Fifteen Minutes: A Novel (10 page)

The reason was Samuel J. Meier.

Tan, blond, and fit, Meier was in his late thirties, a machine with a net worth in the hefty nine figures. Everything Meier touched turned to gold. He had produced five successful pop artists, all of whom had multiple records with platinum sales. Meier hadn’t only produced the artists, he’d written most of their music.

His talent was world-renowned, his name synonymous with pop music success. When the first singing competition show came around, Meier quit working with artists and started
Fifteen Minutes.
The show debuted the next year. In an interview Meier once explained why he created a singing competition when one already existed. Simple. He could do better.
Fifteen Minutes
drew the best talent and the best production, delivering polished emotional pieces on the contestants’ lives and making America feel personally connected to everyone in the top twenty.

Meier had explained a number of times that success was an intangible. There was no way to figure out the formula for what worked and what didn’t. But this Meier knew . . . He needed to stay ahead of the curve. Over the last decade a number of singing shows had come along and tried to knock
Fifteen Minutes
off its platform. Meier managed to keep the edge. One way, he had told reporters, was through the judges he chose. They had to be as likable as the finalists. No one scandalous or scantily dressed. The panel would never have someone whose reputation was in any way tarnished, no one who had ever been labeled by paparazzi as a failure or a joke or a has-been.
Fifteen Minutes
paid its judges well and expected articulate commentary and feedback. Meier kept certain judges, but he also liked bringing in newcomers.

Chandra closed her eyes while the artist dusted her brows. She and Kelly Morgan were new this year and after six weeks on
the road they were friends. As far as that was possible. The panel was rounded out this year by longtime judge Cullen Caldwell, a colorful Australian-born hit songwriter whose expertise and talent analysis were unprecedented. Cullen added a level of credibility and eccentricity. He used Down Under slang and spoke with a charming Australian accent. He kept his head shaved and owned an entirely white wardrobe with accessories in bold colors. His spot color today was a red sweatband that accentuated his white jeans and V-neck. The combo would’ve looked ridiculous on anyone else. Somehow Cullen pulled it off. Women were crazy about him.

The judges were expected to bring something to the table. Cullen brought expertise and sarcasm. Not the sort of sarcasm that demeaned contestants but the sort that drew a laugh from the home audience and even the other judges. Cullen was funny, no question.

Kelly Morgan brought her famed history, musical flair and her ability to spot talent. She could be hard-hitting, but over the last five weeks she’d found her stride with the contestants. Once the show aired, people would hate Kelly at times for her biting remarks. Meier would be fine with that. Kelly was pretty enough to pull it off. America would love her either way.

The compassion this season would come from Chandra. Meier had made that clear from the beginning. Chandra wouldn’t have done it any other way. In the last seven cities she’d been moved to tears a handful of times. She, more than anyone, understood the depth of the dream, the impossibility of it. The cost.

Kelly sat in the middle, and now she leaned in close to Chandra. “I’m not impressed with this group. That last girl was pathetic. She’d be laughed out of a karaoke bar.”

“The next ten might be better.” Chandra had to agree about the first several groups. No one really stood out. She’d done her part, done it as easily as she breathed, giving the contestants a sad smile and the suggestion that maybe there was another dream they could follow. Painting or writing. That sort of thing.

But as each dejected or devastated singer walked out of the room Chandra silently celebrated. They could go home unchanged, unharmed. Whatever life they’d left behind would be waiting for them. Nothing lost. No psycho fans waiting on the front porch for their unsuspecting parents.

Kelly pulled out a compact and checked her look. “Love that Botox.” She glanced at Chandra. “You use it?”

“No.” Chandra allowed a confused laugh. “How old do you think I am?”

The question seemed to catch Kelly off guard. She turned and stared at Chandra. “You could be twenty-five or forty-five.” The compact caught her attention again. “You know what they say. Black don’t crack.”

“True.” Chandra laughed. Inside she felt sorry for Kelly. The girl was a piece of work. So totally consumed with herself that she barely noticed anything about her surroundings or the people who made up her world. At least that’s what Chandra thought so far. “Twenty-five. I’m twenty-five.”

