Big Time (3 page)

“Um, Gerri Jones?”

“Are you asking me or telling me, Um Gerri Jones?”

I try to smile, but I'm already feeling bad about this.

“My name is Gerri Jones,” I say, trying to sound cheerful and calm although I'm neither.

“That wasn't so hard, was it?” he says. I don't know what to say, he's being so rude to me.

Thankfully, GG decides to speak up.

“What are you going to sing for us today, Gerri?” he asks.

“I'm going to sing ‘Gimme One Good Reason to Stay,' by Marla Belle Munro,” I tell him.

“Great song,” murmurs Maria Tillerman.

“Okay,” says Tim. “Take it away.”

My heart is pounding, but I take a deep breath, smile, close my eyes and start to sing.

You haven't smiled at me in weeks,
You don't have one nice thing to say,
I lie awake every night waiting for you to
     come home,
So gimme one good reason to stay
…

This song is one of my granddad's favorites—one of my favorites too—and after a couple of moments I start to get into the music. I've made it to the end of the first verse and taken a deep breath to get me through the chorus when Tim Canon throws his hand up.

“Stop!” he says. So I do.

I stand looking at them, wondering what's going on.

“I'm sorry,” he says. “The problem isn't your voice. Your voice is fine. The problem is that you're just too boring. You actually might be one of the most boring performers I've ever encountered in twenty-five years in show business.”

I stand there, my mouth going dry. I don't know what to say.

“Okay,” I manage to squeak out.

“I'm a no-go,” he says. “No way, no how.”

He turns to GG, who just shakes his head slowly.

Maria turns and glares pointedly at Tim, then leans forward in her seat, rests her chin in one hand and smiles at me. “Honey,” she says, “you have a real good voice, you really do. Don't listen to this jackass over here. I think the—”

“Maria,” interrupts one of the clipboard people from the edge of the set. “You can't say that. Back up.”

Maria sits back in her seat, pauses for a few moments. Then she leans forward and starts again, saying everything exactly the same way for the cameras.

“Honey,” she says, “you have a real good voice, you really do. Don't listen to this—to Tim over here. I think the problem is that you aren't quite the right fit for the show. You need to get out there and get some experience on a stage, then maybe come back again next year and give it another shot.”

I've seen this happen on
Big Time
before. Some shy, nervous person has a good voice, but they don't have stage presence. I've seen some of them protest, claim that they can learn, that they can shake off their nerves and do a better job down the road. Sometimes they even manage to convince the judges, who decide to toss out a second chance, to bring them all the way to the show so that they can have another opportunity to prove themselves.

I wish I had the guts to say something like that, but I don't. All I want is to get out of the room. My mouth opens and I hear myself croak out “Okay” for the second time.

Then I'm being ushered out the door and into the waiting area.

Everyone in the room is watching the door when it opens and I'm shuffled out by a production assistant. The door shuts behind him with a soft
ka-thunk
, and it's all over. I look around, confused, until I spot my mom, who's getting up from her chair slowly, expectantly. I just shake my head and realize there's a good chance I'm going to start crying.

“Oh, sweetie,” says Mom as she comes up and gives me a hug.

“Where do we go?” I ask, pulling away from her, my voice coming out a lot louder than I expect. I try not to meet the eyes of any of the other people in the waiting area.

Another production assistant comes over and smiles at me. He puts his hand on my back and guides me through a doorway and into an empty hallway. My mom hurries along beside me.

“I don't know if they were mean to you or not,” the PA says. “If they were, try not to take it personally. They just do it for
TV
.”

“Well, that's reassuring,” snaps Mom.

He smiles sympathetically and heads back to the waiting area.

Mom moves around to face me.

“You okay?”

I nod, but I can feel the tears starting to come.

“Oh, sweetie,” she says again. “What can I do?”

“I need to find a bathroom,” I blubber. “I'll be okay, I just need to find a bathroom.”

We walk down the hallway until we find a ladies' room. “You want me to come in?” she asks.

I shake my head. “Just give me a few minutes.”

