Less Than Nothing (27 page)

My phone vibrates, and I check the little screen. Melody’s going nuts.

Melody:
U R awesome sauce. Sweet! U deserve 2 win!!!

Me:
Thanks. U record it?

Melody:
Of course.

The rest of the show goes by in a blur. In the end we were the high score for the premiere and are already a favorite, judging by the crowd. Paul brings over a well-groomed Asian woman, who introduces herself as Sabrina, the media coordinator for the show, and she proceeds to tell us that they’re setting up appearances over the next couple of days for publicity – that a couple of local morning shows have expressed interest in having us on.

“We have to work every day,” I say.

“Surely they’ll let you have a day or two off?”

She doesn’t get it. “If we don’t work, we don’t eat.”

She looks at me like she doesn’t understand. I spell it out. “We’re street performers. No play, no pay.”

Polished as she is, she’s stumped. She obviously doesn’t know our story.

“Derek and I are homeless. If we don’t play for at least six to eight hours every day, we don’t have any money. I’m sorry. It sounds like a wonderful opportunity, but that’s reality.”

“But…where are you staying?”

I don’t want to get into this with her. “Here and there. All over the place. We move around a lot.”

She goes away, for which I’m thankful. It’s great that we did well, but now all I want to do is get out of there and go someplace with Derek.

But that’s not to be. Sabrina returns and hits us with a radiant smile. “I spoke with the producers. They can offer you a stipend for your time. How much do you earn in a day?”

I’m about to tell her a hundred bucks, but Derek stops me. “Usually a couple hundred dollars.”

Sabrina doesn’t even blink. “Great. We’ll give you double that. I’ll schedule you for the morning show tomorrow and a daytime talk show the day after.”

I frown. “Do we have to talk or just sing?”

“Depends. Some just want you to perform, some will want you to talk afterward.”

I look down at my Chucks. “I kinda hate talking.”

Sabrina smiles again. “Don’t worry. You’ll get used to it. The crowd loved you. Keep up the good work.” She turns to leave, and I touch her arm.

“When do we get the money?”

She thinks for a second. “I can have a check cut tomorrow.”

I blush. “We don’t have a bank account.”

She leaves and comes back two minutes later with four hundred-dollar bills and hands them to me. “Martin said not to worry. We’ll pay you out of petty cash.” She eyes Derek and then returns her gaze to me. “How do we get hold of you?”

I pull out my cheapo burner phone and give her the number. “But text me. It’s way cheaper.”

She smiles kindly, the warmth finally making it to her eyes. “Will do. I’ll get you the information on where to go tomorrow morning. It’ll be early, though.”

“What’s early?” Derek asks.

“Maybe six for makeup.”

I smile, thinking about how we got to the audition at not much later than that. “No problem. We’ll be there.”

Jeremy invites us for a late bite, and we tell him about the appearances. He’s happy for us, but you can tell he’s also a little jealous – nobody asked him to do any. It’s a harsh reminder of the reality of our situation: second place doesn’t count. The world only cares about winners, and like it or not, for this week, at least, we’re winners, with more money in our pockets for a few hours of aping for the cameras than we’ve made since hitting New York.

I’m looking at Derek as he jokes with Jeremy, and feel a twinge of regret. I want to hold him, smother him with kisses, lick his neck, maybe shower with him somewhere that isn’t named after hell. None of which I say. Because it would make things difficult.

And now, with TV appearances and money in hand, the reality of the stakes are undeniable.

Whether I want him or not, looks like he might have been right after all.

I completely hate that, and a small part of me hates myself as well for not caring about what’s best for us, only about what will make me feel best.

None of which makes this any easier, show winners or not.

The morning show was a complete surprise. The audience went crazy for us, and when we finished playing, there were three girls holding up a sign with our names on it. I felt like Beyoncé for a few seconds before I smelled a rat – either the show or Sabrina probably put them up to it.

What wasn’t as much of a surprise was how the female hostess fawned all over Derek. He’s in his element with all the attention, born for this, whereas I feel like I’m a complete imposter. Not in terms of the singing – that’s the part I enjoy. Just, oh, everything else.

The next day we do an afternoon show, and there are a number of females shrieking Derek’s name, and even a couple screaming mine. It’s surreal, like we were The Beatles arriving to play Shea Stadium.

Two days into this, and we still have seven hundred of the eight we’d been paid. Neither of us can believe our good fortune. Day three we have no appearances, so we try playing, but within minutes we’re recognized and people want to talk to us, to be near us, instead of listening and giving us money. I’m not the problem – with my cap and shades on, I could be anybody. But when you look like Derek, there’s little you can do to disguise yourself. And frankly, why would you want to?

He buys a baseball hat and sunglasses, and the attention eases, but it’s obvious that if we keep on doing well in the contest, our street performing days are over, at least until the hubbub dies down.

Day four is another appearance and another payday. Derek and I have discussed it, and he feels like the show should be paying us more, like four hundred apiece. I disagree, remembering being ecstatic only a few days ago when we had a hundred-dollar day.

“They’re making millions off the ratings, and we’re getting crumbs from petty cash. It’s bullshit,” he announces that morning on the way to the studio.

“Right. I mean, I can’t even afford to fly business class to Monaco, for crying out loud.”

He laughs at my serious expression when I say it.

“I mean it. They can afford it. We’re living in the subway and making them rich.”

I slow. “Derek, enjoy this while it lasts. We could get the boot next show. Or the next. None of this is guaranteed, and we’re only one so-so performance away from the street again. If we can make four hundred a day even a couple times per week, we win, okay?”

He nods, and we pick up the pace. “You’re right. I just get pissed off when I think about it.”

