CHAPTER ONE

http://awakeningfosterkelly.com

Every year on Easter, my mother and father present me with a toy to add to an accumulating collection. Not just any toy, however: it is of a certain kind; plastic, with little feet"the kind that fit in the palm of my hand, that I wound and wound and wound, and only when I could wind no more did I set it on the level floor, where it would commence its dynamic performance, setting off on a turbulent gymnastical journey that ended approximately seven seconds after it began.

I was that toy.

Only, I was not in motion. If I were, chances are good that I would be unconscious by now. Acrobatics, among other things"like running or walking too quickly"were maneuvers I avoided. The energy, turbulent and gymnastical, was trapped, concealed on the inside of my body, gurgling down low in the threshing hold of my abdomen where it shook, twisted, and flipped . . . wound so tight, I didn’t think I would ever reach the end of my seven seconds.

I curled inward, slouching in a raised chair before a lighted mirror backstage, anxiously awaiting someone named Star to appear; she was to make me presentable. Stern, black-clad security loomed like cumulonimbus storm clouds. Heavily-caffeinated assistants shouted into headsets, legs moving like centrifuges. Bands and their entourages continued to drift behind me in amorphous herds, only feet away, before disappearing on the other side of the long black curtain separating the stage from backstage. I kept my chin down and eyes cornered, pausing on each face captured briefly in the mirror.

A robust blonde woman with leopard framed glasses sashayed up to a clothing rack near me.

Perhaps that’s her? I wondered, and straightened up a little.

She ran her tongue along the inside of her bottom lip, meditatively sifting through each piece of clothing. I waited for her to acknowledge me, my eyes flicking toward her every couple of seconds. But though I was only a few feet to her right, she didn’t seem to notice me.

Removing a vinyl skirt from the rack"the color of pink cotton candy"she held it up and spoke to it.

“It’s the wrong color, for sure.”  Her voice was deep, scratchy, with just the right blend of croak and hum. “But a pair of thick, black tights will make it look darker. Yes,” she nodded definitively, “it’ll work.”

A diminutive girl I estimated was somewhere around nineteen years old padded quietly toward the woman. Her hair was pink, too"a shade or two lighter than the skirt"and it was curled into hundreds of tiny perfect tendrils. “Really?” she asked, eyeing it doubtfully. “You don’t think it will clash?”

The blonde tipped her chin down and, peering over the rims of her glasses she smiled. “I do,” she said importantly. “This is BandSlam, Angel, not the ballet. Clashing is a good thing.”

Before leaving, the woman snagged a pair of black velvet boots from an open trunk. Just the thought of trying to walk in them made me dizzy. Alone again, I resumed mirror watching.

How difficult could it be to find a Star?

A petite man, no taller than my chair, came to a halt a few feet from me. It looked as if his mother"promising her son he would soon grow into his clothes"had dressed him. The collared white t-shirt swallowed up his hairy little arms, and the khaki pants rendered his legs indistinguishable.

Scowling at no one in particular, he raised a megaphone to his lips. "Three minutes, people," he said, his terse voice ringing into the air. Raising his hand, he extended three small, well-manicured fingers. "Three minutes!" Sweating profusely, he swiped a white towel over his ruddy face, carefully avoiding the brown toupee precariously balanced on his head.

This cannot be Star.

Frantically flipping through a clipboard, he trailed a finger down a list of some sort, looking up suddenly and turning his attention to me. “You!" He glared, and I felt my face blanch. "Are you Foster Kelly?”

“Yes," I answered, my voice cracking the word in half. He strode forward, walking as fast as his legs could carry him. I furtively read his nametag.

Lionel - Stage Manager.

He sidled up next to me, but didn’t look at me, abstracted with his clipboard. “Alright, so here"here’s the BandSlam schedule,” he said, pointing to one of many time slots. “Here you are.” The tip of his index finger turned white as he jabbed it against the hard surface, under the time 7:08. “I'm squeezing you in between Coldplay and Green Day. Now listen, alright? You have exactly four minutes"four,” he repeated, enunciating the word so well, he managed to divide it into three syllables. “The clock will begin ticking starting from the second you step on stage. At the end of foo-uu-rrr minutes, I suggest you use those sticks of yours to hightail it off the stage, got it?”

