Diary One: Dawn, Sunny, Maggie, Amalia, and Ducky Read online

  The next girl had a good voice but couldn’t find the right key. She kept stopping the audition and asking the band members to tune up.

  Number three was okay too, but she was a professional actress and she demanded that James contact her agent to discuss her “share of any future recording profits.”

  At first, Amalia and I tried hard to clap for everyone and look encouraging. James would thank each girl and promise to call back.

  Then he would turn to us and make a face.

  By the end, 19 girls had auditioned. Only five of them were good. And three of those were great. At least I thought so.

  Not James. He looked completely depressed by the time the last girl left. He practically threw his guitar on the floor in disgust. “I’m calling Backstreet and canceling,” he said, stomping off.

  Amalia ran after him.

  Rico, Patti, and Bruce were listlessly unhooking their wires.

  Marina suggested they have another audition later in the week. Rico said the Battle of the Bands was only 12 days away, and it would be hard to get someone to learn all the music by then.

  I mentioned the names of the three girls I liked.

  “I hated them,” Rico replied flatly. “They don’t fit with the group.”

  Patti gave me kind of a weary half smile. “You should have auditioned.”

  “She’s great,” Marina blurted out.

  “Yeah?” Rico picked up his guitar again. “Can you do the harmonies on ‘Hook Shot’?”

  I froze up. I could not get my mouth to work.

  “Sure she can,” Marina said. “I’ll get James!”

  She raced out of the garage.

  I wanted to follow her, but I couldn’t move. I was petrified.

  Then Bruce started playing the bass line.

  Patti came in with a strong beat.

  Rico grabbed his guitar and called out, “One…two…three…four!”

  He launched into the song himself.

  I was stuck.

  I opened my mouth and squawked. That is the best way I can describe the sound that came out.

  Rico gestured toward James’s mike.

  I unlocked my knees and walked toward it. Patti and Bruce were beaming at me, nodding encouragingly.

  I don’t know how, but smack in the middle of the verse, I managed to find the harmony. It just came out of my mouth. Very softly. I could barely hear myself.

  I moved closer to the mike. Now I could hear my voice blasting out of the monitors. I didn’t want to be loud, but I had to be. It was the only way I could tell whether or not I was in tune.

  It was the strangest sensation. I didn’t feel as if I were performing. I didn’t feel stage fright or fluttery stomach or anything.

  I felt as if I were working, actually. Like taking a hard English exam.

  When it was over, I was startled by a blast of raucous noise from the garage door.

  It was James and Amalia, whistling and clapping and whooping at the top of their lungs. I’d been concentrating so hard I hadn’t noticed them entering.

  Before I could react, Rico had taken me by the shoulders. “Why didn’t you tell us you could do this?” he exclaimed. “We wouldn’t have had to listen to all those turkeys.”

  I didn’t even answer. All I could do was grin.

  I felt Amalia’s and Marina’s arms around me. And I heard James say, “You’re in. Let’s start rehearsing now.”

  So we did.

  I, Maggie Blume, am now the backup singer for Vanish.

  It feels so good to write that.

  I learned the backup vocals for three songs. I learned how to play the tambourine.

  Everyone was so encouraging. They asked me to come to the next rehearsal, on Saturday. And maybe—just maybe—I’ll learn enough guitar to join in.

  I had so much fun, I’m still shaking.

  Nothing could make me come down. Not even what happened when I got home.

  Dad was at the front door, watching, as Mr. Chavez dropped me off. He glared at me while I walked toward the front door.

  “It’s almost midnight,” were his first words.

  I didn’t care how angry he was. I was excited enough for at least three people. I threw my arms around him and gave him a big kiss.

  “I’m in—” I began. I was going to say Vanish. But I stopped myself. I could tell Dad wasn’t ready to hear this news quite yet.

  “In what?” he grumbled. “In love? Don’t tell me…”

  I laughed and said something ridiculous like “in with a new group of friends.” Then I went straight into the kitchen. I was starving.

