Childish Dreams Page 2

  When they brought up the first wannabe superstar, a fifteen-year-old girl with red curls in pigtails, and he led her behind the curtain followed closely by the camera crews, I felt my breath catch. When she walked out again crying, I felt the bottom of my stomach drop. Two hours disappeared while my eyes were glued on the curtains that led to the judges’ rooms, watching the people leave the auditorium to audition with smiles and exit with tears. After a forty-year-old man left with his two little daughters trailing him, streaks running down all of their faces, I told myself I needed a distraction.

  I couldn’t keep watching the heartbroken.

  My nerves weren’t going away.

  My heart pounded in my chest, and my legs were shaking. I needed to focus on something that didn’t make me want to run away and never look back.

  I decided to watch the other people sitting in the audience and the camera crew. After examining the room, I realized that observing the effects of crushed dreams was causing many individuals in the room to snap under the pressure. The cameramen were like police dogs, sniffing out the ticking time bombs before they exploded.

  My legs almost stopped shaking completely after I saw the camera spin and capture two girls pulling at each other’s identical tank tops and blue leather skirts, screaming ,“I picked this outfit first!” and “If you were really my sister, you wouldn’t have worn the same outfit as me!” When the camera then shifted and zoomed in on a guy with a pot belly and yellow teeth yelling at his girlfriend to go home and not interfere with his chances of being a sex symbol, I actually giggled.

  “This is crazy, huh?” a girl sitting beside me asked cheerfully. She had silky black hair hanging loosely down her back, wore thick-rimmed glasses, and had her guitar resting against her knees. She was clearly the cool singer-songwriter, and I knew I must pale in comparison.

  “It’s not what I expected,” I muttered.

  “Some people are just a hot mess under the pressure,” she continued. “One year I watched a pair of identical twin brothers doing synchronized dance moves fall down and start hitting each other. Blood sprayed everywhere, and it was a little scary to watch. But Mr. Sex Symbol up there, that is definitely a first.”

  “You’ve done this a lot?”

  “Oh, I’ve auditioned for the last four seasons. The moment I turned fourteen, I flew to the nearest audition center and gave it my shot.”

  “Is it always like this?”

  “People bringing a massive entourage, glittering signs, matching T-shirts, and those special few who yell and blame their family if they walk out without a star ticket? More often than I care to remember.”

  “Number 1201,” called a voice from the speakers. “Please make your way down to the casting producer.”

  “What number are you?” the cool girl asked.

  “1203.”

  “Wow, you’re going to be called really soon. It’s only been what, like three hours? That’s amazing. Are you ready?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “That’s good. It’s always best to be a little nervous and naive. The producers are more inclined to let you sing in front of the celebrity judges if you’re pretty, nervous and likely to break down in tears in front of them. It’s good television watching pretty girls cry.”

  “Are you serious? Doesn’t everyone get to sing in front of the judges?”

  “Definitely not. We’re lucky though. Some shows make you go through, like, three sets of auditions before you even get to the celebrity judges, girl. At least Superstardom just runs this thing for two days in each city, and most of us fools find out quickly if we should pack our stuff up and go home. They send you behind that curtain and you find out if you’re performing for producers or the real superstars. If you’re really good or really bad in front of the producers, they might ask you to come back tomorrow and film again in front of the celebrity judges. But the lucky few get to do the golden walk to the fancy room with the fancy judges the first time. ”

  “How many times have you gotten to sing in front of the celebrity judges?” I asked in shock, unsure if I wanted to be one of those lucky few.

  “Twice. I’m a couple sizes larger than their typical favorite Superstardom poster girls, so usually they always send me to a producer first. But that doesn’t bother me, because they always say really nice things about how I sing even when I don’t make it into the top fifty. Although this year, I’m desperate to get in front of the judges.”

  “Why?”

  “Why do you think? Jax Bone, that stunning tall drink of water.”

  “I’m not a fan.”

  “Girl, have you seen his posters?”

  “The ones where he’s playing his guitar and sweating on the crowd? Yeah, it’s sort of… icky.”

  “It’s hot. And he’s written, like, the last ten number one songs in the country, and he’s only nineteen. Even when he isn’t singing, he’s casting spells on people. I heard celebrities pay Jax’s agent for his number. I can’t believe they even got him to agree to judge this season. I’m just hoping to shake his hand. I want some of Jax Bone’s magic touch to rub off on me before I sing.”

  “I doubt you’re the only girl in this room who wants Jax’s Bone to rub on them. I should ask him how many girls he plans on sleeping with on the show.”

  The cool girl laughed. “Honey, I hope you make it into that room with those judges. I’d tune in to see you asking Jax Bone questions like that on television. Although, if you make it that far, it’s usually good to ask the judges for advice rather than tease them about their known promiscuity. Might as well get something out of the hours you spend here, right? Last year, Russell told me I needed to bring my guitar to all my auditions because it was clear I wasn’t comfortable singing without it. He was right.”

