“Right.” My first time on TV: wearing my fricking Burger Barn uniform. At least I’d be comfortable.
I put on the burnt-orange shirt, and José got to work. Having him there, smearing at my face and asking me boring, everyday questions about where I went to school and whether I’d been to L.A. before calmed me down a little. By the time he was done, I wasn’t even tapping my toe against the tiled floor anymore.
“All right, my job here is done,” he said, snapping his case closed. “You look adorable, by the way. They’re going to love you.”
“Oh, uh, thanks,” I said.
“Someone will be by to get you in about fifteen minutes. Break a leg, okay?”
José whisked out the door, taking all the calm with him.
It felt like seconds later when Tour Lady walked in.
“They’re ready for you, Kyle. Would you like to follow me backstage?”
I nodded. If I tried to talk I might puke on her.
We walked fast down the dressing room hall, wound through a couple quick turns, and reached a door marked “Backstage.”
If my stomach hadn’t been so churny I would have made a joke about how glamorous it was. Tour Lady probably would have just kept the same perma-smile in place. I swallowed. I felt exactly like I did before every lacrosse match: like puking.
She put her hand on the door.
“Once we go through, I’m going to ask you to be quiet, since we’re filming. I’ll take you up to the stage entrance, and you’ll hear Laura introduce you. Once you hear your full name, walk out onto the set and sit in the chair opposite Laura. Got it?”
“Yup,” I squeaked. Jeez, what if I sound like a Muppet through the whole interview? “Simple.”
“Great.” She turned and eased the door open silently. They must keep the hinges super-greased. She gestured at me to follow, not looking back. She clearly didn’t care how I was doing as long as I followed orders. It was a relief. Her acknowledging my nerves would have made it worse. Like, I’d be hyperaware of them or something.
We walked into a dim, cavelike room. Waist-high metal cabinets, like the ones my grandpa used to hold his tools, were pushed against the black walls. Random crap piled everywhere: a spool of wire, a rusty film tin, a plastic alarm clock, weird canned foods with foreign labels, and a dusty picture of Frank Sinatra, to name a few. A couple tan director’s chairs were pushed into a corner, the canvas edges fraying.
The chaos and the darkness calmed me down a little. That dressing room had been so bright and polished. It was too perfect; it made me feel like I was going to mess up. But this space felt more down to earth, like real people worked here. Already I was . . .
“Welcome internet sensation—seriously, people, this kid is HUGE—all the way from Apple Prairie, Minnesota, it’s Kyle! BONHAM!”
In case I hadn’t been planning to step onstage, the sharp poke of a pen in my back from Tour Lady told me it was time.
I walked out, grinning as hard as I could, unsure where to look. I think people were cheering, but blood was pounding through my ears so hard I wasn’t sure. A couple steps past the false wall that had been hiding me, I saw the huge white leather chair with Laura in it. She was smaller than I realized, shorter than Emma even, wearing a tailored pantsuit with a T-shirt underneath, like this was all just casual.
If I were cooler I would have done something with my walk across the stage. People do that on TV, right? Like, dance or, I dunno, mime making burgers?
But I’m not that cool, so I walked straight over to the open chair and sat, turning to smile at the crowd. Jeez, there had to be at least two hundred people, maybe more. They were screaming and jumping around, but I couldn’t make out faces. One bonus of stage lights: they turn the audience into people-shaped blobs.
“Kyle, we’re so glad you could make it out to the show!” Laura smiled. Her teeth were bright white, but they weren’t totally straight, and even stage makeup didn’t cover the slight crookedness of her nose and the little wrinkles around her eyes. She looked like a more-polished version of your favorite aunt. Already I liked her. No wonder she was so popular with moms.
“Thanks for having me,” I said automatically, looking out at the audience and waving a little.
“Did you have any trouble finding someone to cover your shift at the Burger Barn?” she leaned in, feigning concern.
“Not really. They don’t want me on too many shifts right now.”
“Why’s that? You must be a huge draw for them.”
“Yeah, that’s why we ran out of food last time.”
The audience laughed so loud I could almost feel it pouring over me, like a wave. I smiled wider. They wanted to like me. I’d never felt so charged with adrenaline in my life, not even during lacrosse playoffs. I was nervous, but my senses felt sharper. Like I was performing at a higher level. Like I was the best version of myself I’d ever been: Kyle 2.0.