  Mom was sitting there in her silk bathrobe, over a cup of decaf and a stack of papers. She watched me warily over her reading glasses. “Tomorrow’s a school day,” she reminded me.

  “I know,” I said.

  Dad was pacing the kitchen now, barking into his cell phone. “What do you mean, the house manager has rented the theater? Unrent it! Where are we supposed to have the premiere, in the YMCA?”

  I looked at Mom. She smiled and rolled her eyes.

  Dad slammed the phone down. “Now—now they find this out. We’ve got the caterers lined up for the party, the spotlights are rented…” etc., etc., etc.

  I listened with half an ear. That’s the only way I can deal with Dad when he’s like this.

  Sometimes I wish he were more like Dawn’s father. He never talks about work when he’s home.

  Then I think, Dad wouldn’t have gotten where he is today without being so obsessed. The fates of major films ride on his shoulders. It’s such an awesome job. And he still manages to be a good father (providing it’s not too close to premiere dates).

  “They have the nerve to ask if I can change the date!” Dad was thundering. “I told them it’s their problem now. The media will be at the theater door at 6:00 on December 2nd, expecting a premiere! We have the main dining room of Duomo rented for the party—next door! Which reminds me. You do have something nice to wear to the party, don’t you, Maggie?”

  I told Dad I’d check my closet.

  On the way to my room, I had a funny feeling.

  Inside, I shut the door behind me and quickly tapped out Amalia’s number.

  She answered the line in a hushed voice. Her parents were asleep. (Lucky her.)

  “Amalia, when’s the Battle of the Bands?”

  “A week from Tuesday. The first band goes on at 6:45, I think.”

  “I mean, what’s the date?”

  “I think it’s December 2nd. Why?”

  “The 2nd? That’s the premiere of Fatal Judgment!”

  “So?”

  “So I have to go! My dad’s the producer!”

  “Tell him you have something else to do. You’re not the producer.”

  “It’s not that easy, Amalia.”

  “Well, sleep on it, okay? Don’t jump to any rash decisions.”

  Some people just can’t understand.

  I am sunk.

  Dead in the water.

  Friday 11/21

  7:32 A.M.

  I have had a whole night to think about my dilemma.

  During most of it, I was wide awake. My mind was like a twister.

  First of all, I could not erase the image of those three auditioners. They were much better singers than me. And they looked the part too.

  I mean, what exactly did I do that was so great? I went up there dressed like Nancy Drew. I blasted harmonies at the top of my lungs, without a smile, staring at the mike.

  And they want me to be the backup singer?

  What is wrong with this picture?

  I keep thinking of the last Drama Club play I did, last year. When Mr. Colker asked me to play the lead in Mame even though I’d signed up for stage crew. I was so flattered—until Polly Guest overheard Mr. Colker say to someone over the phone, “I just cast Hayden Blume’s daughter as the lead. Maybe I can write my ticket out of this job after all.”

  He was using me. He thought that by cast
ing me, he’d meet Dad, and Dad would make him a star director. Or whatever it was that Mr. Colker wanted to be.

  I am so glad I turned that down. When I mentioned the situation to Dad, he said, “Unfortunately, you’ll always have to be looking out for that sort of thing, sweetheart.”

  So I do.

  And I’m thinking, Is that what’s happening here?

  James and Rico know who Dad is. They must know he’s pals with all the record company executives.

  Is that why they just happened to pick me over those other girls?

  But Amalia insists that I’m good. I don’t think she’d lie.

  And I can do harmonies. That’s what backup singers do. So maybe I’m wrong. Maybe the other singers were too strong—soloists, really. Maybe James and Rico need someone who will blend in, not steal focus. I’m great at that.

  This is all so confusing.

  Okay, let’s say they are being honest. They like me. Now what? How can I agree to join them? I can’t be in two places at once on December 2nd. Period.