“Well, good for you.” Kelly added a fresh layer of lip-gloss, her eyes glued to her image. “You’ll be just as stunning in twenty years. Botox or not.” She stopped and looked at Chandra. “How many Twitter followers?”

The question felt jarring. “I don’t know. Ten million or so.”

Kelly shrugged and smacked her lips, her eyes back on the compact. “Me, too. That’ll double once the show airs.”

“Yeah.” Chandra wanted to think of something clever to say, something about how it didn’t matter how many followers they had as long as they were true to themselves. Nothing came to mind. Besides, Kelly wouldn’t hear her, anyway. She was going on about how her boyfriend didn’t know about the Botox and how she felt flabby if she didn’t work out twice a day. Chandra tuned her out. The sky behind them was brilliant blue. The judges’ table was set up in front of an expansive window that gave a stunning view of downtown Atlanta and an expanse of the day’s cloudless sky. The room was airy and spacious, and the table was made of chunky hundred-year-old wood planks from some local teardown. The feel of the set was warm and inviting, vintage and high-end.

Cullen was talking to Samuel J. Meier, who was nodding and frowning appropriately. The producer made a point of being at every taped audition. Like a consummate director, Meier would give the judges praise and pointers, check the lighting and angles caught by the cameramen, and talk with the sound guys about music and production. Meier prided himself for being a hands-on producer, and today was no exception.

Whatever was being said, Cullen was upset. Chandra tried to hear the conversation.

“I thought we were looking for different stories this year. Something new.” Cullen snapped a document with his hand and slapped it on the table. “The best we can do in the next ten singers is three waitresses and two Christians? That’s not different. We can’t lose ratings, not if we want to stay on top. You know that.”

“Trust me.” Meier’s tone was respectful, clearly concerned about his top judge’s opinion. But he hardly looked worried. “The Bible series broke records on the History Channel. America will
love these contestants.” He smiled, patience marking his expression. “You know the drill. It worked last year. It’ll work again.”

“I don’t know, mate. Have you checked the
Fifteen Minutes
hashtags on Twitter?” Cullen sat back hard, his red headband wrinkling with his brow. “More Jesus talk than ever.”

“Jesus talk brings in viewers, Cullen. Nothing new there.”

“Yeah, well, I want different. Rodeo blokes and strippers. Hot-air balloonists and medical students. That sort of thing.”

“We’ll have those. Don’t worry.”

Chandra could hear every word and she felt uncomfortable. Something about the way Samuel Meier spoke about his strategy troubled her. She held a finger up to Kelly, who was still talking to her compact. “Hold on.” She sat a little straighter. “Mr. Meier, excuse me. What’s this? A strategy?”

Meier stopped cold. He wore a tailored charcoal suit jacket over a pale aqua V-neck and expensive dark skinny jeans. His blond hair couldn’t have been more perfectly styled. “Strategy?” He hesitated, then found his smile again. “Oh. That.” He clearly hadn’t intended for Chandra to hear him. “It’s nothing.”

“Something about Christians?” Chandra didn’t want to create tension, but she needed to know. She had her reasons.

“Just that after the first few weeks, the candidates with the more outspoken faith are asked to tone it down.” His smile grew bigger. “So we can get to know other sides of their life and personality.”

“Hmm.” She paused. “Got it.” Chandra nodded and hid the fact that her world had just tilted off its axis. Of course there was a strategy. Now it all made sense. Six years ago she had been asked by the contestant coordinator to limit her comments about God, find other ways to make a name for herself. At the time
Chandra had been more than willing to cooperate.
Fifteen Minutes
was a singing show, after all. No need to preach to people.

It creeped her out to think of Meier himself making a strategy to quiet people of faith. Was there a strategy to keep people from talking about their sports obsession or city or whatever else defined them? Of course not. Meier left the judges and busied himself near the cameramen. She studied the document in front of her, the same one Cullen and Kelly had. It gave the names of the contestants and a few lines about them. Cullen was right—at least two were known for their strong faith.

Chandra breathed deep. Were the walls closing in or was it just her imagination? The sense of meaninglessness came over her again. What was the point of any of this?
Fifteen Minutes
was a machine, churning out new talent for a public whose appetite for celebrities was never satisfied. Meier wasn’t the only one with issues. If faith was so important to certain contestants, then why were they here? Shouldn’t they be leading Bible studies or taking the gospel to villages in Africa? Did they really think being on
Fifteen Minutes
would give glory to their God, like she once thought it would? Or was this the easiest way to justify their very human desire for fame? Chandra stared at the blue sky and tried to remember herself back then, her own first week of auditions. Her motives had been sincere, right?

