My Fairly Dangerous Godmother, Page 2

  Then they both laughed.

  I tugged myself away from the memory and concentrated on walking across the stage. “I’m good enough,” I told myself. “I can do this. I just need a chance to prove it.”

  The auditorium was cavernous. The seating went on and on, layering the audience in balconies. I usually sang for a small group of parents in the school theater. Could my voice fill this place even with a microphone?

  I strode, legs trembling, toward center stage. The lights’ glare made it impossible to see the closest audience seats. The cameramen had completely disappeared in the haze, leaving only the gaping lenses of the cameras visible. They seemed like black holes capable of sucking people away.

  I smiled anyway and hoped I looked natural and not horrified. I’d never had trouble smiling before but my lips quivered, unable to hold the weight of the moment.

  I caught sight of the judges’ table. A large unlit X sat in front of each judge. If none or only one of the Xs lit up, I would move on to the next round of performances. Two Xs meant I was out. Three meant I was laughably bad and would likely show up on the TV show. At least, that was what everyone told me while I waited to do the preliminary auditions. The really good, the quirky, and the pathetic acts got advanced so the TV viewers could watch them.

  The problem was, I wasn’t positive which category I fit into.

  Before the taping, Rudger told the contestants a guest judge would be sitting in. I’d assumed it would be someone like the rest of the judges—a star who hadn’t produced a hit in the last decade. Someone who had time to do this show because he wasn’t touring.

  Instead, Jason Prescott, sat at the judges’ table. My poster crush was here, live. Suddenly, breathing became hard. Jason—Jason—was looking at me.

  I managed to tell the judges my name, age, and hometown. I refrained from offering Jason my number. I couldn’t decide if cracking a joke would make me seem likeable or just really desperate. Besides, if I said something like that and it aired on the TV show, Macy and Brooklyn would never let me live it down.

  The first notes of my accompaniment came over the speakers. I’d written this song with Jason in mind, a lilting melody about unrequited love. And now he was sitting here listening to me sing it. That was a good omen, a sign this was meant to be. Maybe Jason would like me so much, he’d talk to me after the audition. I didn’t hope for more than that. Jason only dated supermodels, actresses, and rock stars—people whose fame clung to them like perfume.

  Usually when I sang, I focused on people’s foreheads. It looked like I was making eye contact, but it wasn’t nearly as nerve wracking. This time I gazed into Jason’s eyes. I wanted him to feel a connection, to know this song was for him.

  The intro ended, and I sang the first line. “Your smile is easy, but you never see just what that smile is doing to me.”

  Jason watched me lazily, bored almost. He picked up a cup from the table and took a drink.

  “Love at first sight is real, so they say . . .” My voice wavered as I went into the next line. That wasn’t supposed to happen. Couldn’t happen. Why was it happening now, when I needed everything to go perfectly?

  “But you’ve never even glanced my way.” I sang louder to make sure my voice stayed steady. Unfortunately, performing louder made me run out of breath sooner. I quickly took a gulp of air to sing the next line. “Tell me what I’m supposed to do.” It sounded like a gasp. Unprofessional. Jason’s eyes weren’t encouraging, or understanding, or any of the things I saw when I sang to his posters. He looked like he was on the verge of an eye roll.

  “When I’m the one who’s staring for two.” I was grabbing at the notes, wrestling them into the melody. I noticed how low-budget my music sounded blaring across the auditorium. Since I wrote the song myself, I had to do my own minus track—me, playing the piano. Suddenly it seemed so “school talent show.” Not much better than the tap dancing grandmas and bowling pig.

  My voice wavered again. I couldn’t stop it. My vocal chords had decided to abandon me. Jason glanced at the ceiling in exasperation.

  I sang louder to stop my notes from sliding. If Jason would just look at me encouragingly, everything would turn around and my voice would flow out to the audience the way it was supposed to.

  Maybe it was the stress, or the strain of singing louder, but when I went for the highest note, my voice cracked. A horrible yodeling sound flung from my mouth.

