I stared at Corey in total confusion. I understand textbooks and I can make sense out of history lectures, but with real people … well, I wish they came with flashcards and translations.
“What are you talking about?”
“He’s into you. Or he
was
anyway.” Corey turned to the other three boys to get a consensus.
“Yeah.”
“Sounds like the guy was into you.”
“Definitely.”
It just shows how strange my life had become that having a tribunal of rock stars discussing my love life felt normal to me.
“No way.”
Corey shook his head. “Think about it.”
So I did. I sat back in my plush leather seat while the guys talked amongst themselves and I thought about Logan Beckett. And this time I pretended that I was an impartial observer—a scientist looking to catalogue flirtatious behavior among high school male adolescents.
That impartiality didn’t work too well when I remembered how he had deflected the conversation from me, sat down next to Jane, and taken the time to really listen to her. I mentally shrugged. For all I knew, maybe he was interested in Jane that way. Or maybe he was just a nice guy who had been born with social skills. None of that meant he liked me.
But as I replayed our almost-date at the mall that first day with the paparazzi chasing us, I thought Corey might have a point. The way he had grinned at me over kung pao chicken before telling me about his dyslexia could’ve meant anything. But combined with everything else …
“Oh, crap!”
Corey nodded. “My sentiments exactly.”
They let me silently mull over how, exactly, I’d completely failed to notice that Logan, the most notable of Notables, had been interested in me as more than a tutor.
And now I had to figure out a way to make everything better.
I
called my mom about ten times from the road, which seemed a bit excessive to the guys, but I knew it would make her happy. Plus I thought when she got off work and sat down to go through her voice mail she’d appreciate the messages I’d left for her.
Messages like:
Me: Hey, Mom! It’s me calling you again. We’re just passing. . . Corey, where are we? Okay, well, Corey thinks we’re near Ashland or Medford … or something. He’s not too sure. But the bus driver knows exactly where we are, so everything’s fine. Thanks again for letting me do this. I’ve got to go though since Tim’s bugging me to try one of his new songs as a duet. Maybe you can hear the guitar in the background. That’s him. Yeah, I know, Tim! On the phone here! Okay, I really have to go. Call you soon. Love you!
Click.
Corey and I both called Jane from the road too. She said she was glad we were having fun, that she’d be sure to see Ellen interview me, and that the two of us should try to get some homework done on the bus because otherwise we were never going to get caught up. That was exactly what we needed to hear to make us actually open the textbooks we’d brought along. Jane might be a bit on the staid, serious side, but she’s the best person to go to when a reality check was needed. Even if she did throw in a few “Oh, Kenzie’s.”
So I took care of a large chunk of my homework, which would be superdifficult for any teenage girl who found herself on a tour bus with the very attractive members of a boy rock band. Talk about messing with your concentration. I worked for as long as I could and then dealt with Dylan. He called just to find out if “yes, I was fine” and “no, I would not ask Chris, Tim, or Dominic for a signed copy of their latest CD for him.”
Little brothers. Even when they’re concerned about your welfare, they can be awfully annoying.
But even with the phone calls and homework to distract me, most of the ride was spent hanging out and talking, which gave me more than enough time to really get to know the guys.
I bet you want to know everything.
Too bad.
You’ll have to watch VH1
Behind The Music,
just like everyone else.
I can tell you that we had a few jam sessions along Interstate 5—and that we sounded really good. I thought maybe that whole singing-onstage-with-Tim YouTube video clip had been some kind of fluke. I expected to join in on the vocals only for them to holler, “Stop! Stop! You’re off-key! This is too painful!”
But instead, Tim kept saying stuff like, “Let’s try having you come in about two beats earlier, so you actually start before I do. Okay, sounds good. Now what if you …”
It went on like that for well over three hours. By the end of it, the song sounded freaking awesome. It was like all the vocals layered over each other to create this really great texture. Kind of like baklava: all sweet and delicious, layered and smooth—and by the end of it my voice was so entwined in the song that I thought of it as mine too. It would still sound good without me … but I was totally the honey drizzle that kept the layers sticking.