“Ready on the set?” one of the grips shouted from the side stage. The makeup artists finished in a hurry and disappeared to the wings. Someone snapped a slate. “Camera up. Roll sound.”

“How do I look?” Kelly turned to Chandra, the compact hidden away.

Chandra wanted to laugh. But Kelly was serious, her insecurities as much a part of her as her voice and her beauty. “Perfect.”

“Really? Not shiny?” Kelly smacked her lips again.

“Not at all.”

Kelly found her red-carpet smile and turned toward the door at the back of the room. Auditions were taped in their entirety, though only the strongest clips would be used when the show aired. Even so, Kelly never allowed a less than perfect moment.

Back when Chandra was more of a praying person, she would’ve felt compelled to talk to God about Kelly. But the cameras were rolling and the next contestant was entering the room. A waitress from Mississippi, early twenties, Harvard dropout. Chandra forced herself to listen to the girl’s introduction.

She was still trying to remember why she’d agreed to this gig in the first place.

KELLY MORGAN LEANED
forward, elbows on the table, and watched the waitress begin to sing. Like so many of the girls, this one sang an Adele song, which created two problems. First, no one could sing exactly like Adele. Second, Adele’s style was so distinct that if contestants covered Adele correctly it became impossible to hear their own style. But the girls sang Adele anyway.

The waitress wasn’t bad. Her tone was nice, but halfway through her song a fly buzzed up near the girl’s mouth and she freaked. She screamed an obscenity and waved at the insect, spitting a little and shaking her head. “He . . . he flew in my mouth!”

With the cameras rolling, Kelly was certain the segment would make the show. Cullen was the first to comment. “Didn’t we pay that little bugger to come on earlier?”

Kelly laughed out loud and then—in a mock show of kindness for the struggling contestant—she covered her mouth with
the papers in front of her. On her other side, Chandra stared helplessly at the table.

After an awkward few seconds, Kelly giggled again and gave her fellow judge a light rap with the papers. “Cullen! That’s terrible!” She motioned to one of the grips. “Can we kill that fly? Please? Somebody?” Kelly looked at the waitress. “Is the fly gone, dear?”

“Yes.” The girl gulped. “I think so.” She stood perfectly still, terrified and blank-faced. “Do . . . you want me to start again?”

“Let’s not.” Cullen held up his hand. “Tell me, dear, why’d you leave Harvard?”

“I wanted to sing.” She shifted to her other foot. “You know, full-time. Like a professional.”

“Okay,” Kelly chimed in. If she wasn’t careful Cullen would steal the show. She had to make her mark to be asked back next year. “What were you studying at Harvard?”

“Law.” The waitress’s cheeks were red. She would no doubt remember this horrifying moment the rest of her life. She cleared her throat. “Medical law, actually.”

“Is it too late to get back in?” Cullen adjusted his red headband. “Because something tells me you’d make an excellent medical attorney.” He shifted his gaze. “Chandra? What do you think? Is she through to New York?”

Chandra clearly felt for the girl. “Hi, honey, you doing okay?”

“Yes, ma’am.” The waitress relaxed a little. “Sorry about the fly.”

“It wasn’t your fault.” She hesitated, struggling to find the kindest words. “As for your voice . . . I think Cullen’s right. You have a nice sound, but maybe not original enough for
Fifteen Minutes
.”

“It’s a no for me.” Kelly sat back in her chair, ready for the next contestant.

“Yes, sorry. I’ll have to say no this time.” Chandra hesitated. “Maybe Harvard again, or voice lessons. Something.”

“Yes, ma’am.” The waitress was already taking a few steps backward. “Thank you.”

“Next!” Kelly straightened her papers and folded her arms, ready to move on. The middle seat at the table suited her. She felt in charge, sort of like the head judge. She looked at the next name on the list.
Zack Dylan. Worship leader at his church. Grandfather raised a Kentucky Derby winner. Strong Christian.