It’s audition day, and I’m not nervous, not one little bit.
Yeah. Right. I’m not a liar pants on fire either.
There’s a band playing that is doing the very Shania Twain song I caught Jacob and Tamara practicing three weeks ago. And they’re good too. The guitarist takes a solo in the bridge that makes Jacob bite down on the guitar pick in his mouth.
“That’s all skill and no spirit,” Tamara says, patting his knee. “Anyone can copy a solo. Your solos are pure creative genius.” She lets her hand linger on his knee for a few extra seconds. Jacob blushes to the tips of his ears. Miles, oblivious, tunes his bass with his headphones on.
We’re tucked into a corner in the hallway outside the audition room. The festival organizers booked a large reception room in one of the business hotels. We all turned up at dawn and got a number. Now each act is waiting its turn out in the halls. Some in groups. Some by themselves. Some being fussed over by wild-eyed stage moms. It’s just like American Idol but with fewer cameras.
So far I’ve been surprised by the quality of the acts auditioning. None of them are playing the kind of music I like, but there are some talented musicians around here. I guess I never opened my eyes and ears to that before.
The Shania Twain act finishes its song, and silence once again descends on the hallway. One of the organizers pokes his head out the door.
“Fantalicious?” he says. “FANTALICIOUS?”
Four girls in tight dresses appear around the corner, teetering on their high heels as they rush to the door.
“You’re on deck. Wait here and come in when this next song ends.”
Great. Now they’re standing five feet away from us while the act before them plays. The opening chords to “Viva la Vida” pulse through the thick wooden door.
“God help us,” Tamara says. “I am so sick of this song.”
“What song are you guys doing?” one of the Fants asks. It might be the girl I did karate with. They have all sort of blended into one, so it’s hard to tell. They’re wearing silver dresses with fishnet tights and high-heeled red Mary Janes over turquoise knee-high socks. I’m not sure if they are hoping to blind the judges or planning for an alien invasion.
“We’re doing an original,” Tamara answers lightly, as though these girls are decent human beings deserving of respect and not stuck-up brats. “I wrote the lyrics and the band wrote the music.”
The Fants exchange a look. “We’re doing a Kelly Clarkson song,” one of them says, even though no one asked. “One of the judges went to her concert in Winnipeg last month. She tweeted about it. Petra researched them all.”
I am so tempted at that moment to lie, to tell them that Tamara and I both had affairs with Chad Banner or something equally implausible, that I actually feel it like a blob of gum stuck in my throat. As usual, Tamara rescues me from myself.
“That’s clever. Well, good luck with it,” she says.
I get the feeling the Fants are a little disappointed by Tamara’s reaction. They stand around looking ridiculous for the rest of the song, which, mercifully, ends after only three verses. Someone holds the door open and they disappear inside.
“Kelly Clarkson?” I say. “Ew.”
“I like her,” Tamara says with a smile. “At any rate, I’m glad they picked her. She’s got a killer voice, and none of those girls can live up to her standards. So I can sit here and feel smug while they suck.”
Jeez. Tamara has a nasty side. I like it.
We stop talking. The boys stop tuning. I don’t know why, but I think we’re all waiting to hear what Fantalicious will sound like. It’s weird, too, because it’s not like they’re our competition or anything. I mean, it’s totally possible that we’ll both get chosen for the festival, right?
Then I get nervous again, because what if Fantalicious is actually good? Maybe they grew souls or something and can actually perform decent music. I’m sitting here wanting them to suck because that might be the final cherry on the cake I’ve been building to feed Tamara’s self-esteem. She wants to hear them fail. I want to hear them fail. But I’m not sure hearing someone else fail is a good way of feeding self-esteem. Just like cakes with cherries on top of them taste good but aren’t all that good for you.
The music starts inside the audition room. It’s “Already Gone,” a super-schmaltzy song, but one that definitely needs a good singer. Tamara turns her ear toward the door as one of the Fants starts singing.
“Remember all the things we wanted…”
Crap. She sounds pretty good.
I watch Tamara’s face. She has a little frown of concentration. Not upset or anything, but she definitely notices the singer’s voice.
“Hmm, someone’s been taking lessons,” she says. “I wonder who her teacher is.”
“You’re better than her,” I say automatically. It’s true and everything, but I say it without even thinking.
Tamara tilts her head at me with a little smile. “Yeah, I know,” she says. “But who cares? This is all a popularity contest anyway.”
That takes a second to process. “What, you mean this contest is? Like, this audition?”
“This business, Stella. At the end of the day, talent only gets you so far. Sometimes you don’t even need talent. Plenty of crappy millionaire performers out there.”
I stare at her in her pink dress and pigtails, sitting cross-legged like some kind of froufrou mountain sage. Miles and Jacob have wandered down the corridor and are now fighting with the snack machine.
“So what’s the point, then?” I ask Tamara. “What are we doing this all for, trying to be so good and so genuine, if none of it matters?”
Tamara looks at me for a few seconds and I realize that Fantalicious has finished their song. I hear them giggling before they all spill back into the hallway, clinging to each other and ignoring us as they wobble off. Their shiny silver butts disappear around the corner just as the next act begins its song inside the audition room. “Viva la Vida.” Again.
“The music matters, Stella,” Tamara says firmly. “You’re the one who made me think about the music again. I got so twisted about the Fants and screaming tweens that I forgot it’s the music that matters. Don’t we just do this because it feels good?”
“I guess. Yeah.”
“Well then. Take it from me, screaming tweens get real tiring after a while.”
A head pops out of the audition room. I blink at it a few times before I realize it’s Chad Banner.
“Stella Wing,” he says. “I’m so glad to see you here.”
“Aren’t you supposed to be judging?” Tamara says, giving him a little shove with her sneakered foot.
“Nah, I can’t stand Coldplay. I’ve rescued myself.”
Tamara and I both stifle laughs.
“Listen,” Chad goes on. “You guys are on deck. Come on in and wait at the back, okay?”
Tamara jumps up and jogs down to the snack machine to muster the boys.
“Nervous?” Chad says as we wait for them to come back.
“Not really,” I say and am surprised to realize it’s not a lie. “I mean, I don’t think the selectors will like our style, so we’re just going to…” Not sure what. Maybe something that can’t be articulated.
“Have fun?” Chad offers.
“Bigger than that,” I say. “Be real.”
Chad grins so widely that his bright white teeth nearly blind me. “Right on,” he says, holding the door for us as Tamara and the boys run back from the end of the hall. I follow them into the audition room and Chad steps in behind me, letting the door swing closed. He ushers us to some chairs by the door.
“Give ’em hell, kid,” he whispers before turning to head back to the selectors’ table. Then he stops. “Oh, I nearly forgot. You didn’t fill in a band name on your entry form. You want me to add it?”
“Sure,” I say, giving Tamara a wink. “We’re called the Frail Days.”