That’s right: the honey drizzle.
So when
Ellen
’s producer called again, asking if I’d sing with ReadySet, I instantly agreed. The song needed me—and that was a direct quote from Timothy Goff. In fact, Tim had already set up some time for us in a recording studio after the interview. I didn’t let myself think about that. I had enough to worry about just being interviewed by Ellen. Old Mackenzie would have been freaking out, hyperventilating into a brown paper bag, and begging Tim to call whomever he needed to contact
to get me out of it!
But every time I felt my panic level rising to the danger zone I reminded myself that I was in control. I was making all the decisions. I even sort of enjoyed the sensation. I could feel the quick jumping of my pulse, and it made me feel so
alive
.
That’s what had been missing from my life before. I’d been comfortable, I’d been invisible, and for the most part, I’d been content.
But I hadn’t felt this alive—this wonderfully and terrifyingly vulnerable since, well, ever.
The closer the bus came to its destination the more wired I felt. It was kind of like having a ministroke. I’d laugh at a joke and be totally relaxed while munching on the food we’d grabbed from some greasy fast-food place and then I’d think,
In less than twelve hours, I’ll be on the set of
Ellen
!
Every muscle, tissue, and fiber in my body would constrict and I’d wonder if I had just dreamed it all up. Any second I would wake up and I’d just be Logan’s lame tutor, ReadySet wouldn’t have heard of me, and I would never get invited to do a talk show. All of this made much more sense as the product of an overactive imagination or a very weird dream.
But when Dominic shook me awake after my second night sleeping on the leather couch, it was all too real for me to have created the whole thing. Even after I had scarfed down a banana loaf with my mocha Frappuccino I had trouble believing that we’d just roll up to the studio lot, get buzzed inside, and then have interns hustle us off to prep rooms to be made camera ready.
I managed to grab Corey’s hand before I could be abducted by a woman who kept barking things into her earpiece like, “We need makeup and wardrobe on standby! Greg, have the mics been checked? Get on that, please.” She smiled as she led us through twisting hallways full of props, equipment, and people. “We’re so excited about today’s show. Did you have a nice drive?”
Before either of us could answer, we reached the makeup room. “Great. Okay, here you are. Sorry we don’t have time to talk. Things are crazy right now.” She pressed her earpiece. “Cynthia, I said we’d do that next week, honey. Uh-huh.” She rolled her eyes expressively. “Okay, well, you need to make it work.”
She cut off any reply Corey or I might have had with a quick, albeit distant smile. “Charlene here will have you looking great.” She patted my shoulder quickly. “Break a leg, sweetie.”
Then she swooped out the way she’d swirled in and demanded that Bryant give her an update stat.
“Think everyone in Hollywood uses pet names?” I muttered nervously to Corey as Charlene wheeled over a mountain of cosmetics.
“Of course they do, snookums. That’s how they get out of remembering anyone’s actual names.”
Charlene chuckled, and the sound was rich, low, and soothing. “Michelle’s always a little intense, but she keeps things running.” In a movement that showed both grace and years of practice, Charlene flicked open several sets of eyeshadow. “Most everyone here is running on caffeine and determination. That includes me. Now, let’s get a good look at you, sweetie.”
She gave my face an intense study, as if my every pore needed close examination.
“You have flawless skin,” she told me as she pulled out one of her brushes. “You don’t need cover-up or anything.” She shook her head. “You’ve probably never had acne a day in your life, have you.”
I didn’t know what to say to that. “Uh, yeah. That’s never been a problem.”
Charlene gave another one of her chuckles. “Some people have all the luck. Well, you’re making it easier for me. Close your eyes, please.”
It was weird to hear myself being described as lucky. I’d spent so many years thinking that everything about myself (with a few exceptions like my mom, brother, and friends) was the product of misfortune. I’d never considered myself lucky with my looks. It was all just too blah. Brown hair, brown eyes, and skin that turned the color of an overripe tomato when I blushed.
Charlene kept up a steady running commentary as she worked on me. “We’ll have Michael fix your hair once I’m done. He’ll know exactly how best to set off that dress of yours. It’s gorgeous. Where’d you get it?”