I nodded immediately, but again he wasn't looking at me. Lionel’s head shot up and swung around. “Got it?”

“Y-yes. I understand," I said, my words breathy and lacking assurance.

He gave me a cursory glance, his expression softening some, and added, “You’ll be fine." Then he dropped the pages on the clipboard and rolled a hand through the air. “Just don’t waste time greeting the audience, or any of that blah-blah nonsense, alright? I can assure you, Foster Kelly, those people out there didn’t pay a hundred and five dollars to see some high school kid perform. Even if you’re good"which I heard you are, so congratulations"they won’t care," he said evenly. "Because they don’t know who the heck you are.”

Then Lionel smiled at me; and it was a nice smile, small white teeth embraced by full, freckled lips. So I returned it.

“You're on immediately after Coldplay,” he said. “And you now have”"he glanced at his watch""eleven minutes and seventeen seconds before you need to be on stage.”

I knew it wasn’t possible to be knocked over from words, but if it were, I would have been lying on the floor in a gooey mass of flesh and bone.

I blinked, recoiling at Lionel’s snapping fingers, inches from my face. "Now is not the time for daydreaming,” he growled. “Did you hear me?"

“I’m sorry, yes,” I replied. “I heard you. Eleven minutes and seventeen seconds.”

“Ten minutes and fifty-two seconds,” he corrected. His face went slack suddenly, as if something had just occurred to him. Stepping closer, he moved his eyes around and around over my entire face, his coppery brows merged together. “Why does your face look like that?” he whispered, disgusted.

Lionel whispering was significantly more terrifying than Lionel shouting.

“Um, I . . .” I’ve never thought of myself as much to look at; even so, few people tended to verbally remark on it. I continued to stammer, working to come up with a reason to explain my plain face. “I haven’t"”

“You should have makeup on,” he interrupted. “Where’s Star?”

“I’m not su"”

The megaphone was smashed against his lips before I had a chance to finish.

“Star! I need you to report to wardrobe and make-up immediately!” I cringed away from the shrill feedback ringing razors in my ears. About to lower the megaphone, he changed routes spontaneously before I could cover my ears again. “And somebody bring me a Diet Coke. Now!” Finished screaming, he smiled sweetly, as if he wasn’t the scariest person on the face of the earth. “She’ll be here shortly.”

I lowered my hands and swallowed hard. “Thank you.”

“Alrighty.” Suddenly chipper, Lionel turned about face. “I’m going to let the producer know we’re all set here.”

Every couple of feet he brandished his sonorous weapon, once into the face of a P.A. who made the regrettable mistake of not looking busy. As he left, I strangely yearned for him to come back. Even his belligerent company was better than the choking anxiety that invaded when I was alone.

A rowdy group of men shuffled out from behind the curtain. They were obviously one of the bands Lionel had mentioned, though I couldn’t remember either of the names or whom I was supposed to be succeeding.

With no sign of Star anywhere, I decided to take a peek at the crowd and see just how many people had turned out for the event.

Maybe it wasn’t that bad.

I rose from my chair and crept forward, glancing left and right the entire way to be sure no one was coming for me. The curtain was thick and silky in my fingers, and very heavy. I pulled it back ever so slightly. Then I released a very loud gasp. As far as the eye could see, people thrashed and swayed together, like seaweed affixed to the bottom of the ocean floor.

It wasn't just bad . . . it was horrendous. My worst nightmare. People. So, so many people.

I struggled to keep my vacillating body upright, gripping the crushed fabric hard. Among the constant and unintelligible din, the throng chanted something as the next band took center-stage.

A slim man with a shaved head adjusted the freestanding microphone. “How is everyone doing tonight?” he asked around a guitar pick, his English accent carried through the speakers. The crowd roared back at him like a hungry animal. “We're glad to be here.” He strummed a few times, adjusted something around his ear. The voices began to chant again, and this time I had no difficulties understanding them.

The word was Coldplay.

Something equivalent to lightning shocked the base of my spine.

