I can really learn a lot from him.
When the crowd starts clamoring for him to sing his new Christmas single, “Twelve Days,” Josh just laughs and says the show’s about us, not him. Which only makes the screams grow louder.
I breathe a sigh of relief. “Twelve Days” is the song I’ve been rehearsing, and Josh is such a superstar, I can’t risk being overshadowed by him.
While he’s busy charming the crowd with funny stories about his time here at Greentree, the teachers gather the performers backstage and make us line up in order of appearance.
Chloe Fields, a B-list seventh grader (she eats lunch at the second-coolest table), goes first. When she finally takes the stage and starts belting out a song, I’m shocked by how many people start clapping and singing along, because her voice isn’t that great and it’s clearly off-key. But no one seems to notice. They just act like they’re enjoying it.
I shake my head, amazed at how low the bar is already set. Still, no matter how much they pretend to like it now, by the end of the show, Chloe Fields will be no more than a blur.
There’s a strategy for everything in life, and talent shows are no different. If you have any hope of winning, you’re better off going near the end. It guarantees a lasting impression.
I’m up second to last.
I consider it Good Omen #1.
Five sixth-grade guys go next, doing a pretty poor rendition of a boy-band song, if you ask me, but once again, other than a few boos quickly shut down by the school administrators, everyone gets into it.
Which only goes to show how boring Greentree can be.
We’re so desperate for entertainment we’ll clap for any lame act they stick in front of us.
“Nick, you sure about this?” Dougall, having snuck around the back, yanks on my hoodie, his expression clearly revealing what he’s really thinking: You’re about to make an epic mistake by taking that stage—you’re not nearly as gifted as you think. Truth is, Dougall’s never really supported my dreams, and he definitely doesn’t get the importance of fully imagining the life you want to live. Not to mention, he’s not a Josh Frost fan. When I put it all together, it’s amazing we still get along. “We could bail right now. No one will even notice.”
He says that like it’s a good thing. Like it’s not exactly why I need to do this. I’m tired of being so invisible that Tinsley and Ivy failed to notice me even when I fell right in front of them. I mean, I’m so easily ignored I didn’t even have a chance to feel stupid. Hard to make a fool of yourself when nobody knows you exist.
“We could go to my house. Watch a Roswell documentary.” His face animates at the thought of an afternoon spent on his couch, filling up on conspiracy theories and party-size bags of Cheetos. But I’m committed to seeing this through, and I’m sorry if Dougall doesn’t agree. “Fine,” he calls when I shake my head and move on. “Have it your way. You know where to find me.”
Dougall may mean well, but his doubts are bringing me down when I need to stay positive. Besides, I’m saving my voice for the performance. The less I talk, the better. Which is exactly the excuse I use when Plum appears out of nowhere, or maybe she’s been there all along—hard to tell when I’m so bent on ignoring her.
“Good luck, Nick!” She flashes a grin so big and hopeful I can’t help but cringe.
I mean, sheesh. First Dougall bets against me, then Plum acts like some overeager groupie. Somewhere in this crowd lies a whole new set of much cooler friends.
“You got this!” she says, her fingers unexpectedly circling my wrist in a move so startling, I accidentally look right at her face just in time to see her eyes glint in a way that, for a split second, has me thinking she’s halfway decent looking.
But before I lose it completely, I scowl and move away.
I’m beginning to regret that I was ever dumb enough to be nice to her. I mean, just because we used to be friends back in elementary school, when I didn’t know any better, doesn’t mean I don’t know better now. Besides, now is not the time to encourage her. Not when my life is about to take flight.
I break away from the line of performers and slowly inch toward the side of the stage where Josh Frost and some older guy with slicked-back hair and giant beefy Popeye arms who I recognize as his manager, Ben Ezer (only on Josh’s show everyone just calls him Ezer), sit at a table with thick pads of paper, freshly sharpened pencils, and unopened bottles of water splayed out before them.
Ezer moves his pencil furiously across a page, but even after I tip on my toes and peer at his paper, I still can’t decide if he’s actually taking notes or is just bored and doodling.
Josh doesn’t write anything. He keeps his focus on the performers, as though he’s actually enjoying the slaughter of a Top 20 song.