Big Time Page 2

  Cute boy is called upon, and I learn that his name is Keith, he’s seventeen, and he’s even cuter when he’s singing. He has a nice deep voice and does a great job of a Jack Johnson song. I look across the room and smile at him when he’s asked to stick around, but I’m not sure if he notices me or not.

  By the time we’re about halfway through the auditions—a process that has taken less than half an hour—more than twice as many people have been asked to leave as have been told to stay. Suddenly, the girl ahead of me turns around to look at me, and I realize that I’m up.

  I slowly stand and force myself to smile, hoping I don’t look as nervous as I feel.

  “Hi, I’m Gerri,” I say. “I’m sixteen, and I’ll be singing ‘The Best Us We Can Be,’ by Marla Belle Munro.”

  Bill nods and I take a deep breath. I can feel all the eyes in the room on me, but I try not to notice.

  I’ve been thinking a lot about you,

  I’ve been paying attention to me…

  I’ve sung this song a million times with my granddad, and the lyrics come naturally.

  I’ve been spending lots of time daydreamin’

  about how we can be the best us we can be…

  My impulse is to keep going, but I realize my chance has come and gone in what couldn’t have been more than five seconds, and I stop singing, my mouth still hanging open as if it’s confused and wondering why my brain has stopped the show so quickly.

  The few moments seem to last forever, and then I realize Bill is smiling and nodding at me.

  “Nice job, Gerri. Please take a seat and stick around.”

  I’m moving on to the judges’ round, and I can hardly believe it. My head is swimming, and I feel my heart take a luxurious dip into my stomach before lifting back up into my chest and starting to slow back down to normal.

  “Nice work!” whispers the girl in front of me, and I smile at her. I glance across the room at cute Keith and realize that he’s grinning straight at me, a thumb held up in congratulations.

  Chapter Three

  On the big day, my mom goes through my closet with me to help me figure out what I should wear. I don’t want to wear something boring again, so we pick out an embroidered blouse, a short (but not too short) denim skirt and my favorite calf-length brown leather boots. I’m not sure what to do with my hair until Mom suggests I pull it back with a simple red band. I don’t look flashy, but I look pretty good, if I do say so myself.

  Dad follows us out to the car as we’re leaving and gives me a big hug.

  “Go get ’em, tiger!” he says.

  “Keep your fingers crossed,” I tell him.

  “You don’t need luck, sweetheart. Just be yourself and you can’t help but charm them.”

  The final auditions are in a fancy hotel downtown. Once in the lobby, we follow the signs into a large ballroom, and I’m happy to see that Poppy is there, although I had no doubt she’d make it through. She spots me from across the room and waves excitedly, then moves through the crowd toward us, dragging a tall handsome guy by the hand.

  She gives me a big hug. “I’m so excited that you made it!” she says. “This is Jericho, my boyfriend.”

  Jericho shakes my hand, then my mom’s. “I guess we’re here for moral support, hey?” he says to my mom.

  “I don’t know,” says Mom. “I kind of feel like she needs to support me. My nerves are shot!”

  Poppy looks as good as she did when I met her, maybe even better. She’s wearing a long tapestry skirt and a flowing olive-green top, and she has several chains and amber necklaces draped loosely around her neck.

  “So what do we have to do?” I ask her.

  “You need to sign up at that table over there,” she says, pointing.

  A production assistant finds my name on a list. “Gerri Jones,” she says. “You’re in the first group. Come on with me.”

  Mom and I follow her out of the ballroom and onto an elevator, then down a couple of long hallways. Outside some double doors we find a bunch of chairs, full of contestants and their friends and families. I recognize Babette Gaudet right away. Her hair is in two giant braids and she has on a full cowboy outfit, complete with fringed vest, sequined boots and an enormous cowboy hat.

  “Mercy,” my mom mutters. “That girl took the wrong turn on the way to the rodeo.”

