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—”
“I get the picture, Dad,” I say.
“What we’re trying to say,” says Mom, “is—”
“I know what you’re trying to say,” I tell them. “Practice makes perfect. Get back on the horse and ride. If I want to take music seriously, I have to start getting serious.”
They look surprised.
“Exactly,” they say at the same time.
“That’s all great advice,” I tell them. “I’m just not sure I really want to sing anymore, is all.”
“What are you talking about?” asks Mom. “Of course you do! You’ve been singing since you could barely walk, and you talked about this Big Time audition for months.”
“Yeah, and look how that turned out,” I say. “No offense, guys, but I don’t really want to talk about this anymore. Is it okay if I go hang out in my room? I just want to be alone for a while.”
“Of course you can, sweetie,” says Dad.
“Take the flowers with you,” says Mom. “They’ll help cheer you up.”
I grab the vase and bring it upstairs to my room, placing it on my dresser and stopping for a minute to stare at the old album covers I have stuck on my wall. Loretta Lynn, Patsy Cline and Marla Belle Munro stare out at me, all big hair and bright eyes and wide smiles, hanging on to microphones like their lives depend on it. I wonder if anyone ever told them they were boring, that they lacked stage presence. Somehow I doubt it.
I grab my laptop from my desk and flop onto my bed. I notice right away that I have a friend request and a new message. It’s from Poppy.
Hey you! Hopefully this is Gerri Jones from the Big Time auditions, otherwise ignore this message because I’ll sound like a crazy person! How did your audition go? I asked a production assistant in the waiting area, but she told me they couldn’t give me any info about other contestants. Guess what? I made it! I’m flying to Toronto in a week for sudden-death round. Eek! Anyway, holla at me when you have a minute. Kisses! Poppy.
I’m not surprised that Poppy made it. Not only does she have a killer voice, but she’s got me beat hands down when it comes to stage presence. I’m sure she was able to waltz into the audition room and shine that big smile at the judges and convince them that she’s got what it takes for Big Time, maybe even to go all the way. I’m not jealous, exactly. I’m really happy for Poppy, but I can’t help wishing I had her star quality. I guess some of us are born for the stage and some of us aren’t.
I send her back a quick note, congratulating her and telling her my own news. She replies almost instantly.
They don’t know what they’re missing, Gerri. You’ll just have to come back next year and show them how wrong they were. Wish me luck and promise you’ll meet me for coffee when I get back to town. It’ll probably be sooner than later haha! Xoxo. P.
I’m supposed to call my friend Meg and fill her in on how the audition went, but I don’t feel like going over everything yet again. Instead I just lie on my bed, staring at the ceiling. I know my parents are right, that real musicians work really hard to be good at what they do. The thing is, I’ve been watching Big Time religiously since I was seven years old, and I know enough to realize that when someone comes in with enough raw talent, the judges will snatch them up and teach them how to work hard and get where they need to go. I’ve been waiting patiently for the day I became old enough to audition, preparing for the moment when I’d finally get to prove myself, and now that moment has come and gone. I’ve missed my big opportunity.
Now Poppy’s about to be whisked away to Toronto, to the stage I’ve imagined walking onto for years, and I’m at home in my room. It was nice of Maria Tillerman to give me some words of encouragement, but I know I’ll never try out for Big Time again. I’d have to be able to show up next year and convince them that I’m a totally different person. It doesn’t matter how much practicing I do between now and then, I’m never going to be what they want me to be.