Big Time Read online

  Tom Ryan

  ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS

  Copyright © 2014 Tom Ryan

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced

  or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical,

  including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and

  retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in

  writing from the publisher.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Ryan, Tom, 1977-

  Big time / Tom Ryan.

  (Orca limelights)

  Issued in print and electronic formats.

  ISBN 978-1-4598-0461-6 (pbk.).--ISBN 978-1-4598-0759-4 (bound).--

  ISBN 978-1-4598-0462-3 (pdf).--ISBN 978-1-4598-0463-0 (epub)

  I. Title. II. Series: Orca limelights

  PS8635.Y359B53 2014 jC813’.6 C2013-906635-7

  C2013-906636-5

  First published in the United States, 2014

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2013951367

  Summary: Gerri dreams of making it big as a singer on her favorite

  reality show, Big Time, but she hasn’t counted on being kicked

  off early in the competition.

  Orca Book Publishers gratefully acknowledges the support for

  its publishing programs provided by the following agencies:

  the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund and the

  Canada Council for the Arts, and the Province of British Columbia

  through the BC Arts Council and the Book Publishing Tax Credit.

  Design by Teresa Bubela

  Cover photography by Getty Images

  In Canada:

  Orca Book Publishers

  PO Box 5626, Station B

  Victoria, BC Canada

  V8R 6S4

  In the United States:

  Orca Book Publishers

  PO Box 468

  Custer, WA USA

  98240-0468

  www.orcabook.com

  17 16 15 14 • 4 3 2 1

  For Jen—my first best friend.

  Contents

  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

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter One

  This is going to be awful,” my mom says for the millionth time.

  “I wish you’d just go home,” I tell her. “I’ll be fine by myself.”

  “We’ve been through this, Gerri. Sixteen is too young to hang around with a bunch of strangers overnight.”

  “Mom, there’s nobody here but music nerds,” I say, turning to glance at the line that’s rapidly growing behind us. We’ve been standing outside the university building for less than an hour, but even though it’s early in the evening and auditions don’t start until the morning, there must be at least a few hundred people here already.

  “You’re young,” she says. “You don’t realize how much danger lurks around every corner.”

  “Give me a break,” I say. I can tell from looking around the crowd that I’m not the only one with parental supervision, but that doesn’t make it any less annoying.

  “I need to take a walk,” she says. “I’m going to get a coffee. You want anything?”

  “A toasted coconut donut and a green tea.” I’ve heard that green tea is what Adele drinks before every performance. That and whiskey, which I’m obviously not old enough to drink.

  Mom kisses me on the forehead and begins cutting through the snaking line, finally emerging on the other side of the crowd and giving me a quick wave before crossing to the coffee shop on the other side of the street.

  “Your mom’s a little stressed out, hey?” the girl in front of me says out of the blue.

  “You could say that.” I laugh. “She just hates the whole idea of me getting judged for something like singing.”

  “But let me guess,” she says. “There was no way you were going to let her keep you from auditioning. Am I right?”

  “Totally,” I say. “I only turned sixteen a few months ago, so this is my first chance to try out. Big Time’s my favorite show ever.”

  “So what do you think so far?” she asks.

  “What do I think about what?”

  “You know”—she gestures at the people all around us—“all this. The freak show.”

  “I think it’s pretty cool.”

  As if on cue, a group of dudes nearby start harmonizing “Sweet Caroline” in vibrating falsettos.

  “Cool, eh?” she asks, raising an eyebrow. We both laugh.

  “Well, maybe not cool, but definitely interesting.”

  “I’ll give you that.” She holds out her hand. “I’m Poppy.”

  “Gerri,” I tell her, reaching out to shake.

  Poppy looks to be a few years older than me—probably close to the cutoff age, which is twenty-two. She’s got beautiful glossy ringlets, and her skin is equally gorgeous, luminous and smooth, the color of the oak desk in my father’s office. She’s wearing green eye shadow and an ankle-length off-white dress with bright flowers embroidered all over it. I start to worry that maybe I’m underdressed. I’m in my favorite blue sundress with my hair pulled back into a simple ponytail. I look okay, but not nearly as put together as Poppy.

  “I love your dress,” I tell her.

  “Thanks,” she says. “Maybe it’s overkill, but I want to look good for the judges.”

  “What kind of stuff do you sing?”

  “Oh, this and that. Motown, soul, a little jazz, some Janis Joplin, a bit of opera.”

  “This and that is right!” I laugh. “Opera?”

  “The opera’s mainly with my vocal teacher,” she says. “I’ve been taking lessons since I was a little kid. Mostly I sing in church with my mom and my aunt. What about you?”

  I’m a little embarrassed to talk about it, although I know I’m going to have to suck it up if I truly want to perform in front of people.

  “I’ve never taken lessons or anything like that,” I admit. “My granddad’s a really good guitar player, and I guess I kind of started singing along with him, but that’s about it. I mostly sing country music. Not a lot of new country. Older stuff.”

