Childish Dreams Read online

  Childish Dreams

  Copyright © 2019 Malorie Verdant

  Editing by Hot Tree Editing

  Cover Design © by Arijana Karcic, Cover It! Designs

  Formatting by Champagne Book Design

  All rights reserved. This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book is copyrighted material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, translated, distributed, licensed or publicly performed or used in any form without prior written permission from the publisher or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. Any unauthorized distribution, circulation or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s rights, and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  CHILDISH DREAMS is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places and events are from the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to any person, living or dead, place or event is purely coincidental and not intended by the author. Please do not take offense to the content, as it is FICTION. Trademarks: This book recognizes product names and services known to be trademarks, registered trademarks, or service marks of their respective holders. The publication and use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  TITLE PAGE

  COPYRIGHT

  DEDICATION

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  EPILOGUE

  THANK YOUS

  For Chantal,

  Whose talents are limitless and who inspired me to follow my dreams.

  Are you going to answer the boy?

  Billie

  The spotlight was blinding me, the collective gasp of the audience freaking me the f*ck out. The colors that had filled the theater stage moments ago hid in the shadows, gleefully waiting for my response.

  I shut my eyes to stop the pounding in my head. I desperately wanted to run and hide from everyone’s eager facial expressions. Over seven thousand people sat in the dark staring at me—at us—and I didn’t have the words.

  I willed the band to start up again. I wished to hear the first notes of the song that was meant to launch my career. I knew I hadn’t hit my mark at the front of the stage and my body was too far away from the conductor. However, I was prepared to start singing, with my eyes closed and my back to the audience. I hated the fact that the glittery fringe swaying back and forth from my blue sequin dress was the only thing making music. My singing career was like a forgotten tumbleweed blowing away.

  I prayed that if I stood still for long enough, with my eyes closed hard enough, at least one of the producers would step in to end this madness.

  It was live television, after all.

  I knew we were already over time, and I couldn’t imagine a nonresponsive contestant was great for their ratings. Connor must have repeated the phrase “Live television doesn’t do overtime, children” twelve times during each rehearsal. They would have to step in. Connor would come out with his disgustingly charming smile and his perfectly styled hair and talk to the audience. He would encourage everyone to laugh about this as if it were the best practical joke in the history of the series. He’d then remind them that the moment they had all been waiting for would happen after a very short ad break.

  They couldn’t possibly expect me to answer on national television. They surely had better things they needed me to do, like sing to thousands of viewers. Viewers who had been watching eagerly and spending their money on getting to this very moment. Surely no one wanted to watch this.

  After seconds ticked into minutes, I wondered if I needed to remind the people in charge to get on stage. They must have been as shocked as I was, and unsure of what to do next. If I made eye contact, maybe it would spur them into action.

  I tentatively opened my blue eyes and quickly turned my head to look at Steve , the stage manager, standing by the control box. I tucked a loose blonde curl behind my left ear, my cue for him to come on stage—a subtle prompt to handle this problem, just like he handled any and all production issues in the past. When he just answered by smiling, giving me a thumbs-up in congratulations, I was left speechless. Again.

  “So are you going to answer the boy?” Russell asked from the judges’ bench, chuckling. I turned to stare at them in confusion.

  Is no one going to stop this from happening?

  “Maybe she needs to hear him repeat the question.” Claudia laughed. “Girl’s having a big night.”

  Before I could reply with how unnecessary that was, the most beautiful guy I’d ever met touched my shoulder. For the second time this evening, he looked deeply into my eyes and asked softly, “Billie Bishop, will you make me the happiest man in the world and marry me?”

  Superstardom

  Billie

  Five Months Earlier

  “You’re going to kill it,” Zach told me as he spun around in my desk chair, his voice fading as he yawned. “Your audition is going to be on YouTube’s trending list for weeks.”

  “You can’t say that. It’ll jinx everything,” I whispered while I continued to pack. I already had my favorite pair of black jeans and a few white T-shirts in a duffel bag. It was more than enough for a quick two-day trip, but I kept deciding I needed more. “Darn it, where are my ankle boots?”

  I looked around my bedroom at the Miranda Lambert posters hanging above my bed, the large bookshelf filled with old records that took up the entire left wall, and my small desk that was tucked into the corner. As my eyes passed the small piles of belongings I had scattered around the room, I tried to imagine what else I might need. “Do you think I should bring my hair straightener?” I asked quietly with a pained expression on my face.

  “I thought you were going to keep it casual, jeans and T-shirts? Won’t straightening your hair look like you’re trying really hard if they ask to see baby photos for your backstory and realize that your hair is actually a crazy mess?” Zach muttered, raising an eyebrow at me.

  “That’s right, that was the plan. Why do I keep forgetting about the plan? Casual means curls,” I exhaled. “It also means I can go straight to the auditions and won’t need to find a hotel. It’s not like I’ll be the first to audition with a crazy mane of curls. That guy from Austin who won in season two had crazy curls, yeah?”

