My right foot is just about to meet the first step when Mac Turtledove shoves past me so hard I lose my balance, my knees crumble, and I land smack on the edge.
“Move it, loser,” Mac barks, leaving me clutching both knees in pain and watching through unbelieving eyes as he claims his place beside Josh.*1
The sight of them standing together is all it takes to get the crowd on their feet, clapping and screaming like crazy, as the opening strains of Josh’s new hit single, “Twelve Days,” blares through the gym.
“Why don’t you help me out here in case I forget the lyrics!” Josh laughs, tossing an arm around Mac’s shoulders as though they’re old friends.
And when the two of them start singing, it sounds as though they’ve been rehearsing for weeks. Except for the part where Mac flubs a few lyrics and everyone pretends not to notice.
It’s a hideous sight, but I can’t seem to stop watching, much less convince myself to get up and get the heck out before it gets any worse.
While Josh and Mac charm the crowd, Ezer collects his belongings like the gym is on fire and he’s desperate to flee, so I hobble over to where he stands, clear my throat, and say, “There’s been a mistake.” Kind of semi-shouting so he’ll hear me over the music, but he completely ignores me.
Despite the shooting pain in my legs, despite a gut that feels like it’s waging a serious protest against everything I ate over the course of the last several weeks, I move closer, desperate to fix this before it’s too late.
“Excuse me,” I say. “But there’s been a—”
“No mistake, kid.” He barks the words over his shoulder like he can’t be bothered to actually face me.
“But I think there was,” I insist. “No, I mean, I’m sure there was. That was supposed to be me up there. I’m one hundred and ten percent sure of it.”
That got him to look, his hard, squinty gaze floating over my face as he says, “Oh yeah? And what makes you think that?”
“I was standing right here when I heard Josh vote for the kid near the end who sang ‘Twelve Days.’ That kid was me. I’m that kid.”
Ezer grunts and closes his eyes in the same way my mom does when she’s striving for patience and inwardly counting to ten. “Turns out I have the power to veto, so I did.” He turns away, as though the argument’s over.
“But—” I glare at the back of his neck, like a tree stump holding up an enormous head. My voice sounds pathetic and wimpy, but still, I push the words past. “The rules clearly state that Josh is supposed to choose the winner. Josh Frost. Not you!” For whatever reason, that makes him laugh.
“Listen, kid.” Ezer glances between the stage and me. “You know that indefinable thing that makes someone a star—someone worth watching?”
I stare at him, barely able to breathe.
“You ain’t got it.”
The words are like an arrow to my heart.
Yet I still manage to protest. “And Mac Turtledove does?” I know it sounds childish. It sounds even worse in person.
But when Ezer points to the stage, where Josh and Mac are well into the finale, I hate to admit it, but there’s no denying he’s right.
There’s a reason Mac Turtledove’s name is enshrined in a heart on nearly every girl’s notebook.
He has it.
That indefinable thing that makes people want to watch him.
Be near him.
Worship him from afar.
“Everyone wants to be a star,” Ezer says. “For most, it’s just a big waste of time. Do yourself a favor and find another dream—something a little more reasonable. May hurt to hear it now, but trust me, someday you’ll look back and thank me. Nothing wrong with knowing your limits.”*2
The song ends.
Josh and Mac exit the stage.
And my new life is officially over before it could begin.
* * *
*1 I really hate Mac Turtledove.
*2 This is the exact opposite of what Josh Frost says. He’s always encouraging us fans to go after our dreams, but now I’m wondering if he really means it.
2:32 P.M.—2:41 P.M.
SUGARPLUM FAIRY
I’m halfway home when I hear it—the all-too-familiar gasping, wheezing sound of Plum Bailey’s voice.
“Nick!” She races to catch up, panting so loudly I can no longer pretend not to hear. “I can’t believe you didn’t win! You were, like, a million times better than that phony Mac Turtledove!”
Before I can stop myself, I laugh. I mean, it’s not like I want to encourage her. I guess I’m just so used to girls slobbering all over Turtledove, it’s shocking to hear one of them call him a phony.
“Seriously,” she says, going on and on about Mac being a big wannabe who gave a bogus performance as I glare at the long stretch of sidewalk unspooling before me that, in reality, isn’t actually all that long, but with Plum so determined to stalk me, well, it feels like it goes on forever.