  I can feel my face turning red. A lot of people don’t like country music. Definitely not people like Poppy, who obviously has cooler taste than me. To my surprise, though, she’s nodding.

  “Patsy Cline and Marla Belle Munro? Stuff like that?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “Marla Belle’s my favorite. You like that stuff?”

  “Oh yeah,” she says, surprising me. “I’ve got mad respect for the old-timers. They knew how to sing a song for real. No computers backing you up, just a microphone and a big old recording machine.”

  “That’s what my granddad always says,” I tell her. “They call the oldies goodies for a reason.”

  “What’s your last name?” she asks. “You need a good last name to sing country music.”

  “Jones,” I tell her.

  “Gerri Jones.” She grins. “That’ll work just fine.”

  Mom arrives in a big flurry, shoving her way through the lineup and handing me a donut and a cup of tea.

  “Thanks. Mom, this is Poppy.”

  They shake. “I don’t think I’ll ever understand the appeal of this,” says Mom. “Standing in a lineup for twelve hours. Sleeping on concrete.”

  “
Mom!” I say. “I told you a million times, just go home. I’ll be fine!”

  “You wish,” says Mom.

  “If you want to go home,” says Poppy to my mom, “I don’t mind keeping an eye on her.

  We can watch out for each other.”

  I turn to look at her, surprised. She looks like she means it.

  Mom lifts an eyebrow. “No, I should probably stick around.” I can tell she’s tempted though.

  “I really don’t mind,” says Poppy. “I’m twenty. Safe and responsible. Took care of my little sister all through school.”

  Mom makes a big show of thinking it over, although I can tell she’s already made up her mind. She’s been complaining about having to sleep outside ever since she agreed to come to the audition with me.

  “Well,” she says finally, “if you’re sure.”

  “I’m totally sure,” says Poppy. I shoot her a quick smile.

  “Okay, well then, I think I’ll go home and have a nice warm bath, watch some TV and get myself ready for bed,” says Mom. “Sure you don’t want to come with me?”

  “Mom! Come on!”

  “Okay, fine.” She pulls some money out of her purse. “Don’t let yourself get hungry, and make sure you buy Poppy something to eat too. You’ll text and keep me on top of things?”

  “Yes, Mom, I’ll text you,” I say, wishing she’d hurry up and leave. She got an iPhone for Christmas and is very proud of her texting abilities.

  “Thanks a million,” I say to Poppy after Mom has left.

  She laughs. “No problem at all. I think she would have made you all kinds of nervous if she’d stuck around.”

  “No kidding.”

  It starts to get cold as soon as the sun goes behind the building, and by the time it’s dark out, I’m really happy that I brought my sleeping bag. I unzip it and pull it tightly around me like a blanket. Now that the reality has sunk in that we’re here for the long haul, people are starting to talk to one another. A group of sisters behind us are really funny. They admit outright that they aren’t good singers—they just hope to get on TV. I notice a really cute guy sitting by himself a few people in front of Poppy. He has dark curly hair pushed down under a ballcap, and he’s holding a guitar that he strums constantly, although you can barely hear it.

  The atmosphere is fun and energized, and at some point people start singing. It doesn’t take long for the music to move around, like the wave at a hockey game. The harmonies sound great. When one song finishes, another one starts up somewhere else. I’m too shy to sing really loud, although people on all sides of me are starting to get into it, so I sing quietly along to the lyrics I know.

  Poppy smiles at me. “You’ve got a really nice voice,” she says. “I bet you’ll do great tomorrow.” She’s just been humming along to the music, not singing at all, so I don’t really know what she sounds like. Then, at a lull in the music, she surprises me when she opens her mouth as if it’s no big thing and starts to sing.

  Ooo-ooh I bet you wonder how I knew

  ’Bout your plans to make me blue…

  She has an incredible voice, big and rich and resonant. I see people in the crowd watching her, as impressed as I am. By the time she makes it to the chorus, it seems as if everyone’s singing along.

  Eventually, things get a little bit quieter and people begin to settle in for the night. I text my mom to say that things are going well and I’m going to sleep, then curl up and try to make myself comfortable. The last thing I hear before I doze off is the soft, gentle sound of the cute guy’s guitar, serenading me to sleep.

  Chapter Two

  I wake up to Poppy nudging me.

  “Line’s moving,” she says. “Time to get a move on.”

  I yawn and sit up. All around me, blearylooking people are stretching, rubbing the sleep out of their eyes. I hope I perk up soon, because it seems unlikely that I’ll pull off much of an audition in this condition.

  Once the doors are opened, the process is surprisingly quick. At the top of the steps, we’re handed pins with numbers on them and herded into the giant entry hall.

  Inside the building, there’s no time to sit and sing. A man with a bullhorn tells us to look at the maps of the building that are taped to the walls around the room.

  “Find the floor and room number that corresponds to your pin and go to that room. I suggest you move quickly. We’ll be starting auditions soon, and if you aren’t in your assigned room when we start to call numbers, you’re out of luck.”