  “Number 1202, please make your way down toward the casting producer,” crackled from the speakers.

  “Good Lord,” I exclaimed.

  “Don’t start freaking out now. We don’t want that camera finding you just yet. How about we take some photos together? If I make it, you can tell everyone how you met Faith Randall first, and if you make it—”

  “You can tell everyone you knew Billie Bishop when.”

  “Exactly. Now pose and tell me, what are you looking for?” Laughing, she held up her camera phone and pulled me close beside her.

  “Superstardom.”

  I just like to sing

  Jax

  “Donny, I told you I’d do it and I’m here, aren’t I?” I growled into the speaker. “So why don’t you just let me get back in the room and get this thing done. Stop blowing up my phone every five f*cking minutes.”

  “I just wanted to remind you what’s at stake here, Jax. This show is meant to be about promoting your new image. The record label didn’t like the tabloid article that came out this morning about you trashing your last hotel room,” Donny explained.

  “I didn’t trash that damn hotel room,” I grunted. “We were in town for less than two days, and I was stuck in a small room listening to bad singers pretending to be me. I didn’t even have a chance to go to the bar, let alone drink myself stupid and smash everything made out of glass in that damn room. The housekeepers were just trying to get a payday by making that mess and photographing it.”

  “It doesn’t really matter what happened,” Donny sighed. “The label is forgetting that you’re their golden boy, but this show is loved by everyone—moms, dads, brothers, and sisters. You get the nation to believe you’re the son they all wish they had and I can guarantee when you sign that new contract on your birthday, there will be a few extra zeros added in. We try and rework your contract now and we’re going to be holding our family jewels after their lawyers finish screwing with us.”

  “So the fact that nearly every song played on the radio is one of mine means nothing? And that I’ve got messages from the biggest names in the industry asking if I have anything new they can record is worthless?”

  “The label execs a
re arguing that you’re on drugs and soon won’t be able to sign your own name, let alone write another hit.”

  I scoffed. “You’ve got to be kidding me. I’ve never touched the stuff. My father died because some a**hole was driving while high, for Christ’s sake.”

  “I know, Jax, and they know it to. But with the tabloids reporting about the trashed rooms and brawls in bars, people will start wondering if you’re too young for this life. Even Graham can’t convince them that you’re still the same kid from when you first signed with him. They’re arguing that the women and celebrity life have changed you—”

  “You know that’s bullsh*t.”

  “I know that and you know that, which is why we need to let this show film you 24-7. Everyone will see that you’re not high every day and you have a brain and talent that no one can compare to.”

  “They’ll twist my image on this show, Don. I’m not an idiot. They paid me to do this show because they want the drama. Their costume director has got me dressed in leather pants day in and day out. I’m sitting for hours. I should be in my damn jeans or sweatpants.”

  “They want the rock star from the posters. Can’t blame them. They still let you wear your favorite white T-shirt and Converses, boy, so don’t complain. They also can’t create drama from nothing. We put that in the contract. Just don’t give them anything they can use against you.”

  “I’m guessing I’m not allowed to be truthful, then, when these contestants sing like sh*t?”

  “F*ck no. Boy, leave that hard judge act to someone else. Be the nice one,” he said pleadingly.

  “I’ll do the best I can.”

  “You never do make this easy for me, kid.”

  I chuckled. “That’s why I let you take your huge cut.”

  “Ain’t that the truth? Okay, go in. Sit down. Smile for the cameras, flirt with the gorgeous Claudia. Let Russell, Nashville’s favorite country boy, become your best friend. The woman’s a pop princess, so it won’t be hard to convince viewers that there’s some chemistry between you two, and I hear Russ is great to go to the bar with any day of the week. And if you can manage it, applaud the kids that walk through the door and give a couple of standing ovations. It wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.”

  “Donny, I know how to sit at the goddamn table and act. I don’t live under a rock. I have seen the show before.”

  “Good. Remember, in ten more months, it’ll all be over and we can celebrate the way I know you like to.”

  “I’ll remind you of that.”

  “Great. Oh, and Jax? Don’t break the judges’ glass table, yeah?” He laughed.

  “Wiseass.”

  I strode back into the room the show had arranged for the celebrity judges, ignoring the personal assistants and makeup artists trailing behind me. There was always someone trying to fix my hair and have me look like I was a superhuman who didn’t sweat or appear tired. I shook them off, smiled, and sat in my assigned seat at the end of the table.

  “Sorry, everyone. My agent is more of a diva than I am. If I hadn’t taken his call, he would have shown up here himself, demanded bottled water, and terrified the assistants,” I explained. “I’m ready for the next audition when everyone else is.”