  “I think he did. I think he even had curls when he won that Grammy last year for debut album,” Zach reassured, winking at me. “Which brings me to why I came here at this god-awful hour. I really think you need to let me come. When you take me to all those award ceremonies, I want to be able to say that I was there from the very beginning.”

  “I thought you came to make sure I didn’t chicken out or make up some excuse about why I missed the bus? But if you came over just to try and convince me to let you join, I’ll repeat my mantra. You aren’t coming with me,” I reminded him. “It’s not happening.”

  “I won’t even talk to the all-important Connor Graves or the infamous Jax Bone,” he told me, pouting. Zach
then posed, resting his elbows on his knees and letting his blond hair fall in front of his dark blue eyes. “You won’t even know I’m there. I promise I’ll be as quiet as a mouse,” he pleaded.

  “Don’t try and pull that seducing-the-cheerleader face on me, Zachary James Montgomery. It won’t work. We’ve already discussed this. The deal was I would go to the auditions if they were held only a short bus ride away from here. And if you kept your word and didn’t come, didn’t tell either of our families and make me even more nervous than I am,” I responded firmly.

  “It was a stupid deal,” he complained as he went back to spinning in my chair and yawning again, his broad shoulders scraping the bookcase with each rotation. “And you know our mommas are going to go crazy when they see you on television, then find out I knew and didn’t tell them. You know they’re addicted to Superstardom. They’ll see it all go down.”

  “Well, if you let me back out of the deal, I’ll stop packing and you can stop worrying about the wrath of our mommas. Hell, at this hour, if you stop trying to destroy my bookcase, we could head over to Lucy’s Diner and get the best table for breakfast,” I said with a sneaky smile.

  “I built this bookcase in shop class; it won’t fall apart with a few knocks. And you aren’t getting out of going to Charleston. It’s not even the worst deal we’ve ever made, so you aren’t bailing, B.” Laughing, he looked at some of the photos I had scattered across my desk documenting our past adventures. He held up the picture of when we were ten by the creek. We were both in matching overalls holding fishing rods, and my wild blonde curls were hidden by a red polka-dot bandana. “Remember the time you agreed to eat a snail from the creek if I let you go fishing with me?”

  “Don’t remind me. I believe my momma made me brush my teeth twelve times that day when she found out. My gums are still scarred. Although, it was still better than that stupid deal I made so you would try out for the basketball team,” I groaned.

  Zach burst out laughing. “Oh yeah, why isn’t there a photo of your attempt at joining the cheerleading team?” He ducked when I threw my pillow at him.

  “Keep your voice down. It’s because my poor coordination and inability to show team spirit in synchronized arm movements didn’t need to be documented. At least it got you on the team,” I replied smugly. “There were what, two scouts at the last game? And how many letters have USC and Clemson sent you?”

  “Yeah, yeah. If I make it to the NBA, I’ll owe all my success to you. Although, after your audition, when you’re sitting beside Jay-Z and Beyoncé, I’m going to make sure everyone knows you got there because of me.”

  “Zach, don’t get too excited. They only give out five passes to go to the Las Vegas auditions in each town, and literally thousands of people audition. The likelihood that they’ll give a ticket to an eighteen-year-old girl who predominately sings to her best friend’s dog is very small.”

  “B, Rocket is a fabulous judge of singing talent. Have you not seen him run and hide when I try to do my best ‘Take Back Home Girl’ karaoke routine?

  Picturing Zach’s large golden labradoodle huddling behind his couch had me forgetting my anxiety and smiling at his exaggerated disgruntled expression. “He really does have excellent survival instincts. But all jokes aside, you really think I can do this? Audition for a singing competition that airs around the country when I don’t even have a YouTube channel? Shouldn’t I try that first? Wait, are you encouraging this so I end up as one of those bad auditions that gets played on loop for the world to laugh at? Is this just material for a future stand-up comedy career?”

  “How long have we been friends?”

  “Since birth. Our mommas are basically sisters—”

  “Exactly. And in all these painful years, we agreed to two deals a year. And none of those deals were ever meant to humiliate each other.”

  “The cheerleading one—”

  “Was your idea.” He laughed. “I was just a victim like everyone else.”

  “Ha ha. You’re lucky I know you’re right. Well, if you’re not going to let me get out of our deal, then at least help me find my shoes and take me to the bus station before I change my mind.”

  “Sure. Just so you know, our deal didn’t mean I couldn’t send you hundreds of messages throughout the day. I’m going to be messaging you nonstop until you tell me how much they loved you.”

  “You can message. Just don’t hold your breath.”

  It was a thirty-minute bus ride next to a guy named Dylan, who snored like a tractor the entire trip into the city. It would have been torture if Zach hadn’t been sending me sad selfies. As his photos became more and more ridiculous, I actually laughed out loud and feared I’d wake my bus companion. When the bus finally pulled into the terminal, I decided to go straight from the station to the convention center. This whole painful experience needed to be treated like removing a Band-Aid. I wasn’t going to go find a hotel room and obsess about which T-shirt I was going to wear or how I would style my hair for an hour. I would keep my casual travel clothes on, and just risk disappointing the judges.

