#famous(28)

The door opened, and a man’s head appeared around the crack.

“Knock, knock!” he said cheerily. He had dark-brown hair, slicked back in a perfect pompadour, and the barest hint of black stubble on his narrow chin. He was smiling just as hard as the tour lady, but it didn’t seem fake.

Neither Mom nor I said anything. For the split second before the man’s head appeared I had this weird hope that one of the Five-Step Boogie guys had come by to say hey. Which was pretty embarrassing; all but two of them were younger than me and their fan base was entirely tweeny-boppers.

Still, they were, like, massively famous.

“Can I come in?” He arched an eyebrow.

“Sure, yeah,” I sputtered. “Please.” I leaned back on my heels and spread my arm in the universal “enter” gesture.

“Great.” He stepped inside. He was wearing a multicolored tank top with armholes that went all the way down to the waistband of his jeans, which were tucked into snakeskin boots. He looked cool. In an L.A. way.

“I’m José. I’m gonna be helping you with your hair and makeup.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“Don’t worry, it’s just so the stage lights won’t wash you out. Though you could definitely pull off that five-year-old beauty queen thing.”

I frowned. The corner of José’s mouth twitched. Jeez, and that was an obvious joke. Me: way too tense right now.

I forced out a laugh.

“How’d you know my going-out look?”

José smiled and pointed me to sit at the counter running along one wall, in front of a light-bulb-studded mirror. He pushed the snacks aside to make room for a massive black box filled with dozens of bottles and brushes and tubes of makeup.

“Should I change first?” I asked as he started pulling out colors and holding them to the light.

“That would be good. Pulling on a T-shirt might mess up your hair.”

“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?