Thankfully, it's empty. I lean into the sink and cry a little bit, just for a couple of minutes. I manage to compose myself, then wash my face. It feels good. I stare into the mirror. My eyes are a bit pink, but I look okay.

There's nothing I can do about it now. As I turn to leave, the door to the washroom opens and Maria Tillerman pushes through. She stops when she sees me.

“Oh,” she says.

“I was just leaving,” I say and start to move past her.

“Hang on, honey,” she says. I stop and look at her, trying my best to smile.

“What's your name again?” she asks. “I know it was just a few minutes ago, but I see so many people.”

“Gerri Jones,” I tell her.

“That's right. Listen, Gerri,” she says, “this is the way the show works. You shouldn't take it to heart. I can guarantee you they won't use your clips on
TV
—you were too good for that.”

“That doesn't make any sense,” I tell her.

“Look at it this way. There are people who are born to get onstage and belt out songs, and they have loads of charisma and stage presence. Those are the people we take for the show. Then there are the people who are terrible, who we let through the process because they come across as funny, like that cowgirl who came in before you. It might not be the nicest thing in the world, but we need people who'll make good
TV
.

“Then there are the people with good voices who haven't quite figured out the stage presence thing. People like you. The good news is that you can learn the stage-presence stuff, but you can never teach someone how to have a good voice. You have a really good voice. I hope you remember that. Music should be fun, not stressful. I hope you keep singing, because you've got an instrument, girl. It would be a shame for you to waste it.”

“Thanks,” I say.

“I mean it. Now I had better do my business and get out of here before they send in the troops after me.”

She goes into a stall and locks the door.

The last thing I hear as I leave is a muffled “Good luck, Gerri Jones.”

Chapter Four

On the drive home, Mom rants and raves about the whole
Big Time
process.

“What is wrong with those people?” she says as we peel out of the parking lot. “I mean, look at you, you're adorable! You've got the voice of a honky-tonk angel! They're crazy!”

“What's a honky-tonk angel?” I ask.

“It doesn't matter,” she says. “I'm trying to tell you that the system is obviously rigged, Gerri. The fix is in. The jig is up.”

“You make it sound like a big conspiracy,” I say. “They just didn't like me.”

“Don't ignore the facts,” she says. “If it looks like a duck and talks like a duck, you're probably dealing with a duck. Let's pick up some pizza for supper. There's no way I'm cooking tonight.”

Dad is waiting by the front door when we get home, smiling and expectant. His smile fades when he sees me.

“No?” he asks.

I just shake my head.

“Oh, sweetie,” he says. “It's their loss, that's for sure.”

“They made her cry,” my mother says.

“They didn't make me cry,” I say. “I was just emotional because I got my hopes up. It was stupid of me to think I'd make it.”

“They did too make you cry,” she says. “Grown adults insulting impressionable teenagers to their faces. It isn't right.”

“It most certainly wasn't stupid of you to think you'd make it,” says my father. “You have a fantastic voice. What on earth did they find to criticize, exactly?”

I glance behind me and catch my mother making a throat-slitting gesture.

“Never mind,” he says.

“They said I was boring and had no stage presence,” I say.

“That's crazy!” he says. “These people are obviously amateurs who wouldn't know talent if it punched them in the face.”

“Kind of the opposite,” I say. “They're professionals who do this for a living.”

“Just hang on a second, okay?” He runs into the living room and comes back with one hand behind his back.

“Ta da!” he says, holding out a bouquet of Gerbera daisies, my favorite flower.

“Your father and I bought you some flowers just because you're our favorite daughter,” says Mom. “Nothing to do with
Big Time
, just a random gift.”

“It says
Congratulations
,” I say, peering down at the little card nestled inside the flowers.

“Congratulations on being our favorite daughter,” says Dad. “And on having the guts to audition.”

“Thanks.”

“I'll put them in some water,” says Mom. “Why don't you go up and tell your brother to come down for supper?”

