyes alone can find...”
And it was just me, singing like no one was watching, with a slow tempo and a bluesy vibrato that was mine and mine alone.
“Remaining blind’s a choice on which you can build a shrine…”
I let the feeling of my song move me higher and lower than it had ever dove or soared before.
“ So the next time you stop to ask if I’m doing fine, just remember that I’ll never be the one to hit decline! ”
When I looked up mid-way through it, I realized Tyler was staring up at me with a different kind of shock than before.
“ But that’s just the way, that a dream is, ” I sang for the last chorus. “ And I will hold on forever. Forever! ”
I fell to my knees smiling—because the feathers swirling inside me had finally flown on the true wind of my voice. That little girl I used to be, bouncing on Mom’s bed singing her heart out, was finally proud of me.
It was like the sky was raining all my favorite flowers: Mom’s candied violets, magnolia blossoms, blue gerbera daisies, red tulips, and purple orchids. And even if just for a moment, I knew joy.
Chapter Seventy-Seven
♪ This is Me ♪
* * *
T o my great shock, I somehow managed to run down into the Core still using Zelina’s Beam. Kara and E.T. were nowhere to be found but I figured that if I could make amends with myself, maybe the other thing nagging at me could happen too.
I found Carrie sitting alone at the dressing room table, adjusting her costume. She was surrounded with hundreds of flowers—from irises to red roses.
Under the glow of the lights, she was still beautiful, but the makeup caked into her pores, and she tore little shreds out of a tissue while trying not to be caught eyeing me in the reflection.
“Hey,” I said to her.
Given what I’d called her the last time we spoke, I couldn’t blame her for not responding.
“Look, I’m sorry for what I called you th
e other week,” I said.
She appeared to be fighting tears, but waved her hand as if to forget the insult.
“Well,” she said, as she took a sip of steaming water. “E.T. made me bait you into it. Told me to stop you on stage, wanted me to get you to slap me…at least it didn’t get that far.”
I crossed over to her, and put a hand on her. Suddenly she was a real person.
She burst into tears.
“I’m sorry too. This isn’t how I want to win, you know.”
To my suprise, she was still crying. “And I’m sorry for back at CBHS. For not showing up on opening night when your mom had just died.”
“Look it’s okay,” I said.
“But there’s a reason I wasn’t there that night,” Carrie said. She twisted the tissue in her hand like she was wringing water from it. “I passed out that night. Cause I’m anorexic.”
“I’m so sorry,” I said, as I hugged her. “I had no idea.”
But as soon as I said it, I remembered her pushing away bowl after bowl of fruit every morning.
“How can I help you,” I said.
“You can’t, but after this show, I think I’m going to find out how to get better.”
“I’m glad to hear that.”
“And I should’ve told you something way back in high school. I was always terrified that you would audition for the musicals and take the lead instead of me. Your perfect pitch and voice is really special, like Ella Fitzgerald herself.”
Little Miss Perfect was jealous of me ?
“Thanks, Carrie. But if it’s any consolation, you’re the heavy favorite to win the tenth season of America’s Next Star.”
“We’ll see,” she said, as she jumped up from her chair.
Chapter Seventy-Eight
♪ Vindicated ♪
* * *
O n the stage were four chairs. The three positioned together were for Sam, Preston, and Carrie. And me, well, I was off to the side and close to the curtain, as if a giant hook would appear to take me off stage any moment.
I couldn’t believe that I had escaped even getting yelled at for my enormous stunt and that I was still on a stage at all.
“Remember Solar Stadium, voting will close in three minutes. And now, I have another question for you, Carrie,” said Sam.
Carrie smiled at Sam, not a hint of the tears I’d seen only minutes ago. I’d always known the girl was a fighter, I’d just had no idea—until a few minutes ago—what she was fighting.
“Carrie.” Sam put a hand on her exposed tan thigh. “Let’s go back to week two, when Ella was sent home. Did you think it was fair that Ella forced May to quit?”
She swallowed.
“No.” She pouted her lips. “I don’t think it is right to be mean to anyone, ever. At my sorority we take philanthropy very seriously.” Her perfect teeth seemed to be clenching.
“Thank you, Car—”
“Wait!” shot Carrie.
She grabbed the microphone from his hand.
“The truth is, Ella didn’t do that. She’s not a bully at all. And I just want you—I mean America—to know that Ella is not a snake. I deserved to be called a bitch by her that time. I just thought—”
Sam grabbed the mic from her and patted Carrie on her head like a lost puppy.
“We have just a couple of minutes before voting closes in Solar Stadium, and time for one more question. Preston.” Sam smiled at his own rhyme. “What would you like the world to know?”
“Well if I can’t win…” He tipped his hat to Carrie. “Then I know who I hope does.”
“And Carrie?” asked Sam.
“Just that if I win, I want to make the world a better place. I will give some of that money to my favorite charities.”
Sam’s eyes glazed over me, like a piece of trash on the curb that it was easier to walk away from than pick up.
“And me.” I said to him without a microphone. “I’d like to answer that.”
