My Awesome/Awful Popularity Plan (15 page)

And, of course, because I play opposite her, I’m the one elected by the cast to go “talk to her.” It’s always me telling her to “take a deep breath” and “have some water” and saying “I’m sure she didn’t mean to …” After twenty minutes of me pretending I’m Dr. Phil, Pamela will finally wipe her eyes, blow her nose,
sloooowly
brush her LONG hair, and adjust her keyboard belt or treble-clef hair tie, and then we go back to the auditorium. When we start rehearsing again, she’s relaxed and focused, whereas I’m constantly forgetting my lines or lyrics because I’m so stressed from spending a half hour forcing myself to pretend I don’t want to strangle her with her music-note scarf. It’s not fair! I began to think I was being punished for not convincing Becky to audition. It’s almost like Spencer has a direct line to God … or, to respect Spencer’s ever-changing non-traditional religious views, “goddess.”

After a few weeks of rehearsal, the guilt I felt about Becky
not auditioning was too much for me to bear, and I felt like I had to do something to make it up to her. My project became the upcoming choir solo. We’re doing a
Wicked
medley, and I knew she’d sound amazing on the song “Defying Gravity,” so every day at lunch I’ve tried to convince her to audition. I’ve received a slew of
no way
s and
stop bothering me
s from her, so two weeks ago I changed tactics and convinced her to come over to my house by saying I wanted her to try some brownies I was making for the choir bake sale.

That afternoon, I put them in the oven right before she got there so their smell would fill the air as she walked in. I knew the aroma would put her in a trance and I was right. While she was salivating, I told her that I’d only give her one if she sang through the solo with me. I could tell she was torn, but I sat calmly at the piano and waited because I knew that no one could resist that smell. The next thing I knew, she was belting out the song. I made sure to hide the picture of us in our
Cats
costumes so nothing could bring her down after she sang. I then took the brownies out of the oven, but held them at arm’s length and said she couldn’t have one unless she agreed to audition. She was feeling so good about how she sounded—and was so inundated with the delicious chocolate scent—that she said yes … and then immediately ate two brownies. Three days later she auditioned and got it!

Of course, I then began to worry that I had made a mistake. Yes, she sounded great in rehearsal but what about the actual concert and her tendency to crash and burn? And by
“burn” I mean “sing horribly.” My anxiety lasted right up to the concert, which was last Friday. Here’s what finally went down: Her parents were out of town all last week at a medical conference (her aunt was staying with her), which was a bummer because it meant they couldn’t be there to hear her sing, but Chuck promised he’d definitely be in the front row. Well, more like I threatened him that if he didn’t show up, I’d tell Becky the real reason he missed dinner with her last Friday was not because of a late-night practice but because he went out with Archie and the gang to T.G.I. Friday’s.

Of course, part of my plan was for Chuck to hear my solo “Free Your Mind.” I hoped it would trigger something to make
him
free his mind and give guys a try. And by “guys” I mean “me” and by “try” I mean at least first base. I’ve had no progress with him for weeks. He had that first burst of flirting with me, but ever since then, he’s been just mildly friendly. I don’t want to think he was only flirting with me to get some cash and to have me do his homework. Becky wouldn’t date someone so unethical, would she? So many aspects of my plan are working (well, mainly the popularity part), but time is running out on the Chuck front. It’s getting closer and closer to my birthday (April twenty-first) and I still haven’t had my first kiss. If it doesn’t happen, that means on April twenty-second I’ll be sixteen and a spinster. I’m trying every angle I have to get Chuck to cross over.

As the day of the concert approached, I got more and more nervous that maybe I’d made a mistake and was just setting
Becky up for another public debacle. Yet, the closer we got to the big day, the more relaxed she seemed. She was the total opposite of how she usually was before a big performance. The other strange thing was that we got together a few times knowing Chuck wasn’t going to be there. She’d call me to watch TV or get a coffee and we’d hang out for a few hours. Of course, I missed staring longingly at Chuck, but we’d have a great time without him, so it was worth it.

Finally, the big day arrived, which also happened to be the last day of February, which this year was the twenty-ninth. I hoped that because leap year only occurs every four years, this would be the one concert in four years where Becky finally sounded great.