  I have to quit Vanish. That’s all there is to it.

  The sooner I do it, the less painful it’ll be. I’ve only been a member for half a day.

  I will call Amalia and tell her right now.

  Friday

  4:17 P.M.

  My head is spinning.

  This morning when I told Amalia I’d quit, and I mentioned my suspicions, she practically yelled at me.

  “These guys aren’t thinking of record contracts,” she said. “They’re sophomores and juniors! Look, Maggie, you have to have more self-confidence. You do great vocals.”

  Then I reminded her about my conflict with the movie premiere.

  “That’s a different story,” she said. “Have you discussed this with your dad?”

  I told her I couldn’t. In his frame of mind, he wouldn’t understand.

  “Maybe he would like the idea,” Amalia suggested. “I mean, he’s your father. He cares about you.”

  Patiently I explained how important premieres are. How Dad can’t be bothered by trivial things until the opening weekend grosses are in.

  “Trivial?” Amalia asked. “Is that you talking or him?”

  That really stopped me. Like a slap in the face. “Me, of course,” I snapped.

  “I have to be honest,” Amalia said. “It sounds like you’re doing what he wants. Not even that—what you think he wants. What about you, Maggie? Do you really want to quit Vanish?”

  I told her the truth: no.

  Amalia told me not to rush things. To pretend our conversation hadn’t happened. She promised not to tell James I quit.

  “But what am I going to do?” I asked.

  “Whenever I have to make a big decision, I talk it out with all my friends. I take a poll. And I listen to everyone’s advice. Eventually the answer becomes clear.”

  That made sense. I agreed to give it a try.

  Before homeroom, at our lockers, I told Dawn what had happened.

  She disagreed with Amalia.

  “You’re not quitting for your dad,” she said. “You’re doing it for your family. To be with them on an important night. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

  I hadn’t really thought of it that way.

  One for the “quit” column.

  I was going to ask Sunny at lunch. But I still felt so much tension between us. So I ended up apologizing to her. I told her I shouldn’t have been so cold and judgmental.

  Then I reached into my pack and gave her a copy of the poem I wrote to her.

  She read it carefully. She looked as if she wanted to cry, but she covered it with giggles and told me I was “talented.”

  Anyway, I did have a chance to tell her about my problem, after school. (I told Ducky too, but only because he happened to be hanging out with her.)

  “Don’t you dare drop out,” Sunny said.

  When I asked why, she began counting on her fingers: “One. You are the smartest and most talented person I know—even though I hate your wardrobe—and you should explore those talents. Two. Your father has premieres all the time, but the Battle of the Bands happens once a year. Three. If you don’t go, maybe I can go in your place.” She grinned. “Huh? Could I?”

  Ducky groaned. I couldn’t help smiling myself.

  “Maybe you can compromise,” Ducky said. “Tell me a little about your dad’s party.”

  I described a premiere. The dull screening, at which everyone watches a movie they’ve all seen before. The reception at which Dad plays big shot, introduces his family all around, and tries to drum up money for his next film.

  “There you go,” Ducky said. “Skip the boring movie. Go to the Battle of the Bands first, then catch your family later at the party.”

  “How?” I asked. “Backstreet is in Palo City and the party’s in Beverly Hills.”

  “I’ll drive you,” Ducky volunteered.

  “Pick me up on the way!” Sunny said.

  (She was joking. I hope.)

  Anyway, Ducky’s solution sounds perfect. He is such a good guy. When Dad comes home tonight—if Dad comes home—I’ll bring it up.

  Friday

  7:52 P.M.

  Less talk

  More killing.

  More tickets.

  Less fulfilling.

  Cut the words.

  Cut off some limbs.

  Count the money

  Then do it again.

  This is your life, Dad

  Cash on a platter.

  Are you proud of yourself

  For making it matter?

  When I stand by your side

  Tell me, who do you see?

  Am I your mirror

  Or am I me?

  How are my wishes

  Worse than yours?