  A rumble of laughter went through the audience. I felt dizzy, clammy. My stomach clenched like it had folded in half. I kept singing, because that’s what you do during a performance.

  Jason reached over and hit his X button. As soon as he did, the other judges followed suit. They did it cheerfully, like this was all a joke and they were having a great time.

  The music abruptly stopped, allowing me to hear scattered applause and calls from the audience. Were they clapping for me or clapping because they were glad I’d been Xed?

  The worst part about this show, I now realized, was that they made the contestants stand there and listen while the judges told everyone why they thought you were a no-talent hack.

  The other judges gestured to Jason, deferring to him as the guest judge.

  He leaned forward, his eyes finally connecting with mine. “Listen, you’re a pretty girl—”

  A few people in the audience hooted at that. I felt my cheeks burn with embarrassment.

  Jason held up a hand to stem the interruption. “But the problem with pretty girls is they’re used to getting a pass in life. They’re handed things so often, they come here and think the same thing will happen. In the music business, you can’t get by on looks. You need actual talent and you need to practice. My advice is to spend less time doing your nails, and more time doing your scales.”

  He leaned back in his chair, done with his critique. The audience cheered and clapped, happily shredding my apparent singing method of not practicing and then expecting things to be handed to me.

  On the TV show, sometimes people yelled out angry retorts before they walked off the stage. Other times they thanked the judges for their time. I’d told myself that if I got Xed, I’d be gracious. Instead I stood there aching to tell him I practiced all the time, I usually sang better, and this was the first time I’d done my nails in a year.

  If the judges would only give me a second chance . . .

  I knew they wouldn’t, though. My dream was over. And worse, if my audition made it on the show, every catty girl at Greenfield High would tell me how badly I’d sucked.

  The lights felt painfully bright, and a wave of nausea washed through me. I opened my mouth to thank the judges. That’s when things got worse. My wave of nausea went tidal. I stood in the middle of the stage—too far away from the wings to run for cover. I couldn’t do anything to stop this. My stomach lurched uncontrollably, and I threw up on the floor.

  Chapter 2

  Mom met me backstage took Kleenex from her purse, and helped me wipe off my now not-so-beautiful red heels. I was numb with embarrassment. It was all I could do to fight the tears burning at the back of my eyes. I’d already embarrassed myself enough. I didn’t need to make it worse by crying in front of everyone.

  “It will be okay,” Mom said with forced cheerfulness. “I’m sure they’ll edit that part of your performance out of the show.”

  Rudger, who stood nearby waving his hand and yelling at a group of stagehands to go sanitize the stage, didn’t confirm or deny this theory.

  “My shoes are fine,” I told Mom. “Let’s get out of here.”

  That’s when Rudger sliced a glare at me. “You shouldn’t have come here if you were sick. That’s why we specifically ask on the release form if you’re healthy enough to perform.” He mumbled something to a passing stagehand, then added, “The last thing this show needs is a flu outbreak.”

  Mom straightened, clutching her wad of Kleenex in irritation. “She’s not sick. She’s upset, which isn’t surprising after the way you treat your co
ntestants.” Then Mom launched into an angry treatise on the flaws of the music business, starting with the fact the people in it were egotistical, soulless, money-grubbing drug users. “And what sort of example are you setting for girls?” she asked. “Most women rock stars dress like hookers. What message does that send?”

  The message the producer sent my mother, in an increasingly clipped tone, was that she needed to leave immediately, and neither of us were to come within in a five-hundred foot radius of the show’s staff again. Although, I don’t think you can really issue restraining orders without some sort of paperwork, so that was probably an empty threat.

  I didn’t say much to Mom during the car ride back to the hotel. I was too busy reliving every horrible moment of my song. The audience’s laughter. Jason rolling his eyes. The way a bunch of people shrieked after I threw up. It made me feel sick all over again.

  As we neared the hotel, Mom finally calmed down, no longer gripping the steering wheel like she was trying to strangle it.“This is for the best,” she said. “Now you’ve learned what a singer’s life is really like—the complete jerks you have to deal with. You don’t want that. You’re a smart girl. In honors classes,” she added to prove her point. “You’ll go to college, get a good job, and then people will treat you with the respect you deserve.”

