“What? No!” I’m embarrassed he caught me.
“Seriously, bro, a picture like that would make your Twitter and Instagram accounts explode! Your fans will go crazy—you’ll break the record for most retweets, guaranteed.”
I try to drag Dougall away and head for the Apple store so I can get a new phone, telling him there’s no way I’m sitting on Santa’s lap, but he’s determined to convince me.
“Who said anything about sitting on his lap?” Dougall screws up his face. “You do the manly thing and stand side by side. Tell him you were named after him. That should make him happy.”
“Since when does Santa need me to make him happy? Being jolly is pretty much his full-time gig.”
“Maybe so, bro.” Dougall laughs. “But it’s still good PR all around. Not to mention how the mall executives will knock themselves out trying to find a way to return the favor, especially if you include them in the hashtag.”
Despite the convincing argument he makes, the potential for extreme embarrassment is dangerously high.
Then again, Dougall really does seem to know what he’s talking about when it comes to this stuff.
The next thing I know, I’m flanked by overexcited elves marching me past a stream of crying kids and annoyed moms toward Santa, who tells me he’s one of my biggest fans as we drape an arm around each other’s shoulders and smile brightly for a cell phone pic. Once that’s done, Dougall and I head to the Apple store, where I buy a new phone along with all kinds of stuff I probably already own, but hey, it’s always good to have backups.
Dougall loads up too, and I just put it all on my credit card. After all, that’s what rich friends are for.
But when we move on to the Nike store, I stop dead in my tracks.
“Is that—”
My hand lifts and my index finger unfolds, seemingly guided by a force all its own.
“Is that…for real?”
I point toward a scene so insanely epic I can’t think of a single word to describe it.
Because there—right there in front of us—spanning the entire floor-to-ceiling window space—is a giant picture of me, performing before a sold-out stadium of screaming fans.
And directly in front of that is a Christmas tree built entirely of white sneakers with metallic red and green swooshes and holographic gold stars, and the best part is—those kicks are named after me.
The sign reads:
Dashaways!
The Christmas Countdown begins with a limited edition—available only for the next 5 Days!
While the Mojo endorsement seemed pretty cool—this—this!—is a whole other level that can only be described as Extreme Epicness.
I can’t stop staring.
I’m on the verge of hyperventilating.
“Yeah, they’re cool.” Dougall shrugs, not nearly as impressed as he should be, even going so far as to shoot me a look, like I’m overreacting, as though he sees this kind of thing all the time. And maybe he does, but I certainly don’t. He pushes his hand against my back and steers me inside. “It’s pretty genius of Ezer to tie it into your show and song and all.”
“We should buy some!” I say. “We’ll get a pair for everyone we know.”
I’m about to go in search of a salesperson when Dougall pulls me back. “Dude, I already have three pairs. And you have about a hundred. I don’t see the point of paying for things you get paid to wear. Why don’t we buy some other cool stuff instead?”
I stall. Despite what he says, I still think it qualifies as monumental to actually buy a pair of sneakers named after myself.
It’s not like Josh Frost ever had sneakers named after him.
But once everyone in the store starts to recognize me, the moment is lost. And while Dougall is free to pick out a bunch of cool stuff for himself, I spend the next hour signing boxes of recently purchased shoes until the pyramid is dismantled, the shoppers are all leaving with at least five boxes each, and the store is completely sold out.
When we leave, we’re escorted by a team of mall-appointed security—all of them talking sideways into their headsets, ensuring our privacy and safety, while pushing carts full of our newly acquired belongings. Even so, every girl who sees me starts crying and screaming and begging me to pose for a gazillion cell phone pics.
“And that is why we usually opt for your personal stylist to do the shopping for us,” Dougall says as we climb into the back of the limo and the security team loads our shopping bags into the trunk.
I have a personal stylist?
No wonder I look so good in my pictures.
But what I say is “Yeah, but sometimes it’s good to be out in the world. You know, be with the people. They get so excited when they see me, I feel like I’m giving them…” I want to say hope, but that’s not it.
“You’re giving ’em a whiff of Dashaway magic,” Dougall says. “A brush with true star power and greatness.”
It would be a really great statement if he didn’t ruin it by laughing the second after he said it.