My brother, Jack, is in his room studying, with his back to the door and his giant headphones on. I can never understand how he's able to concentrate on schoolwork while listening to his insane punk music, but his marks sure don't suffer. He's pretty much a genius who will end up curing some disease or inventing a new social network. He has his music jacked up so loud that I have to smack my hand on his wall several times before he realizes I'm standing in the doorway.

“How'd it go?” he asks, swiveling around in his chair.

“Not good.”

“Sucks,” he says. “You're better off anyway. Have you ever seen how stupid they make people on that show look?”

“I guess so,” I say. “It's still no fun though. Mom wants you to come down for supper. We picked up pizza.”

The whole time we eat, my parents won't stop talking about the
Big Time
auditions.

“The thing is, Gerri,” my father starts, “you need to remember that music takes a lot of hard work and practice.”

“That's why they call it show business,” says Mom, “and not show laziness.”

“That's a great play on words, Mom,” Jack says, his mouth full of pizza.

“Really though,” says Dad, “haven't you seen this Justin Boober—”

“Bieber,” says Jack.

“Whatever,” says Dad. “Bieber. Haven't you seen his documentary? That kid was playing and practicing and practicing and playing and performing—”

“I get the picture, Dad,” I say.

“What we're trying to say,” says Mom, “is—”

“I know what you're trying to say,” I tell them. “Practice makes perfect. Get back on the horse and ride. If I want to take music seriously, I have to start getting serious.”

They look surprised.

“Exactly,” they say at the same time.

“That's all great advice,” I tell them. “I'm just not sure I really want to sing anymore, is all.”

“What are you talking about?” asks Mom. “Of course you do! You've been singing since you could barely walk, and you talked about this
Big Time
audition for months.”

“Yeah, and look how that turned out,” I say. “No offense, guys, but I don't really want to talk about this anymore. Is it okay if I go hang out in my room? I just want to be alone for a while.”

“Of course you can, sweetie,” says Dad.

“Take the flowers with you,” says Mom. “They'll help cheer you up.”

I grab the vase and bring it upstairs to my room, placing it on my dresser and stopping for a minute to stare at the old album covers I have stuck on my wall. Loretta Lynn, Patsy Cline and Marla Belle Munro stare out at me, all big hair and bright eyes and wide smiles, hanging on to microphones like their lives depend on it. I wonder if anyone ever told them they were boring, that they lacked stage presence. Somehow I doubt it.

I grab my laptop from my desk and flop onto my bed. I notice right away that I have a friend request and a new message. It's from Poppy.

Hey you! Hopefully this is Gerri Jones from the
Big Time
auditions, otherwise ignore this message because I'll sound like a crazy person! How did your audition go? I asked a production assistant in the waiting area, but she told me they couldn't give me any info about other contestants. Guess what? I made it! I'm flying to Toronto in a week for sudden-death round. Eek! Anyway, holla at me when you have a minute. Kisses! Poppy.

I'm not surprised that Poppy made it. Not only does she have a killer voice, but she's got me beat hands down when it comes to stage presence. I'm sure she was able to waltz into the audition room and shine that big smile at the judges and convince them that she's got what it takes for Big Time, maybe even to go all the way. I'm not jealous, exactly. I'm really happy for Poppy, but I can't help wishing I had her star quality. I guess some of us are born for the stage and some of us aren't.

I send her back a quick note, congratulating her and telling her my own news. She replies almost instantly.

They don't know what they're missing, Gerri. You'll just have to come back next year and show them how wrong they were. Wish me luck and promise you'll meet me for coffee when I get back to town. It'll probably be sooner than later haha! Xoxo. P.

I'm supposed to call my friend Meg and fill her in on how the audition went, but I don't feel like going over everything yet again. Instead I just lie on my bed, staring at the ceiling. I know my parents are right, that real musicians work really hard to be good at what they do. The thing is, I've been watching
Big Time
religiously since I was seven years old, and I know enough to realize that when someone comes in with enough raw talent, the judges will snatch them up and teach them
how
to work hard and get where they need to go. I've been waiting patiently for the day I became old enough to audition, preparing for the moment when I'd finally get to prove myself, and now that moment has come and gone. I've missed my big opportunity.