LITMIR.BIZ

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“I’ll help,” she said. “For real this time.”

      “Thanks,” Kate said, wishing she had more of Natalie’s practicality and levelheadedness, not to mention her uncanny ability to fit fifty songbooks into a box that looked as if it should hold about five.

      Fueled by caffeine and Natalie’s assistance, Kate finished packing without having a nervous breakdown. With half an hour to spare, she loaded Lucinda, her guitar (named after one of her idols, Lucinda Williams), into the back of her trusty Saab and slammed the door. She gave one last glance at the yellowing stucco walls of her apartment building and one last wave to Natalie, who was leaning out the window blowing kisses. And then she got into the car and slowly drove away, watching the Selva Vista Apartments, which she’d called home for a year, fade in her rearview mirror.

      

      “So this is the place, huh?” Drew asked, pausing outside Grant’s Guitar Shop in Santa Monica. He looked skeptically at the flapping awning and the weird mid-century rock work on the building’s front. “Doesn’t seem that impressive.”

      Carmen rolled her eyes. “I can’t believe you’ve lived in L.A. your whole life, you pretend to play guitar, and you’ve never been to Grant’s.” She brushed past him and entered the small front room, which was packed, floor to ceiling, with stringed instruments: guitars, of course, but also mandolins, violins, banjos, and ukuleles. “You intern at Rock It! Records, for God’s sake. Hasn’t my dad made you come here for, like, research or something?”

      “Nope,” Drew said, brushing over the slight about his guitar playing—he was the first to admit that he taught himself to play because girls liked guys with guitars—and seemingly unembarrassed by his ignorance. He shrugged. “He sent me to Largo last week, though.”

      “Well, Grant’s is pretty famous. All kinds of amazing people have played here,” she said, making her way toward the back room where the shows took place.

      Drew touched a hot-pink Gibson that hung from the wall as he followed her. “This early?” he asked.

      Carmen smiled. She had to admit: 6 p.m. was not exactly party hour. But Laurel Matthews, who was a talent producer on The Fame Game (basically a production assistant, but somewhat better paid), had told her that this was where and when Trevor wanted to film—so here she was, miked and made-up and ready to be on TV.

      Though actually, come to think of it, Trevor had wanted to film Carmen leaving her house in the Palisades first. Philip Curtis, however, had quickly refused. “If I wanted cameras in my face I’d live in Malibu,” he said. “Absolutely no PopTV crew on my property.”

      Carmen had been surprised by his vehemence, but she wasn’t about to pick a fight with him. And as it turned out, she didn’t have to, because Drew’s dad said they could film at his Brentwood mansion. It was weird, though, driving over to his house—a place she practically never went—so she could act like she spent every Sunday night palling around with Drew and his dad, Dr. Botox.

      Carmen was lucky (and a little surprised) that Drew had agreed to be on the show. After she’d officially accepted her role on The Fame Game, Dana had sat her down and run through a laundry list of questions about her life, her family, and her friends. One of the most important queries: Which of Carmen’s nearest and dearest was ready to be on-camera? Dana was obviously hoping that Carmen’s parents would be up for it; the Curtises would add a major dose of glamour (and legitimacy) to the show, even if they were middle-aged. “Uh, let me work on them,” Carmen had said, and while Dana tried to hide her disappointment so had Carmen. She had wanted to believe that Trevor had picked her because she was a rising star in her own right—he had assured her that was the case—but this exchange had made it harder to believe.

      When Dana finished her questions, she folded her arms across her chest and asked Carmen if she would like to know who her fellow castmates were. Duh, thought Carmen, but because she was a nice person instead responded, “Yes, please.” And when Dana told her, she’d nodded and kept her face friendly and open, even though she was thinking less than charitable thoughts. Madison Parker: backstabber, fame whore. Gaby Garcia: sidekick, punch line. Kate Hayes: . . . who? Well, it didn’t matter, Carmen told herself; she’d make nice with all of them. She was highly skilled at the kind of friendliness that easily passed for actual warmth. It was just one of those things she’d learned being in the spotlight.

      Carmen had been on her way out the door when Dana called her back. “Wait—your friend Drew—he works at Rock It!?” And when Carmen nodded, Dana’s dark eyes lit up and she looked happier than Carmen had ever seen her look. “Perfect,” she’d whispered, picking up the phone.

      And that was how Drew and Carmen had ended up at tonight’s open mic, because—according to the story line—Drew had “heard some insanely talented girl plays here.” They’d even filmed a scene of Drew and Carmen watching the girl’s YouTube video. (Three different times, actually, because Drew’s dad kept wandering into the shot with a large glass of scotch in his hand.) And Carmen understood her mission: She was supposed to befriend the strawberry-blond-haired girl with the powerful voice and the unfortunate sense of style.

      Carmen looked around the room at Grant’s, which was less than half full, and wondered where Laurel was. She and Laurel had gone to the same high school, and though they weren’t really friends back then (Laurel was three classes ahead), she’d always thought the older girl seemed cool. Not seeing any familiar faces except the sound guy who’d given her the mike pack earlier and the camera guy next to him, Carmen reached for Drew’s arm and gave it a little squeeze. She was feeling uncharacteristically nervous. It had only taken her about ten minutes of filming to realize that it was one thing to recite memorized lines in front of a camera and another thing to try to be yourself. She wondered, briefly, if being a trained actress was going to make reality TV harder for her.

      Her BlackBerry buzzed in her purse, and she reached in to fish it out. A text from Laurel:

      YOU ARE SITTING IN FRONT. COME DOWN NOW.

      She turned to Drew and smiled. “We’re on,” she said. She took a deep breath and then a little louder, for the camera, said, “Let’s go sit up front.”

      As they walked toward the stage, Carmen noticed how the other audience members were also being directed to sit in the closest rows. Clever Laurel, she thought, front-loading so that when the PopTV cameras did reverse-angle shots of the audience, it would look like Kate had a full house.

      “Do you think she’ll be any good in person?” Drew asked.

      Carmen shrugged. “Don’t know,” she said. “I hope so.”

      The host took the stage to a hearty round of applause and offered up a passable cover of a Foo Fighters song before turning the stage over to a skinny guy with a Van Dyke beard and a battered twelve-string.

      Carmen scanned the room for Kate and spotted her in the corner, nearly hidden behind a standing bass. Carmen would have recognized Kate even without the PopTV cameras that flanked her, their red lights blinking, because she was wearing practically the same too-big blouse and faded jeans she’d worn in her YouTube video. Kate’s hands were gripping each other and she looked almost green with fright.

      Carmen nudged Drew. “There she is,” she whispered.

      Drew craned his neck to see. “She’s kind of cute,” he whispered back and gave Carmen a wolfish grin.

      “Pig,” Carmen returned.

      As Van Dyke left the stage to polite applause and Kate took his place, Carmen had the opportunity to inspect her soon-to-be-friend (or, rather, soon-to-be-“friend”) more closely. Her strawberry-blond hair fell in soft, unstyled waves past her shoulders. She wore little visible makeup, but she had long lashes and naturally red, full lips. She had a great figure, too, which for some reason she seemed intent on hiding beneath layers of sloppy clothes.

      Kate

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