I shrugged, which I realized was a mistake when she hissed and jerked her hand back before whatever she was applying smudged. I knew that I was in the right outfit. Last night, I hadn’t felt so casual when I was pawing through the clothing I hastily packed in my suitcase in a desperate attempt to find something to wear. When I saw the dress, the rich blue one I’d held breathlessly in my bedroom that first day when the packages started coming, I knew that it had been waiting for this. It had been waiting for me to figure out that it was the simplicity in the dress, the stylish but discreet way it draped on curves, that made it me. While that red halter dress I’d worn to the party was fun and flashy, it just didn’t suit me the way this did.
Maybe it’s stupid, but picking out that dress on my own felt like a step—a big one. While I was glad Corey had nodded his approval after a critical examination, and the rest of the guys had wolf whistled, I would have worn it even if he’d said, “You know, Mackenzie, it’s nice but I think we can do better.” I knew it was right, and for the first time that was all that mattered.
“
BCBG
Max Azria.” It still felt strange for me to label drop.
“Well, it looks amazing,” Charlene continued. “Makes your skin look creamy and really pulls out the brown in your eyes.”
I had no idea what she meant. I mean, my eyes are so obviously brown I doubt I need a dress to make them look browner. But it sounded like she approved, so I wisely kept my mouth shut.
“You know who you look like?” she said thoughtfully while applying another coat of something to my eyelids. I really wanted her to just be finished already. “Anne Hathaway. Doesn’t she look like a young Anne Hathaway? Right after
The Princess Diaries
or something.”
“Yeah, she does actually.” I could hear the amusement in Corey’s voice and was tempted to risk the annoyance of Charlene and sneak a peak at him. Then I remembered she was doing eyeliner and quickly shut my eyes again.
“She could even pull off a Keira Knightley look.” Charlene moved to my mouth, and I felt her coat my lips with something that stung but in a good way. “She’s stunning, but too thin in my opinion. She looks like she could use a week’s worth of home-cooked meals,” she clucked. “They say there’s no such thing as too thin in Hollywood, but trust me, honey, it’s not true. You don’t go starving yourself, now. Blot.”
“I won’t,” I promised as I followed her orders.
“Good.” She carefully applied mascara for me. I had to keep reminding myself that I should trust the professional as the wand came closer and closer to my eye. It was hard for me not to flinch. “You’re ready for Michael now, honey.” She shut her makeup case with a satisfying snap. “Just be yourself and you’ll be fine.”
It was great advice, and I kept mentally repeating it to myself while Michael, Corey, and I chatted about the show and the celebrities whose hair had been in his hands. I actually turned Charlene’s words into my own personal mantra. Be myself. Just be myself. To my own self, be true.
That was what I thought, punctuated by,
Oh, my God, I’m really going to do this!
on an endless loop as I stood in the wings waiting for my introduction, for the music to play, for my cue to be given.
Then it was showtime.
E
llen DeGeneres played the YouTube video before my introduction—well, the last twenty seconds or so. Just enough for the audience to see my frantic expression and Alex’s shocked one as I pumped away with the chest compressions. My screaming set of questions (AM I
KILLING
HIM
RIGHT
NOW?) blared out, much to the amusement of everyone in the room. So when I strolled onto the stage with jellyfish legs, it was to the sounds of applause and laughter from the studio audience.
I smiled at the audience, which was gyrating to one of ReadySet’s megahits as I focused on placing one foot in front of the other. Suddenly, I was getting a friendly hug from Ellen, who is even prettier up close than on TV. Her short blond hair and blue eyes gleamed under the set lights. It made me wonder if she had someone like Charlene following her around everywhere backstage. I doubted it. She just seemed too low-key casual for that, especially since she was wearing basic jeans, sneakers, a white shirt, and a vest. It’s not everyone who can pull off a vest, but Ellen made it look surprisingly good.
“Hi, Mackenzie,” Ellen said, releasing me from the hug so we could both sink into the überplushy furniture.
“Hi. Thanks for having me on the show.”