The letter comes the next Saturday. I rush to the truck and snatch the mail when the mailman arrives in the morning. Bill, bill, Mom’s fashion magazine, ad, bill, and then there it is—a bright yellow envelope from Wild Hill Studio. I drop the rest of the mail to the sidewalk.
I flip the envelope over and stare at the flap. Between me and this envelope is my destiny.
Then I peel it back and pull the letter out.
The first word I see tells me everything I need to know. I nearly drop this letter too. A vibration like a music note fills my body from my toes to my head. I want to let out a scream, but my voice gets caught in my throat. I need to let this energy out somehow. So I decide to sprint to Ryan’s house.
But as I’m about to round the corner, a blue smear slams into me and knocks me onto my back. The letter goes flying through the air.
“Ow!” a familiar voice cries.
I sit up. Ryan is flat on the sidewalk right in front of me, rubbing his forehead. Next to him is his own yellow envelope. Our letters flutter to the ground around us.
When Ryan sees that it’s me who nearly ran him over, he breaks into a huge grin. “Eve—we did it!” he squeaks.
Finally I can speak again. I laugh as I help Ryan to his feet. We hold onto each other as we jump up and down, spinning and celebrating.
I scoop up my letter from the sidewalk, staring at that one word: “Congratulations!” And, folded into the letter, is a plane ticket to California scheduled for next week.
Over the next few days, I barely sleep. I spend as much time as possible practicing my guitar. I sing in the shower, pretending my shampoo bottle is a microphone. In my head, all I can hear are the excited crowds. All I can see are the spotlights. Our parents are also excited, but they can’t afford to take a sudden vacation and come with us to California. It’ll just be me and Ryan, which only excites me more. It feels like going on tour.
Then, finally, the day arrives. Ryan and I fly out to California. As soon as we land and grab our bags from the conveyer belt, a young woman comes bounding up to us. Her hair is so blond it is almost white, and she wears a wireless ear piece on her right ear.
“Eve Hardt! Ryan Okri!” she exclaims. She takes my hand and shakes it vigorously. Then Ryan’s. “Hello, hello, hello! I’m Blair Casanova. I’m one of the production assistants of The Right Note. I’m here to pick you up and take you on a tour of the studio. Do you have all your things? Are you ready to go? I am so excited to finally meet you. I loved your audition. The way the two of you play off each other is exactly the kind of thing we’re looking for. You are such characters!”
She speaks rapid-fire fast. Before Ryan and I can respond, she marches us out the doors of the airport.
“You two are going to love the studio. It has everything you could ever need: lights, camera, and action. And, of course, any instrument you can name. If we don’t have it, we’ll get it.”
Ryan looks at me. “Whoa.”
“Whoa is right. Trust me—after this, you two are never going to look at music the same way again.” Blair bounces in her high heels as she walks. Her excitement is contagious. Ryan starts bouncing too. I can’t help but laugh at the two of them as they bounce in sync.
We ride with Blair down the palm-tree-lined streets in a shiny black SUV that still smells brand new. The whole way, she chatters on and on, dumping a load of information on us. Overwhelmed, I tune her out. Beside me, Ryan leans in to Blair’s every word, his face alight with curiosity and enthusiasm. They’re practically friends already.
We arrive at the studio after an hour in the car. As soon as we get out of the SUV, a young man takes our bags and instruments off to the residence hall where all the contestants will stay. After he disappears, Blair takes us to the building where they film the performances. I’ve seen this building on TV a million times. It looks like a huge glass brick, the outside completely covered in windows. At night, it sparkles like a rainbow disco ball, with big lights shining out of all the windows.
Blair marches us down the halls of the studio. She shows us the dressing rooms, which are packed with designer clothes, makeup, and mirrors. Then the rehearsal rooms, where the vocal trainers will help us practice for each competition. Then the room where the film editors work, which is filled with TV screens and a table covered in buttons a lot like Ryan’s sampler.
Finally, Blair leads me and Ryan through a pair of double doors, and suddenly we’re inside the performance hall. It looks so much bigger and brighter in person. It’s more like a cave than a theater, with a curved ceiling and lights hanging down. The floor slopes down from us to the stage. Huge curtains with gold tassels drape over the walls. Lights of every color flicker on and off randomly. The show’s logo, a huge rainbow encircling the words “The Right Note” glows on the back wall. In the middle of the stage stands a man with his hands on his hips.
My jaw drops.
It’s Tix. Ten years ago, Tix was one of the most popular musicians in America. Now he hosts The Right Note. On TV, he smiles wide, wears glittering suits, and puts an arm around each of the contestants as he introduces them. In a few days, his arm will be around me, and he’ll be yelling my name to the cheering crowds. I begin to sweat a little even though the air conditioning is on full blast. My heart thuds. This is really happening.
Suddenly, a huge spotlight shines on Tix, lighting up his bald head. He throws his hands up to shield his eyes. “Hey! I said to turn on stage left, not center stage,” he shouts angrily. “I always enter from stage left. Stage left, pause, I say my lines, you follow me to the center—”
The light shuts off. “Sorry, Mr. Tix,” says the stagehand in charge of the spotlights, a pimply boy not much older than me and Ryan.
“For the millionth time, it’s just Tix!” Tix rubs his temples. To himself, he grumbles, “No one ever listens to me.”
“Tix!” Blair cries. She pulls me and Ryan down the sloped floor to the stage. “I’m so glad you’re here. I want to introduce you to two more contestants: Eve Hardt and—”
“Yeah, yeah, I’ll get their names when you give me the updated script, Blair.” Tix waves a hand at her. His eyes pass over me and Ryan like we aren’t even here. “Why aren’t you working on that, by the way?”
Blair looks startled. For the first time, her huge smile disappears. “Well, I had to pick up these two from the airport, and I wanted to show them around—”
“Hold on a second,” he cuts her off, then glares at the nearest stagehand. “Can someone please hurry up with my coconut water?” The girl yelps and disappears behind the curtains. Tix turns back to us. His gray eyes finally meet mine, and I realize how old he looks. He scowls at us. No amount of coconut water can fix the meanness in his face. “And you, Blair. No more excuses. Get back to work.”
Blair deflates. She nudges me to let me know it’s time to go. But then Ryan blurts out, “Dude, what is your problem?”
Typical Ryan, not knowing when to stay quiet. A vein appears on Tix’s forehead. I wince, waiting for him to yell in our direction next. But instead he asks, “What’s your name, kid?”
“Ryan Okri.”
“Let me give you some advice, Ryan Okri. The music industry isn’t about being nice. It’s about fighting for what you want.” Tix gestures dramatically around him. “This whole thing, this whole show, is a fight. Don’t be afraid to push everyone else to the sidelines, and don’t stop to feel bad about it. In show business, you’re the only person who matters.” He jabbed a finger at Ryan. “Got it?”
Ryan furrows his brow. “Okay . . .”
Someone calls to Tix from offstage, and he hurries away from us as if he’s already forgotten we’re here. Blair escorts us from the performance hall. As soon as we leave, she goes back to normal, like the conversation with Tix never happened. But I feel a new weight hanging on my heart. Ryan trudges along beside me. One of our favorite musicians has turned out to be a washed-up jerk. I guess not everything is as seen on TV.