Unfortunately, I was wrong.

When I saw her before we went onstage, she looked great and relaxed. Instead of the horrible choir robe we’re all forced to wear, she convinced Miss Bagwell to let her wear a black dress that had the essence of the Wicked Witch of the West but also showed off her amazing gymnast bod. She painted her nails green, which contrasted great with her red-gold hair that she wore loose and wild. When she walked up to the mic to sing, I nervously watched her, but she had a totally confident air I’d never seen in her during a performance. I was filled with anxiety that it would all fall apart, but the next thing I knew, she started the solo sounding even better than she did at rehearsal. Yes! I inwardly smiled, which only lasted around fifteen seconds because I then noticed her eyes spot something
in the audience and in a nanosecond, she started to sound like a combination of my mom’s car on a really cold day and my dog the week she’d had an obstructed bowel. When Becky finished, she got halfhearted applause and had tears in her eyes. I was angry. Not at her, but at whatever inside her was messing her up. How could such a popular and beautiful girl undermine herself like that? She had everything I wanted: looks, popularity … 
Chuck
! Even when I was at my most loser-ish in the school, I still was able to perform. I didn’t get it. But I had to figure it out. I wanted to help her. But first I had to sing.

Right after
Wicked
, we got ready to do “Free Your Mind.” I went to the mic. For this number, they shined a big spotlight on me, which was fabulous, but it also meant I couldn’t see the audience. Thankfully, I knew where Chuck was sitting, so I performed the whole song to him. I sang up a storm and every time I sang “free your mind,” I concentrated as hard as I could, visualizing Chuck freeing his.

The song finished, I took my bow, and the lights went back to normal. Well, it was a good thing I had visualized Chuck because that was the only way I was gonna see him—
he wasn’t at the concert anymore!
Once the spotlight was off me, I could see his seat and it was EMPTY. What the—? He must have left right after Becky’s solo. How dare he only want to hear his girlfriend sing and not the boy who’s trying to manipulate him to do something totally against his nature? I put my wasted effort out of my mind and ran backstage after the concert. I found Becky looking pale and asked her not to talk to
anyone. I then said I’d change out of my choir robe and told her to meet me at the Roasted Bean. She nodded silently and I went to the boys’ changing room.

I got out of my robe and met up with my parents, who were waiting for me in the lobby.

“Son,” said my dad as he hugged me. “I don’t know if you’re going to join my practice after all!” This is the comment he always makes after he sees me perform. It’s nice that he’s so supportive of my talent but annoying that he’s not creative enough to come up with another line.

Then my mom hugged me. “You were, as usual, excellent.” Then she paused. “Your friend Becky, though …”

There were other chorus kids and parents standing near us.

“You mean my
girlfriend
, Becky?” I asked. I could tell my mom never fully accepted the Becky ruse and I didn’t need other people joining her.

“Yes, Justin,” she said halfheartedly. Then she shook her head and added, “She started out sounding so good.”

“I know!” I said. “And I need to talk to her. Can I go out for a little bit? Just to the Roasted Bean?”

“Of course, son,” said my dad, and as I’d hoped, he handed me a twenty. Yes!

“Bye! Love you both!” I yelled, and hightailed it to the street. When I got to my favorite coffee joint, Becky was at the only table near the fireplace, which gave us a nice view and some privacy. She had already ordered us two lattes, which were sitting there, steaming.

“Justin, I—”

“Whatever you’re going to say, don’t. Let’s just decide that right now we are going to figure out why this happens to you and stop it.”

“I don’t know why!” she sobbed. “It’s like … like my body won’t let me perform the way I want to perform.”

“But
why
?” I asked, frustrated. Why would someone’s body sabotage them? “You’ve got to figure it out. I know you have the talent to make it as a performer.”

She shook her head. “I’ll never know.” Then she looked angry. “And I’ll
never make it
,” she cried, loud enough for an older couple to look over at us, even though their table was across the room. She lowered her voice, but it made her next sentences more intense. “
Don’t
say I will. No one cares about rehearsal.” She wiped a tear from her eye. “It’s how you sound in performance that makes you a star. If you want to make it, you have to be perfect.”