“Don’t. What was it you said the other night? We need to keep our eyes on the prize. Nothing can come between us and our goal.” It feels snarky to remind him, but I’m not feeling all that generous this morning, after another long night wishing I was in a room with him instead of in the bowels of the subway system.

“Good point. I’ll chill. But it’s still unfair.”

I let him have the last word. Maybe it is unfair. That’s how the world works. Those with power abuse those without. I’m completely clear on which camp I fall into, but it seems like Derek’s forgetting.

The show’s great, and I see Sabrina was right – it does get easier. I even find myself talking more during the interview part, relaxed and easy, the glare of the set lighting and the blinking of cameras now just part of the background noise.

I have lunch with Jeremy again the day before the second show, and he’s changed his hair color to shocking blue. Somehow it fits. He looks happy and regales me with stories about auditions he went on, his crappy job and the spoiled snots he has to serve with a smile, and his roommate, who’s becoming a problem – he lost his job and hasn’t been able to get another one, and Jeremy’s worried he’ll show up one evening after work to find the roommate cleared out.

Neither of us talk about the next day’s show. We’re both afraid that doing so might jinx it, although it didn’t have that effect the last time. When I say good-bye, he gives me a big hug and a peck on each cheek, and for a minute I almost believe that we might make it to the finals.

When I meet Derek at two, I immediately smell alcohol on him. I ask him what he’s been up to, and he explains that he met a couple of fans who recognized him and who bought him a few rounds. Apparently nobody cards in New York – or at least nobody cards Derek, which doesn’t surprise me. He looks mid-twenties to people who don’t know him.

I don’t want to bag on him for drinking. It’s none of my business. My instinct is to say something, but I suspect that’s my life with good old mom surfacing, so I bite back any smart remarks.

Derek’s happy, in a good mood, and he’s talking about the future, about what we’ll do when we win. Not my favorite topic, because it seems like building castles in the air is setting us up for disappointment. He keeps yammering, though, and I wonder exactly how much he drank – he’s usually sensitive to my signals, but right now he’s missing all of them.

The next day we’re at the theater four hours early, and this time I let the hairdresser do whatever she wants. She takes a little more time, washes my hair and touches up the roots again, and then breaks out the gel and the blow drying. By the time she’s done, I can’t tell whether I like it or hate it – it’s parted in the center, the bangs held back with a couple of bobby pins, very retro. The makeup guy goes heavier on the eyes this time, and when he’s done, I think I look like Katy Perry’s trashy little sister. But everyone’s telling me it’s the bomb, so I roll with it.

We draw numbers again, and this time Derek and I are second to last. Jeremy’s griping for the opposite reason – he got the dreaded number one. I try to comfort him, but he’s a bundle of nerves.

“Jeremy, number one means the audience is fresh. They love you from last week. Just go out and blow them away.”

“Number one is the kiss of death.”

“Who says? Who told you that?”

“Everyone knows it.”

“Right, but how? I mean, let’s think about this. What happened to number one from last week?” I realize my mistake as soon as I say it, and flush.

Jeremy holds my gaze and speaks in a monotone. “Reggae Mon. Got the five-finger death punch seconds in.”

“Jeremy, listen to me. Don’t psych yourself out. What are you singing tonight?”

“A little Bruno Mars.”

“Oh, wow. You’ll be sick. Your voice was made for that.”

He pouts. “Stop trying to make me feel good.”

Apparently my mouth has no off switch tonight. “You sound like Derek.” I want to dig a hole and crawl into it the moment I say it, and I look over my shoulder to where Derek’s talking with some of the other singers.

“Ooh, girl, hiss.” He makes a cat claw with his hand and swipes the air. “I guess I won’t be asking how Mister Thang is going.”

“It’s stalled in first, out of gas.”

“Are you talking car jargon to me? Kind of butch. I like it. Do it some more.”

His mind’s now flitted away from being distraught over number one, and I smile. I’ve noticed that Jeremy is all about right this second. Has short attention span disorder, or whatever they call it. You hold up something shiny and he’s instantly distracted.

The sad thing is that in this case, the distraction is my crater of a love life.

Jeremy destroys the Bruno Mars song and earns an ovation and two tens and a nine, Martin as usual holding back the love. When he returns to the dressing room, he’s grinning ear to ear, and I hug him tight. I know the insecurity he’s feeling, the superstitious fears that convince you that it could all fall apart any instant. I could write a book about them, or at least, a pretty long country song.

The show rolls around, and by the time we go on, I’m almost bored. The obligatory stools materialize on stage, and when we walk out, the crowd goes frigging berserk, and we haven’t even played a note yet. Derek holds his guitar aloft and grins at the crowd while I take my seat and adjust the mic. The hooting and stamping dies down, and we start the song – Hall & Oates, “So Close.” It’s a beautiful melody and relatively unknown, which means fifty other hopefuls haven’t performed it, and it showcases our vocals beautifully, highlighting our different strengths.

When we finish, it’s another standing ovation, and even Mr. Sourpuss Martin seems pretty impressed. When the crowd quiets down, the three judges give us their impressions, and when it comes time for Martin, he’s nothing but complimentary, which shocks me – this is a guy who could find fault with the parting of the Red Sea. Which is all awesome, but what most impresses me is that Derek takes my hand while we’re being critiqued.

We get the first perfect score of the show – all tens, and the audience goes nuts again. For an instant I believe we can do this. We have twice so far. My customary skepticism whenever something good happens takes a breather, and it’s good.

Then Derek releases my hand, and we’re headed backstage, where Sabrina’s waiting in anticipation. She’s clearly taken a proprietary interest in us and now knows every detail of our bio and histories. I can’t tell whether she really likes us or just knows a heart-tugger opportunity when she sees one.