  “You guys have a seat here,” the production assistant tells us. “They’re going to start calling people in soon. You’re one of ten contestants in this first batch.” She points out some duct tape that makes a half circle in front of the doors. “When you stand inside this line, you’re on camera. They want to be able to catch the reactions of everyone as they come out of the room. You have your song ready?”

  I nod.

  “Great. Try to relax. It’s pretty easy when you get in there. There’s a pathway marked in tape, and a large rectangle on the floor with the Big Time logo on it. Just walk right up and stand directly on it. They’ll tell you what to do from there.”

  “Okay,” I say.

  “Good luck,” she says and walks away.

  Mom and I grab seats. Nobody is speaking—everyone’s too nervous. After what seems like an eternity, the door opens and a young man sticks his head out.

  “Frank Polito?” he asks.

  A tall guy sitting a few seats over gets up, gives the guy he’s with a high five and saunters into the audition room.

  Everyone in the waiting area is on high alert for the next few minutes, leaning forward in their seats and trying to hear what’s going on. It’s useless though—the hotel walls are just too thick.

  Finally, Frank comes out of the room. He looks really sad at first, but then he jumps in the air and hoots. “I made it!” he yells. His friend runs over and they hug and jump up and down.

  “I’m not doing that if you make it,” my mom whispers.

  Next up is Babette Gaudet. She cheerfully flounces into the room, and she’s in there for a long time.

  “I can’t for the life of me imagine what she’s singing,” says Mom.

  Finally, the door swings open and Babette stomps out, ripping her cowboy hat off.

  “If you just wanted someone to make fun of,” she yells back into the room, “you could have let me know and saved us all a lot of trouble!”

  One of the show workers hurries up and ushers her out of the waiting area.

  I don’t have much time to register all of this, because a production assistant sticks his head out of the audition room and calls my name. Mom squeezes my knee and I stand up, trying not to show my nerves as I walk through the door the PA is holding open for me.

  It’s a relatively small room, but there are a lot of people and even more equipment crammed into it. I glance around quickly and see that there are several cameras, a bunch of lights on stands and cables everywhere. At the back of the room is a table, set up in front of a large window with a view of the harbor. The judges are sitting there, expressionless, as I come into the room.

  I walk between the taped-off lines and stand on the Big Time logo like I was told.

  “What’s your name?” asks Tim Canon abruptly.

  “Um, Gerri Jones?”

  “Are you asking me or telling me, Um Gerri Jones?”

  I try to smile, but I’m already feeling bad about this.

  “My name is Gerri Jones,” I say, trying to sound cheerful and calm although I’m neither.

  “That wasn’t so hard, was it?” he says. I don’t know what to say, he’s being so rude to me.

  Thankfully, GG decides to speak up.

  “What are you going to sing for us today, Gerri?” he asks.

  “I’m going to sing ‘Gimme One Good Reason to Stay,’ by Marla Belle Munro,” I tell him.

  “Great song,” murmurs Maria Tillerman.

  “Okay,” says Tim. “Take it away.”

  My heart is pounding, but I take a deep breath, smile, close my eyes and start to sing.

  You haven’t smiled at me in weeks,<
br />
  You don’t have one nice thing to say,

  I lie awake every night waiting for you to

  come home,

  So gimme one good reason to stay…

  This song is one of my granddad’s favorites—one of my favorites too—and after a couple of moments I start to get into the music. I’ve made it to the end of the first verse and taken a deep breath to get me through the chorus when Tim Canon throws his hand up.

  “Stop!” he says. So I do.

  I stand looking at them, wondering what’s going on.

  “I’m sorry,” he says. “The problem isn’t your voice. Your voice is fine. The problem is that you’re just too boring. You actually might be one of the most boring performers I’ve ever encountered in twenty-five years in show business.”

  I stand there, my mouth going dry. I don’t know what to say.

  “Okay,” I manage to squeak out.

  “I’m a no-go,” he says. “No way, no how.”