  I couldn’t bring myself to argue with her, but even now when I felt horrible, I still wanted to sing. I just didn’t want to ever do it in front of people again.

  I slumped in my seat and didn’t answer.

  Our hotel came into view, squatting on the street with the other buildings. It seemed rundown and plain. A shrine to averageness.

  “I don’t think we should even watch the show when it airs,” Mom said. “There’s no point.”

  “I have to watch it.” That way when everyone at school slammed my performance, I’d know whether they were exaggerating or not.

  Mom drove into the parking lot. Instead of pulling into a space, she looked at me tentatively. “Are you hungry? Do you want to get something to eat?”

  I shook my head.

  Mom sent me an encouraging smile. “I bet I could find a place with chocolate ice cream.”

  I shook my head again. This was not the type of problem ice cream could solve. “I smell gross. I want to take a shower.”

  Mom handed me a key card for our room. “All right. You go clean up, and I’ll get some food.”

  I climbed out of the car and headed to the hotel, the dull ache of resignation settling in my chest.

  It wouldn’t matter what I said to my mother about needing to follow my dreams now. This audition was proof I couldn’t succeed. Some people were born for greatness and others were cursed with mediocrity. Time to admit it to myself: the mediocrity troll had settled under my bridge.

  Tears filled my eyes. This time I didn’t stop them from coming, couldn’t. By the time I reached our room, I was sobbing and hoped people wouldn’t open their doors to see what was wrong.

  Keeping my head down, I slid the key into the slot, then pushed the door open. Why did things always turn out badly for me? Why couldn’t—just once—something go my way? I walked inside, slammed the door shut, and kicked off my heels so hard they flew across the room.

  A voice across the room said, “I don’t think you fully understand the problem.”

  My gaze shot in that direction. A teenage girl with long pink hair lounged on the far bed, talking on a cell phone. She wore a jean miniskirt, a bright purple shirt, and matching purple flats. She had an air of effortless confidence, the sort of attitude beautiful people always have. She glanced at me and then went back to her phone, more concerned with her conversation than with my arrival. “Did anyone even read my last report?”

  Oh crap. I was in the wrong room. This sort of thing was bound to happen since the front desk used programmable plastic cards instead of actual keys. They’d messed up and programmed one that worked on the wrong room. What must this girl think of me? I’d barged in here crying, slammed the door, and then kicked my heels across the room. “I’m so sorry,” I stammered. “I thought this was my room.”

  She held up a hand in an I’ll-be-with-you-in-a minute sort of way. “How is an assistant actually assisting if he tries to sabotage the mission?”

  I hurried across the room to grab my shoes. “I didn’t check the door number before I came in and . . .” As I reached down to pick up my second shoe, I noticed my suitcase sitting by the bathroom door—a turquoise one Mom bought on a shopping spree.

  Wait, this was my room after all, and some strange pink-haired girl was sitting on my bed. Had she not noticed our stuff around the room when she checked in? I straightened and took a step toward her. “Excuse me—actually, this is my room.”

  She gave me the I’m-busy hand again and spoke into her phone tersely. “You might as well assign an ogre to help me. At least an ogre would be up front about trying to kill people instead of pretending the whole thing was my fault.”

  I took a step back. “Uh . . . are you talking to the front desk?” Another step back. “Maybe you should speak with them in person.”

  “She’s griping to the FGA,” a small male voice said in an Irish accent. I spun around to see who’d spoken. I didn’t see anyone. No one else stood in the room. This was getting decidedly weird.

  “As though,” the man continued, “anyone at the fine and fancy Fairy Godmother Affairs cares a trot for what either of us has to say.”

  Godmother Affairs? Weirder still. I peered around the room, trying to figure out where the disembodied voice came from. “Where are you?”

  “Directly in front of you.”

  Only if he was invisible. “No, you’re not.”

  “I’m here on the ruddy bed, lass.”

