The Stage (Phoenix Rising #1) (2 page)

A lady with frizzy hair talks to me from behind the laptop. “Hi, Mia,” she says. “How would you describe your style?”

“Kind of Ellie Goulding meets Rhianna, with some KT Tunstall mixed in,” I say, and smile, knowing I’m really smiling at some executive who’ll be watching this video. I run my fingers through my long black hair.

“Great. We’d like you to sing the song that best showcases your voice so we can share this with our executive producers.”

As I sing all the way to the hook for Adele’s “Rolling in the Deep,” she raises her hand.

“Do you have anything else?”

Shit. “Yeah,” so I move right into Anna Kendrick’s “When I’m Gone.” Singing actually calms me down; although, I know she’s going to ask me about my parents, so I’m on edge. My palms are sweaty.

“That’s enough,” she says as I sing the last line. “So, Mia, can you tell us a little about your parents and the fire? You’re raising your little sister alone. How much would it mean for you to win the first season of The Stage?”

Relief. I’m glad she’s not asking for a play-by-play. So I decide to give it to them. I look at the camera and say with all sincerity:

“It was my parents’ wish to see me sing on a real stage. When I’m up there, it’ll be in honor of them. What I do, the singing, is for my sister Riley. I’d like to be able to give her the life my parents always wanted for her. She deserves some happiness after all that’s happened to her—to us.”

But what I hadn’t planned on was how saying the words out loud, however true they were, would pinch my heart. Just then, my throat feels like it’s closing up, and a real tear wells in my eye before falling down my cheek, followed by another on the other side.

I tilt my trembling chin down, but a sick little part of me knows: That was the money shot. And, with that, I hate myself a little more than I already did when I walked in. “Thank you, Mia,” says the frizzy-hair lady. “Once the final decision has been made, you’ll get a call about coming to the silhouette auditions.”

“So it’s not a ‘no?’”

“Definitely not. We just need to run you by the executive producers.”

“Thank you,” I say, feeling giddy, but also like I just sacrificed my first born. Kaya hugs me when I walk back out to the congregating tryouts and their supporting friends and family, yet to find out their fate. “Well?”

“It’s not a no,” I say, smiling half-heartily.

“Are you okay?” she asks.

“I cried,” I say. “Not on purpose.”

“Of course, not on purpose,” she says. “No one’ll hear your story and think you’re using it to get ahead.”

“But aren’t I?”

“No. Stop it. Now, let’s go eat too much garlic. You deserve it.”

We take the red trolley—because I’ve always wanted to, and walk up to the Stinking Rose, a restaurant Kaya’s been to before. San Francisco is cool, no matter what time of year. Summer, too, like now. Ocean mist infuses the air making it crisp, cool.

They seat us in the first booth opposite the door. There’s a mirror wall beside us that I keep catching Kaya looking at herself in. I dip the bread in, basically, a raw garlic dip and my mouth bursts with appreciation.

It’s so bad it’s good. She and I decided to share a pasta dish with whole cloves of garlic, grape tomatoes, and Greek olives—their food is pricey. And, when we leave, the crisp ocean breeze air hits my hot garlic mouth and makes it feel like I’m sucking on ice. Man that garlic is strong.

Those poor people on the bus with us on the way home didn’t know what hit ‘em. But all I can think about on our long drive back to Sacramento is, will they call me? Did I do enough to make it on the show?

It won’t be long before I find out the news.

Silhouette Auditions

I
got to bring Riley with me to the filming in LA. They wanted her there for family interviews and to get shots of her cheering me on. I’m just glad I didn’t have to find a sitter for the whole eight days. Still, I can’t help but worry who’s going to look after her while I’m, well, busy trying out and all? Do they have a sitter on staff? In the excitement of finding out I’d got on the show, I’d forgotten to ask.

They’re letting her stay in the hotel room with me—although I have two other roommates: one from Alabama, and the other from New York. They’re cool, but Riley’s favorite part so far has been the free breakfast she got to order in the hotel dining room. Eggs, bacon, pancakes; she’s tearing it up.

“Do you know what my favorite Pokémon is?” she asks as I nibble oatmeal from a spoon.

“Pikachu?”

“Vaporeon,” she declares, like,
hello, don’t you know anything?

“I thought you like Pikachu?”

“Vaporeon is my favorite
type
, a water type. Oh, and it’s blue, aqua blue. Hey, Mia can we paint my room aqua blue?”

“We can’t paint a rental house, Riles.”

“But when we get the house back, I mean.”

“You want to move back there—to our old house?”

“Yeah,” she says. There’s no doubt in her voice. I don’t want to talk to her about this now. I’d planned on selling it once the rebuild was done. After the insurance company did their investigation, they had to approve the whole house being torn down to the foundation. They’ve been rebuilding it for a few months. Even though it’s going to be new, it’s just wrong to move back, right? We could sell it and keep renting, for the time being.

I have an early check-in time for walk-up day, which is when the camera films Riley and I walking to the entrance of the studio. I’ve been told I’ll need to wear the same outfit for the whole four days of filming. So will Riley.