  My pin reads 5 and Poppy’s 18. The map tells us we’re in totally different parts of the building. She takes my hand and gives it a squeeze.

  “Go get ’em, Gerri Jones,” she says with a wink. She heads into the crowd, and I take a deep breath and head off to find my room.

  Room 5 is a classroom on the main floor, looking out toward a parking lot. I get there and grab a seat at a desk, watching as people fill up the space—about thirty of us by the time people stop trickling in. I’m happy to see that cute guitar guy is also in this group. He sits on the other side of the room, carefully leaning his guitar against the wall beside him.

  The room is full of nervous energy and, unlike last night, nobody seems to feel like singing.

  The girl in front of me turns around. “Do you think they’re going to audition us in here?”

  “I doubt it,” I say. “They must have a room set up somewhere with cameras and lights and stuff.”

  “Yeah,” she says. “You’re right. They’ll probably take us out of here one at a time.”

  After about half an hour, a young blond woman with a clipboard and a headset hustles into the room. She drops a stack of paper and a bag full of pencils on a table at the side of the classroom and claps her hands for our attention.

  “Okay,” she says, “you guys are up in fifteen minutes. Here’s how it’s going to work. You each get to sing just a couple of lines from one song, so make it count. There will be no redos. Any questions?”

  The girl in front of me puts up her hand. “Is Maria here? Or Tim and GG? Are they going to hear us?”

  Maria, Tim and GG are the Big Time judges. Maria Tillerman is a Canadian pop star from the nineties who is always nice to contestants, even when she’s telling them they suck. Tim Canon is the mean judge. He looks kind of like Count Chocula and frequently makes people cry. GG, short for Gurmant Gupta, is the quiet judge. He sits back and only gives criticism when he has something to say.

  “No,” says the clipboard lady. “This is the first round. You’ll be singing right here in this room for someone from the production staff. If you make it through this round, you’ll have a chance to come back tomorrow to sing for the judges.”

  A buzz runs through the room at the news.

  “How come we don’t see that on TV?” asks a guy at the front of the room.

  “Because that would be boring,” she responds. “The judges don’t have time to listen to a thousand people in a day, so we narrow the field for them.” She looks at her watch. “You guys have ten minutes. I suggest that you use the time to figure out what you’re going to sing. Remember, just a couple of lines. We need to keep things moving.” She taps on the pile of paper at the front of the room. “Feel free to write down the words. If you make it through to the judges, you won’t have the lyrics in front of you.”

  She leaves the room and closes the door behind her. Immediately, the room explodes with nervous chatter.

  “What’s going on?” asks one girl. “This isn’t what I expected!”

  “It makes sense, doesn’t it?” someone responds. “The judges don’t have time to see all of us individually. Besides, there’s not much we can do about it, right?”

  I stare at my paper for a while, thinking through the songs I’ve been practicing for weeks, trying to figure out which one has the best opening. A couple of lines isn’t much material to make a good first impression. By the time the door to the room opens again, it’s obvious from the sounds of scribbling and scratc
hing that a lot of people are pretty stressed out, myself included. It feels like we’re writing a pop quiz.

  Clipboard lady comes back into the room, followed by a tall gray-haired man in jeans and a rumpled, untucked dress shirt. He drags a desk to the front of the room and perches on the edge of it, facing us.

  “So,” he says, smiling. “Are you guys nervous enough yet?”

  He seems genuinely pleasant, and people laugh a little bit, but nobody says anything.

  “My name is Bill and I’m the production manager on season nine of Big Time.” He gestures toward clipboard lady. “I know that Kelly here has given you guys a rundown, so let’s get started. I’m going to randomly point at people. When I point at you, stand up, give me your name, your age and the song you’ll be singing from, and then go for it. Remember, you only have one chance to impress me, so do your best. Don’t be nervous, just relax and have fun!”

  Easy for him to say, I think.

  He points at a tall girl with braids. She stands up slowly, obviously unhappy to be going first, and tells him that her name is Martha, she’s seventeen, and she’ll be singing from “Falling,” by Alicia Keys.

  Smart, I think. If she can pull it off, she can drag those first lines out and really make an impression. That style of singing, with runs and acrobatics, isn’t up my alley, but I kind of wish it was.

  It turns out that Martha can’t pull it off, and Bill politely thanks her and points her to the door. She grabs her bag and hustles out of the room. She is soon followed by another girl, who attempts to sing something from the Beatles and forgets the words, although they’re right in front of her. Next up is a boy who does what I think is a pretty decent job of a One Direction song. Bill doesn’t agree, apparently, and the boy grabs his bag and follows the other two out the door.

  The next singer is a weird-looking girl with a husky voice. She’s wearing a straw hat, a tutu and a T-shirt with a picture of a kitten in a wagon on it. She informs us cheerfully that she’s nineteen and her name is Babette Gaudet, and then she proceeds to totally butcher “Any Man of Mine,” by Shania Twain. She’s shrill and loud and totally off-key, and I have to resist the impulse to cover my ears, but to my surprise, Bill claps and tells her to stay.