  I still didn’t see him. Was this a joke? I ran a hand through my hair, nearly getting my fingers stuck in the hairspray. “Look, I’m sorry about this whole room mix up, but I’ve had a really bad day and I’m not in the mood for—”

  And then I saw him. A man who couldn’t have been more than six inches tall. He stood on the end of the bed waving his hand to get my attention. He wore a green suit and bowler hat that he tipped in my direction. “My name is Clover T. Bloomsbottle. And don’t be asking for me gold, as I’ll not be giving it to you.”

  A leprechaun.

  I let out a startled scream, stumbled backward, and smacked into the dresser. I looked at the pink-haired girl and screamed again. A pair of shimmering butterfly-like wings had opened across her back. Not costume wings. These were real moving wings with intricate glimmering veins running from their center.

  Impossible. I put my hand to my mouth and took frantic breaths. This couldn’t be happening. I was having some sort of post-traumatic psychotic episode. If I blinked, it would go away.

  I blinked. It didn’t go away.

  “You’re not real,” I sputtered. “Now leave. Leave. Leave. Leave.”

  The girl let out a humph and gripped her phone harder. “Do you hear that?” She gestured in the leprechaun’s direction. “Clover has already done something wrong. He spoke to Sadie for all of two seconds and now she’s hysterical.”

  Not only were magical creatures in my hotel room, they knew my name. I didn’t know why a fairy sat on my bed talking to someone about ogres killing people, but I wasn’t about to stick around and find out. Ogres were never good news. I backed toward the door, heart pounding in overdrive.

  As I reached the door, a shower of sparks zoomed past my side in a burst of light and glitter. At first I thought the fairy had shot something at me and missed. I yanked at the doorknob, trying to get out before she shot again.

  The knob didn’t move, didn’t even turn. She’d locked me in. I pulled at it uselessly, then pounded on the door. “Help!” I glanced over my shoulder to see if the fairy and leprechaun were closing in.

  Clover still stood on the bed, tilting his head and rubbing his beard as he considered me. The fairy shoved her cell phone into a
pink sequined purse and let out another humph. An air of frustration accompanied every flutter of her wings. “I can’t work under these conditions. What is the FGA thinking?”

  “Maybe it isn’t the FGA,” the leprechaun said. “Maybe it’s the damsels you’re choosing. They seem a wee bit bockety in the head.”

  Choose? Choose for what? For ogres to kill? I rattled the knob again. It was still locked. I slammed my hand into the door. “Somebody help me!”

  The girl stood up from the bed, gripping a silver wand with exasperation. “We’re trying to help you, but it’s hard to do with you screaming and flailing around. Honestly, haven’t you ever heard of a fairy godmother before?”

  I stopped pounding on the door. “Fairy godmother?” I repeated, only slightly calmer. My breaths were coming out deep, fast. “Is that what you’re supposed to be?”

  The leprechaun let out a laugh. “It’s what she’s supposed to be. Unfortunately for you she’s only a fair godmother. Her grades weren’t high enough to get into Fairy Godmother University.” He hooked his thumbs into his belt. “But she’ll keep practicing on the likes of you until they let her in.”

  “Shut up!” The girl flicked her wand in the leprechaun’s direction and a stream of sparks shot out, hitting him in the chest. He flew backward into the air and landed on the bedspread with an “Umph!” His hat tumbled from his head, flipping over.

  The little man sprang to his feet, grabbed his hat, and stalked back toward her. “It’s a breach of the Magical Creatures Treaty to attack a leprechaun. I’ll be reporting you to the FGA!”

  The fairy tossed her long pink hair off her shoulder. “Good luck with that. They obviously don’t read their reports because if they did, you’d be doing time with the Keebler elves.”

  She turned her back on him and glided to me, moving with the grace of a dancer. Her wings had a pearl-like shine that made everything in the hotel room look cheap and rundown. “So anyway,” she said with a smile, “I’m your fairy-godmother-in-training, Chrysanthemum Everstar. You can call me Chrissy for short.”