After the wardrobe people adorn me in a simple, mid-thigh length, dark blue dress and some dangerously high heeled boots that cover the scars on my feet and ankles, Riley comes skipping into the room. Her hair was brushed and she’s wearing a pretty beige dress with Mary Janes and white socks.

“Riley, you look so pretty,” I tell her before enveloping her in a hug. “You look like a movie star,” she says. I just smile and take it all in, the rushing and panicking around us. I tune it out and wait for our turn. We just have to pretend to walk up to the front of the studio. I already feel nervous, so I don’t have to be prompted to look like I am.

Once they get their shots, they send us to get some audio. They’ve already scripted what I’m supposed to say. I talk about my parents and that they’d be proud of me now; that they are proud of me from above. I also explain how stepping up my music career will help me provide for Riley so I can give her a better life. After my part, I’m allowed to go back to the hotel.

It’s about two o’clock as we make our way toward the shuttle and a black car pulls up to the back exit of the studio. I’m wondering who it could be when Kolton Royce, the resident rock god, hops out of the back seat of the car, a smirk on his handsome, dimpled-cheek face, and wearing jeans with a white T-shirt. Fans congregating near the exit scream, jumping up and down, but the sound becomes a hum in the back of my mind.

I wasn’t expecting to see him in all his tatted, rock god glory, so I just stand here, stunned—my legs don’t work. I’m squeezing Riley’s hand too hard. I know this because she wiggles it.

“Ouch!” she protests and I let go.

Her words catch his attention; Kolton Royce turns and looks in our direction. “Sorry,” I say to Riley, and then look back at him.

I’m just standing here like an idiot, but his eyes slice through me. It’s like he’s seeing me. The real me, the one that night in the fire. The one I try to hide.

He walks toward us. But he can’t be coming over to us, can he? Can he?

He is. He’s looking right at me as he’s walking toward us. Holy shit! My body wants to bounce around, but his stare keeps me stuck to the ground.

“What’s your name?” he asks. Even his speaking voice is melodic.

“Mia Phoenix,” I answer, peeking up at him, noting his heavy black earrings and a small scar, slightly annealed, on his chin. I’d never noticed it before on TV or pictures. Maybe because he usually has face stubble. Today, though, his face is shaved clean.

“Good luck, Mia Phoenix,” he says, before crazed fans surround him again, pushing me and Riley to the back of the line. I force myself to look away from him, “Let’s go,” I say to Riley.

As we start walking toward the shuttle, I turn back to get one last look at him. He’s signing autographs, but he’s still looking at me, watching me walk away. My stomach flips, and I smile a little, but try not to.

For the rest of the day, I can’t shake this feeling. It’s not that the rock god actually
talked
to me that’s freaking me out so much. It’s the way he stared at me—through me. I’ve never felt that way before. It’s like he saw the real me. And, for a minute, he tried to let me see the real him.

I don’t know if it was a good feeling or a bad feeling. I just know I wouldn’t mind feeling it again. In fact, I’m looking forward to it.

*     *     *

The next morning I have to check-in early, seven am, for family interviews. We’re moved into a holding room that looks like a lounge decorated with blue couches and little pub tables with stools. What comes out of this will be the part where they share “my story” with the world. I’ve already sent over pictures, with news stories and footage of the fire with me and Riley in our pajamas on the lawn. All of it.

If I make it onto the show, all of that will go along with the package. The walk-up, the interview, the news footage; it makes my stomach ache. I have to wonder if I’m capable of all of the working parts of trying out. There’s so much more to it than simply singing.

Riley is brought into the lounge, too—all dressed up in the same dress from yesterday.

“Thanks for wearing that again, Riles,” I say, and hug her. I understand why they’re going to interview her, too. My stomach hurts so badly, I just want to tell them no. What happened to us is private.

I pick at my nail polish as I watch a few other families have their interviews. My roomie from New York, Blaire, has her parents with her now. New Yorkers are a unique bunch, if any of them are as outspoken as she is, that is. This morning she told me my clothes were too boring. Boring clothes, that’s me.

A production assistant pops over to us. “You’re next,” she says. “We’d like you two standing over here at this table.” Riley and I follow her as they place us on tall blue bar stools. Lights are moved over to us and turned on.

“Mia Phoenix,” says the host, a thirty-something man I’ve pretty much grown up with on my TV since I was a kid. He’s smooth, cool, and confident. “Chuck Faraday,” he says, shaking my hand.

Ohmygod, he’s talking to me! This just doesn’t seem real.

“Just wanted to run the story by you. We’re talking about your parents and the fire. The footage will run during the interview so the audience can see it. Our editors have done a tasteful job so far. You’re an inspiration already,” he says.

An inspiration. What the hell? I feel the pull of the pain from that night. If I don’t check myself, it will engulf me whole until I feel nothing. I’m smiling but it’s not really me pulling up the corners of my mouth. It’s just for show.

He asks questions, I talk, Riley talks. I squeeze her little hand, burying my nose in her hair. I’m completely numb. I don’t know what I said or what she said. I silently apologize for pimping out her pain like this. I feel like shit.

I put on the smiley face again, the one that hides the true me, and thank him before the cameras and lights are moved to the next family. As I head out the back entrance, I’m hoping I’ll see Kolton Royce again. I’m kind of sad when I don’t.

*     *     *