  Claudia and Russell Conway laughed, well aware of the reputation of my agent. Meanwhile the others in the room gave me skeptical looks, obviously reserving judgment on my actions due to my rumored bad boy status. Thankfully, everyone’s attention quickly returned to the director and the camera crew, and with the spotlight off my every move, I reached for the pen and paper engraved with the show’s name on the top that the judges were provided with. I just needed to write down the lyrics I had formed in my mind about breaking glass.

  “I’m ready for the next one,” Russell announced as he reclined in his seat.

  “Me too,” Claudia purred in her signature sultry tone.

  “Connor, go get the next one,” Linda Kramer, this season’s director, dismissively muttered before checking her own buzzing phone. “Now I’ve got a damn phone call from the executive producers I have to take. Let’s just keep filming. You all know what to do by now.”

  I kept writing, not looking up when Linda exited or when the door opened again and tentative footsteps could be heard drawing closer. I wanted to get the emotions I was feeling on paper and fast. It was always the same: a conversation about what it was I should or shouldn’t be doing and inspiration hit.

  “Come closer, sweetheart. We won’t bite,” Claudia encouraged from her spot at the other end of the judges’ table.

  “You want me to sing to this table, really?” I heard a soft feminine voice whisper to a production crew member. “Maybe I should go to the other room. You should definitely check if I’m going to waste their time.”

  “No way. We want to see you sing, girl,” Russell hollered.

  I was two words away from having a completed chorus when Russell nudged me with his elbow. At first I thought it was to remind me to get my head in the game, but when I looked up, I knew his nudging had nothing to do with me.

  We had seen good-looking girls come audition over the last few days.

  We had seen a lot of very pretty girls covered in too much makeup come audition, trying to look spectacular.

  We hadn’t seen a supermodel on her day off walk in this room and offer to sing for us.

  The girl was standing in front of us in a simple pair of ripped black jeans, brown cowboy boots, and a loose white T-shirt with her blonde curls a chaotic shower over her shoulders. She didn’t have a lot of jewelry or makeup on, but she was the most stunning thing to have walked into a judging room since the start of this whole damn process. Her big blue eyes revealed every emotion. There wasn’t a doubt in our mind as to why she managed to land a spot in front of us.

  I was afraid that even if she couldn’t sing, those with the real power on this show were going to make us bring her back tomorrow and vote her through. Although, staring at her each judging day wouldn’t be the worst thing I had to do over the course of this show.

  “Just stand on the marker on the floor,” Connor barked from the side of the room, always the jealous prick. His true nature showed a little more whenever Linda wasn’t in the room.

  “Hi, sweetie. What’s your name, and how old are you?” Claudia asked the gorgeous girl standing before us. Always the sickly sweet one until she decided to show people how sharp her claws really were.

  “I’m Billie Bishop, and I’m eighteen years old,” the girl murmured, her battle to calm her nerves and get back in control of her voice evident.

  “That’s a damn cool name,” Russell replied. “You want to be a superstar, Billie Bishop?”

  “I just like to sing,” she responded with a little more steel in her voice.

  “Who’s your favorite musician?” I asked, knowing I needed to contribute at some point and partially curious about what music she listened to, if my name would roll off her tongue.

  “Do I lose points if I don’t say your name?” she queried, looking me straight in the eyes, finding her spine.

  The others burst out laughing, and I couldn’t help but grin. The response was a refreshing one compared to all the other fangirls. “I won’t kick you off the show. Yet,” I told her.

  “If I’m honest, Miranda Lambert and Martina McBride are my favorite artists at the moment, but my taste tends to change with my mood.”

  “My mood always changes my taste too,” Claudia agreed. “Will you be singing one of their songs today?”

  “No, ma’am, I’m going to be singing Jewel’s ‘Foolish Games.’”

  “Okay, then, let’s hear it,” Russell encouraged.

  With her hands laced and rested against her stomach, she began the song softly. The moment she started singing, everyone put on their prepared listening faces. Our expressions were part of the façade of the show, to ensure viewers knew we were taking every singer seriously, though it wasn’t long before each of us usually dropped the act
to roll our eyes or smile encouragingly or grin at each other.

  However, there weren’t grins or eye rolling with Billie’s voice, a whisper hanging in the air like a cloud shocking us with its perfect pitch. When she hit the chorus, she had an almost guttural growl that acted like thunder ripping apart the perfect cloud and drenching us in her feelings. The anger and the pain of each lyric reached inside of me and squeezed something in my chest. My heart, my lungs, I had no f*cking clue.

  Damn. We were stunned by how beautiful she was, but her singing was something else.

  When she finished the song, there was silence at the judges’ table.

  There weren’t words for what we had just witnessed.

  “Do you have anything a little more upbeat?” Claudia choked out. Every person in the room looked at her like she’d just grown horns.

  Another song? She seriously needs the girl to sing some upbeat pop to vote her in?

  I was about to interrupt by doing what Donny asked of me and giving the girl a standing ovation, turning into the nice judge by telling everyone in the room that they would be crazy not to send this girl straight to the finale.