  He turns to GG, who just shakes his head slowly.

  Maria turns and glares pointedly at Tim, then leans forward in her seat, rests her chin in one hand and smiles at me. “Honey,” she says, “you have a real good voice, you really do. Don’t listen to this jackass over here. I think the—”

  “Maria,” interrupts one of the clipboard people from the edge of the set. “You can’t say that. Back up.”

  Maria sits back in her seat, pauses for a few moments. Then she leans forward and starts again, saying everything exactly the same way for the cameras.

  “Honey,” she says, “you have a real good voice, you really do. Don’t listen to this—to Tim over here. I think the problem is that you aren’t quite the right fit for the show. You need to get out there and get some experience on a stage, then maybe come back again next year and give it another shot.”

  I’ve seen this happen on Big Time before. Some shy, nervous person has a good voice, but they don’t have stage presence. I’ve seen some of them protest, claim that they can learn, that they can shake off their nerves and do a better job down the road. Sometimes they even manage to convince the judges, who decide to toss out a second chance, to bring them all the way to the show so that they can have another opportunity to prove themselves.

  I wish I had the guts to say something like that, but I don’t. All I want is to get out of the room. My mouth opens and I hear myself croak out “Okay” for the second time.

  Then I’m being ushered out the door and into the waiting area.

  Everyone in the room is watching the door when it opens and I’m shuffled out by a production assistant. The door shuts behind him with a soft ka-thunk, and it’s all over. I look around, confused, until I spot my mom, who’s getting up from her chair slowly, expectantly. I just shake my head and realize there’s a good chance I’m going to start crying.

  “Oh, sweetie,” says Mom as she comes up and gives me a hug.

  “Where do we go?” I ask, pulling away from her, my voice coming out a lot louder than I expect. I try not to meet the eyes of any of the other people in the waiting area.

  Another production assistant comes over and smiles at me. He puts his hand on my back and guides me through a doorway and into an empty hallway. My mom hurries along beside me.

  “I don’t know if they were mean to you or not,” the PA says. “If they were, try not to take it personally. They just do it for TV.”

  “Well, that’s reassuring,” snaps Mom.

  He smiles sympathetically and heads back to the waiting area.

  Mom moves around to face me.

  “You okay?”

  I nod, but I can feel the tears starting to come.

  “Oh, sweetie,” she says again. “What can I do?”

  “I need to find a bathroom,” I blubber. “I’ll be okay, I just need to find a bathroom.”

  We walk down the hallway until we find a ladies’ room. “You want me to come in?” she asks.

  I shake my head. “Just give me a few minutes.”

  Thankfully, it’s empty. I lean into the sink and cry a little bit, just for a couple of minutes. I manage to compose myself, then wash my face. It feels good. I stare into the mirror. My eyes are a bit pink, but I look okay.

  There’s nothing I can do about it now. As I turn to leave, the door to the washroom opens and Maria Tillerman pushes through. She stops when she sees me.

  “Oh,” she says.

  “I was just leaving,” I say and start to move past her.

  “Hang on, honey,” she says. I stop and look at her, trying my best to smile.

  “What’s your name again?” she asks. “I know it was just a few minutes ago, but I see so many people.”

  “Gerri Jones,” I tell her.

  “That’s right. Listen, Gerri,” she says, “this is the way the show works. You shouldn’t take it to heart. I can guarantee you they won’t use your clips on TV—you were too good for that.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense,” I tell her.

  “Look at it this way. There are people who are born to get onstage and belt out songs, and they have loads of charisma and stage presence. Those are the people we take for the show. Then there are the people who are terrible, who we let through the process because they come across as funny, like that cowgirl who came in before you. It might not be the nicest thing in the world, but we need people who’ll make good TV.

  “Then there are the people with good voices who haven’t quite figured out the stage presence thing. People like you. The good news is that you can learn the stage-presence stuff, but you can never teach someone how to have a good voice. You have a really good voice. I hope you remember that. Music should be fun, not stressful. I hope you keep singing, because you’ve got an instrument, girl. It would be a shame for you to waste it.”