  Must I be with you

  On all of your chores?

  I’m a beast of burden

  Not a bird that soars

  And the sound that I hear

  Is the closing of doors.

  Friday

  9:17 P.M.

  I asked him politely.

  I was very reasonable.

  I waited until he finished his dinner and looked relaxed.

  I had scripted exactly what I needed to tell him, and I stuck to it word for word.

  And I remember our conversation word for word, as if it were a screenplay.

  “Dad,” I said, “I really want to go to the opening night party. I know how important that is. And I also know that we’ve seen Fatal Judgment already, so the screening is kind of a formality.”

  Dad chuckled at that. “I’ll say. Hit me if I fall asleep before the second reel.”

  “So, my friend Ducky has agreed to drive me to the party so I don’t miss one minute of it,” I went on. “Isn’t that great?”

  Dad gave me a blank look. “Why would you need a ride? Aren’t you coming with us?”

  “Well, I was sort of hoping, since it doesn’t matter if I miss the screening, that I could go to this club called Backstreet. They’re having a Battle of the Bands, and some high school bands are competing for a prize, so it’s very important.”

  “Really? Is this Ducky fellow in one of the groups?” Dad asked.

  I braced myself. “Well, no. I am.”

  “Cool!” Zeke exclaimed.

  Dad sat forward. “Wait. This is the group whose audition you went to see the other night? At Chico’s house?”

  “Rico’s.”

  “You didn’t tell us you were auditioning,” Mom said.

  “I didn’t intend to audition,” I explained. “But they didn’t like any of the other singers, so they made me try, and…I got it.”

  I was so wrong about Dad’s mood.

  He was not relaxed.

  He was like a time bomb.

  He literally shot up from the chair. His face was red. “This is the after-school activity you get involved in? A garage band?”

  “They’re good musicians,” I insisted. “Practically
professional.”

  “Beethoven was a good musician. Bach. Brahms.”

  “But they’re dead.”

  “You want to meet a good, live musician? Fine. I’ll call Bill Johns tomorrow. He scored my last movie. One hour with him, and you’ll learn so much about music your head’ll spin.”

  “But that’s a different kind of music—” I protested.

  “Trust me, Maggie, scratch the surface of any popular musician today—pop, jazz, even the best rock performers—and what do you find? Classical training! Hours of practice as a child.”

  “Dad, I’m not a child,” I said.

  “You’re 13! Don’t fool yourself. This isn’t the Beatles here. It isn’t the Philharmonic. These are kids mucking around on guitars. I know it seems glamorous, but don’t be tempted by easy entertainment at your age. You have to be serious.”

  “You do easy entertainment, Dad. What’s Fatal Judgment?”

  “That’s different! I make those so the studio can finance the more artistic movies. That’s my job. But even to make action movies I had to pay my dues. I had to achieve. You know that, Maggie.”

  “I achieve too. I have a 98 average in school. I play piano. I’m in the Honor Society, Inner Vistas. That’s a lot. I need to have fun too.”

  “So have fun! Invite your friends over! We have a video library of 2,000 titles. Today you call this group ‘fun.’ But already look what it’s doing. You come home late on school nights. You want to skip out of a screening. What next?”

  I was so angry and sad and shocked, I could barely speak. I fought back tears. Zeke had shot away and was rooting around in the fridge.

  Mom was giving me a mournful look. “Your father’s right,” she said.

  “My father’s always right,” I managed to mumble before I ran to my room.

  Friday

  10:51 P.M.

  Just apologized to Dad.

  He apologized back. He said he’d come down too hard.

  Then he admitted something I never knew. He said he hates making blockbuster movies. He’d rather be making risky, interesting, low-budget films. Years ago his dream was to be a director/screenwriter, not a producer. But he didn’t try hard enough in film school. The students who worked harder than he did, the ones who took their studies seriously and made “gutsy” films—they’re the ones making the movies Dad wished he could make.