  When I finally reached where they were hosting the open call auditions, I stood and gaped at the number of people I was up against.

  People had clearly camped out all night. Their multicolored portable chairs, flashlights, and sleeping bags were confined between the fenced-in sections that started only a few feet away from the steps of the building. The kaleidoscope of clothes from all the people crammed in beside one another was as beautiful as it was intimidating.

  I decided to get in line and watch silently as people woke up and began packing away their sleeping gear, smiling and chatting about the day ahead. A big group of family and friends supporting the youngest boy in their pack joined the line behind me. When they tried calming his nerves by excitedly talking about all his experience at performing in front of crowds, my nerves began to intensify. I was about to text Zach with a serious what have you gotten me into message when my phone beeped.

  You’ve got this. Proud of you. Z

  Seeing those small words, I sighed, then stopped listening to the chatter around me and tried to relax. I kept thinking about the song I needed to decide upon. I was a country girl at heart, but I didn’t want to go in there and be viewed as a pathetic imitation of the current ‘it’ girls in country music. I wasn’t going to destroy one of their greatest hits by performing it in my first audition. I wanted the judges to see that singing wasn’t about my desperate wish to turn into one of my idols. It was about emotion. It was about dreams and happiness and escape. It was about me getting to be me.

  I narrowed my song choice down to two when an energy seemed to spread through the crowd. Bodies began shifting to the right, and through the gaps I was able to see what everyone was staring at—a short woman with bright purple hair wearing a commanding pinstripe suit. She carried a microphone as she walked up the stairs of a podium. When she reached the top and looked out at the line of people that seemed to be growing longer and longer with each second, she began talking.

  “Hey, y’all, my name’s Danielle, and I’m the casting producer here in Charleston. Thank you so much for coming all the way out here to be a part of Superstardom. In just a moment, we are going to start checking your registration paperwork, handing out audition numbers, and inviting you to come inside the coliseum to wait until your number is called. Please don’t lose your number, because you won’t be able to meet the judges without it. I also wanted to let y’all know that camera crews will be circling the lines and asking a few of you to do some quick interviews before everyone is inside. Don’t worry if they don’t interview you; these interviews are not a guarantee that you’ll make it through to Las Vegas or that you won’t. Now good luck, and break a leg!”

  As the crowd roared and cheered in response to the start of the audition process, I watched her disappear amongst the numerous camera people and those holding clipboards and wearing headsets. My nerves were back.

  This was reall
y happening. I was really here and about to sing in front of that woman and the judges who had been on billboards all around the country for the past couple of months.

  As I began hyperventilating, I watched as a camera crew started to make their way toward me. I felt my heart jump into my throat. I wasn’t ready to be on camera. I needed to decide on my song, needed to look in a mirror and check that sleeping Dylan hadn’t accidentally drooled in my hair. When the cameramen walked right past me and smiled at the family waving their signs and pushing the fourteen-year-old boy to the front, I got my sh*t together.

  They didn’t want me.

  They wanted the experienced fourteen-year-old.

  Good Lord, that was a close one.

  I clasped my hands together tightly and looked away to ensure I didn’t catch any of the cameramen’s eyes as they asked the kid about his hopes and dreams. I could hear the excitement in his voice when he talked about his passion for performing for others. When the kid broke into song and the camera crew started clapping, I was suddenly jealous of his confidence. I knew I would face them eventually, and I never chickened out of a deal, but I wasn’t sure my eyes wouldn’t be wide or filled with terror.

  Excitement was unlikely.

  Three hours later I had my ticket number and was ushered through the entrance with the thousands of other hopeful contestants like cattle being rounded up and put on a semi. Everyone quickly took a seat beside their loved ones, still cheering and clapping. When Connor Graves, the host of Superstardom, walked into the arena with microphone in hand, the noise amplified.

  I always thought that Connor Graves, the gatekeeper to the judges, was paid by everyone who wanted to audition with attention and love to ensure their safe passage into the land of hopes and dreams. Even when their eyes suggested they didn’t like him all that much, they still lavished him with praise. I watched in fascination as he kept talking to the camera crew about how glad he was to be there. I gawked as he continued raking his hand through his coiffed brown hair and displaying his famous television personality by jumping up and down, doing tricks for the audience, and singing a few bars of past contestants’ latest hits. He then shifted his attention from the camera to ask the crowd to shout the show’s catchphrase—that we were all “looking for Superstardom”—three times. As swiftly as Connor Graves came into the center of the arena, he passed his microphone to the nearest producer and moved to the side to talk to the girl with the bright purple hair. When his body slumped to the side and his head tilted back and forth, he reminded me of the waitresses at Lucy’s Diner, entertaining everyone for tips but unable to hold the smile for that long, because it was just a job and a lousy one at that. He was an entertainer like everyone in this room, but maybe he hated being the gatekeeper to a world he also wished to live inside of.