  “Thanks,” I say.

  “I mean it. Now I had better do my business and get out of here before they send in the troops after me.”

  She goes into a stall and locks the door.

  The last thing I hear as I leave is a muffled “Good luck, Gerri Jones.”

  Chapter Four

  On the drive home, Mom rants and raves about the whole Big Time process.

  “What is wrong with those people?” she says as we peel out of the parking lot. “I mean, look at you, you’re adorable! You’ve got the voice of a honky-tonk angel! They’re crazy!”

  “What’s a honky-tonk angel?” I ask.

  “It doesn’t matter,” she says. “I’m trying to tell you that the system is obviously rigged, Gerri. The fix is in. The jig is up.”

  “You make it sound like a big conspiracy,” I say. “They just didn’t like me.”

  “Don’t ignore the facts,” she says. “If it looks like a duck and talks like a duck, you’re probably dealing with a duck. Let’s pick up some pizza for supper. There’s no way I’m cooking tonight.”

  Dad is waiting by the front door when we get home, smiling and expectant. His smile fades when he sees me.

  “No?” he asks.

  I just shake my head.

  “Oh, sweetie,” he says. “It’s their loss, that’s for sure.”

  “They made her cry,” my mother says.

  “They didn’t make me cry,” I say. “I was just emotional because I got my hopes up. It was stupid of me to think I’d make it.”

  “They did too make you cry,” she says. “Grown adults insulting impressionable teenagers to their faces. It isn’t right.”

  “It most certainly wasn’t stupid of you to think you’d make it,” says my father. “You have a fantastic voice. What on earth did they find to criticize, exactly?”

  I glance behind me and catch my mother making a throat-slitting gesture.

  “Never mind,” he says.

  “They said I was boring and had no stage presence,” I say.

  “That’s crazy!” he says. “These people are obviously amateurs who wouldn’t know talent if it punched them in the face.”

  “Kind of
the opposite,” I say. “They’re professionals who do this for a living.”

  “Just hang on a second, okay?” He runs into the living room and comes back with one hand behind his back.

  “Ta da!” he says, holding out a bouquet of Gerbera daisies, my favorite flower.

  “Your father and I bought you some flowers just because you’re our favorite daughter,” says Mom. “Nothing to do with Big Time, just a random gift.”

  “It says Congratulations,” I say, peering down at the little card nestled inside the flowers.

  “Congratulations on being our favorite daughter,” says Dad. “And on having the guts to audition.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I’ll put them in some water,” says Mom. “Why don’t you go up and tell your brother to come down for supper?”

  My brother, Jack, is in his room studying, with his back to the door and his giant headphones on. I can never understand how he’s able to concentrate on schoolwork while listening to his insane punk music, but his marks sure don’t suffer.He’s pretty much a genius who will end up curing some disease or inventing a new social network. He has his music jacked up so loud that I have to smack my hand on his wall several times before he realizes I’m standing in the doorway.

  “How’d it go?” he asks, swiveling around in his chair.

  “Not good.”

  “Sucks,” he says. “You’re better off anyway. Have you ever seen how stupid they make people on that show look?”

  “I guess so,” I say. “It’s still no fun though. Mom wants you to come down for supper. We picked up pizza.”

  The whole time we eat, my parents won’t stop talking about the Big Time auditions.

  “The thing is, Gerri,” my father starts, “you need to remember that music takes a lot of hard work and practice.”

  “That’s why they call it show business,” says Mom, “and not show laziness.”

  “That’s a great play on words, Mom,” Jack says, his mouth full of pizza.

  “Really though,” says Dad, “haven’t you seen this Justin Boober—”

  “Bieber,” says Jack.

  “Whatever,” says Dad. “Bieber. Haven’t you seen his documentary? That kid was playing and practicing and practicing and playing and performing—”