“And…Ella, what would you like the world to know, briefly?”
I inhaled and clutched my locket.
“I’d like the world to know what my mom would say if she was still here. ‘Hope is the thing with feathers, that perches in the soul, and sings the tune without the words, and never stops—at all.’”
I was standing with one arm offstage, gripped by E.T.—so it seemed that my thoughts of a giant hook had not been merely a delusion. But, I was still smiling.
Sam stood between Carrie and Preston, and they were holding hands even though the Astronaut hadn’t clasped them together.
“And the winner of America’s Next Star …”
“The Comet that wins a ten million dollar recording contract…”
“The finalist who will be getting their own mansion...”
“The one of you that will be America’s Next Star …”
And as I studied their faces, Preston with easy pride, and Carrie swallowing tears, I knew that I was rooting for her. She had a secret at least as big as mine, except she kept it a lot better.
She was prettier than almost anyone in the world, but she wasn’t Miss Perfect…in a way she was the face of Miss Everyone.
“And this is the closest finale we have ever had on this show…”
I thought of Mom, how she would have loved to see me here. But mostly I thought of that morning at home with her and Dad, when the kitchen smelled like browned butter syrup and apples, ripe from the vines.
I wanted to hang on to that perfect memory.
I thought of Mom’s creamy hands, putting sugar on wet violets, telling me she had a surprise.
And I thought of little white feathers, floating up to Heaven.
“Ella Windmill?”
My own name sounded as distant as a cloud.
Flowers rained from the sky.
Sam sprinted over to me tapping his Beam again as if it still couldn’t be trusted. My name flashed in gold on his wrist.
“Ella Windmill, you are America’s Next Star ! Congratulations!”
I weaved between thousands of petals falling from the sky, and took in the roar of over a hundred thousand people chanting my name.
I was a real Comet—shooting around the Earth.
Chapter Seventy-Nine
♪ Here Comes the Sun ♪
* * *
“Y ou deserved it,” said Carrie, under the stage after she hugged me.
“But why did you do that, with the interview?” I asked.
“I just didn’t want to win, if I was going to win in that way.” Carrie shrugged. “But don’t worry about me. An Astronaut just told me that Chicago —like the real Broadway Chicago —wants me to do a guest run as Roxie!”
“I’ll be there opening night!” I said.
That’s when I saw a tan orange blur rushing towards me.
“Huck!” I said, as he scooped me up and twirled me in his arms.
“Honey, I saw the whole show!”
“But how are you here?”
“Bought my ticket for the finals the day you got on! Of course I’m here, silly! Even if you went MIA for weeks—but I didn’t know you’d get to compete! And YOU WON! Let’s go out and celebrate!”
I gave him the biggest hug of my life.
“And I don’t mean to toot my own horn, well maybe only a little bit, but I think I helped you!”
“Of course you helped me, Huck!”
“No, I mean literally. I felt bad about how I hadn’t really been the best friend ever since transfering, and honestly I was pissed with that clip of me they aired. So I made something.”
He pulled up a YouTube video posted by his account called, “The Truth About Ella Windmill: What America’s Next Star Doesn’t Want You To Know.”
“It went viral today!”
I gave him an even bigger hug than before.
While Huck waited on the stage for me, I sat underneath Solar Stadium in front of my makeup mirror and wiped away my foundation.
The space was bare—I�
��d given my sunflowers to May, and everyone had cleared out.
When I saw the reflection of my eyes in the glass, they were like glittery moons.
A lightbulb on the mirror popped and went dark, but when I tapped it—it turned back on.
Epilogue
♪ Dog Days are Over ♪
* * *
W e were in the formal living area of my new mansion, right by where Zelina’s portrait used to hang. In its place was a wall-sized mirror with thousands of notes taped to it like sprinkles on a cupcake. Some were ink-smeared sheets of notebook paper, some were sticky-note smiley faces drawn in crayon. Some were written in obscure languages, but all of them I could understand.
I took a sip of green tea. Even though I had just talked nonstop for longer than ever in my life, my throat felt whole, and once again I was grateful for keeping the promise I had made to myself before winning the show. Kara smiled beside me and the reporter.
“Our readers are going to love this! I really think you’ll make the cover. I just have a few more questions, if you have time?”
“Of course!”
“So tell me about what you’re doing with all that prize money.”
“I turned this mansion into a live-in treatment program for those recovering from eating disorders, myself included. I’m calling it 'Windmill’s Wildflowers,' because I thought that sounded like a much happier group than something like ‘Shaded Oaks Bulimia Recovery.’”
He laughed.
“Can you tell me more about the program and how you picked the young women to come live with you?”
“Carrie helped me pick them right before she started starring in Chicago on Broadway —since she knows what it is like to live with me! We picked the girls based on who we thought needed the most help, and who otherwise couldn’t afford treatment. For the ones we couldn't accept, we helped each of them find local treatment options.
“We have one of the best expert doctors in recovering from eating disorders here full-time, and an extensive therapy program. We have a regimented diet, and even our own Chef.”