That’s a crazy theory
, I thought. Then … 
Wait a minute, I’ve heard that before
. I tried to think of when. I remembered the feeling I’d had when it was said, that the person talking was a bully … and an idiot. Doug Gool?

Then it hit me!

I looked into her eyes. “Becky, do you know who you sound like?”

She seemed to stop caring. “Who?” she asked with no energy, and leaned forward for a sip of her latte. Hmph. Well, if she was going to break this dramatic moment, then I was
also gonna get some delicious latte. I took a sip and dropped the bomb: “Your father.”

“What?” She looked like she had just drunk a latte with sour milk. Well, she did use soy milk, which is a close second, but I knew it wasn’t that. She hated to be compared to her father.

“That’s exactly what your dad said on New Year’s Eve. He must have told you his stupid theory so many times that you believe it.”

She thought about it, then shrugged. “Well, so what if I believe it or not? I still sucked tonight like I always do whenever I sing in front of people.”

I was annoyed. “You do
not
suck when you sing in front of people. It’s not like you rehearse by yourself in an isolation chamber.”

She rolled her eyes. “You know what I mean.”

“Yes, but I think that’s the key to figuring this out. You’re able to sing in front of tons of people at rehearsal but not during a performance. And it’s not like you can only sing in front of people you’re used to,” I reminded her. “We had a dress rehearsal for the choir concert on Thursday night with all the band and orchestra members in the audience and you nailed that solo.” I added two more sugars to my latte and posed a question: “What was different about the audience at the choir performance versus the dress rehearsal?”

“Who cares?” she asked, frustrated. “I always mess up when it really counts.”

I was about to say something when she cut me off with: “Listen, high school’s only for a couple more years. Then I won’t perform anymore.” She sneered and said, “There’s no singing and acting in medical school.”

I grabbed her hands. “Medical school? You can’t go there. You should be majoring in theater. You’re amazing!”

She pulled away. “No, I’m not!” she said. “Besides, my dad would never allow me to go to a theater school because he knows how bad I am when I perform.”

I suddenly got an idea. “Well, tell him you were perfect tonight. Tell him you’ve changed. He’ll never know!”

“Of course he will, Justin,” she said, putting down her mug. “He was there.”

I was confused. “What? Your aunt’s been staying with you because your parents were at a convention all week.”

She nodded. “Yeah, but he left it a little early to come hear me.”

I had a feeling this was important. “When did you find out that he flew back here, Becky?”

“Well, after the concert he waited for me and told me that instead of flying back tomorrow morning, he had switched his flight to today so he could see me.” She looked frustrated. “Why do you want the details? We both know my dad is annoying.”

“Wait,” I said, not letting her change the subject. “You mean, you didn’t know he was there until after the show?”

She sighed, obviously bored with the conversation. “Before
the show, I thought he wasn’t coming, but a little after I began singing, I saw him in the third row.”

AHA! I knew she had seen something in the audience after she began singing. I just didn’t know what it was or how it related. Now I knew why she sounded great at the beginning of her solo and then clanked. I grabbed her hands tightly, and she looked at me like I was crazy.

“That’s it! The missing link! Don’t you see?”

“That you’re weird? Yes, I do.”

“No, you fool!” I said, and leaned in toward her. “You sound great in rehearsal because your father isn’t there judging you. But every public performance you give, he’s sitting there and you know what he’s thinking.” I imitated his stupid, pompous voice:
“If Becky isn’t perfect, it will prove yet again she can never be a performer.”
I went on. “No wonder you panic and bomb. Who could handle that pressure?”

She thought about it. “He does come to all my performances.…”

“Exactly! And because you know he’s there waiting for you to mess up, you do!”

She looked thoughtful. “So, what do I have to do? Ban him from ever seeing me perform?”

I shook my head. “I’m not sure. But now at least we know what it’s about. Once you know something, you can deal with it!” And with that, I took an enormous gulp of my latte and finished it, leaving only a trace of sugar granules on the
bottom of the mug. I felt great relief. And saw that Becky finally looked like her old, stunning self again. I looked at my watch.