I’m on after Coldplay.

As the lead singer began the first song, I stumbled back to my chair, teetering unsteadily. Glancing in the mirror framed with bright bulbs, I noticed my usual alabaster complexion had taken on an odd tint"a sea foam green, almost the exact same color as my eyes.

You must not get sick, I warned myself.

Leaning in further, I propped my chin up in the palms of my hands and assessed my unremarkable features. Gingerly, I traced the outline of my red lips"swollen and chapped from the excessive licking. And though I couldn’t have been more alert, my eyes had taken on that fearfully glazed visage, looking like two sunken walnuts. I sighed at my reflection. I could only hope Star was an expert cosmetician.

"I take it you’re Foster?”

Startled, my elbows slid out from under me, whereupon my chin dropped and whacked into the vanity. A hot flush erupted on my neck and cheeks, as I turned to find the face belonging to the sultry female voice.

My reaction, I surmised, was one of awed fascination. Star allowed me a moment to take in all of her, which, truthfully speaking, was a lot.

Not in terms of size, however. In fact, she was quite petite. And her name was certainly apropos. Star looked as if she had been dipped head to toe in a gelatinous pool of glitter. It was everywhere"embedded in her skin, stained into her clothes. Even her ruby red lips and eyelids had been globed with sparkles. Dyed silver and shaved within an inch from her scalp, her hair was doused in glitter as well. I considered idly that, if someone turned off all the lights it might look a little like a disco ball. Beyond the glitz and heavy appliqued makeup, I could see easily that she was extremely lovely. A milky complexion and deep-set brown eyes, Star possessed an innocence that even dense cosmetics couldn’t conceal. Innocence, however, was likely not the perception she hoped to exude.

Over the curvaceous body, she was covered by black spandex shorts; and what was meant to be a shirt, I supposed, was a swath of black cloth, barely concealing Star’s . . . stomach, in which a sparkly barbell punctured her navel. All along her arms, stopping just shy of her throat, were colorful tattoos"like sleeves, actually.

“Hello,” I murmured, finally. I tried not to stare, but I doubted that as long as I lived, I would never again see a Star. My gaze wandered, past the solid thighs, lean shapely calves, all the way to her black Doc Martins. As expected, they had been sprayed thoroughly with a can of glitter. She stood akimbo, waiting for me to answer the question I’d completely forgotten to answer. "Yes, I’m Foster."

Her shiny red lips drew upwards in a smirk. “Nice to meet you, Foster, I’m Star.” Her voice was smooth, like melted chocolate. “Why don’t you go ahead and take a seat.” She gestured toward the chair I couldn't remember rising from.

“Right.” I sat down obediently, though was unable to completely cease gawking at her.

She blinked and the light caught the silver rhinestones on the ends of her eyelashes. “Uncross your legs please,” she said. “Put your hands in your lap and sit up straight for me.”

Immediately I did as she told me. Something about Star’s personage demanded I follow her directions. She reminded me of a lore I had once read about"Sirens, and how they’d lure lascivious sailors from the ocean with their incredible beauty and hypnotic voices. Only after it was too late, shipwrecked against the rocks did the men discover they had been beguiled.

Caught up in a reverie, I stared with blank absorption at Star’s mouth. Her lips continued to move for a moment; and then I realized she was speaking to me.

“Sorry,” I said, laughing in nervousness. “Can you repeat the question, please?”

She smiled, one eyebrow arching upward. “I didn’t ask you a question," she replied. "I asked you to face me.”

“Oh.” I hurried to swivel toward her. “Is this alright?”

“Perfect as palm trees,” she murmured, and then positioned herself very, very close to me, her warm, bare stomach pressing against my arm. “Let’s see what we got here.” She cupped my cheeks in her hands, dark loamy eyes inspecting my face carefully. She pumped a lever on my chair so that I was eye level with her. “Nice thick eyebrows. We should probably make two them of them, though,” she commented absently, removing a sharp tool from what looked to be a pink suitcase. She studied me, pursing her lips. “You have big eyes with flecks of amber and gold in them. I’m going to use lavender. Any objections?”

I shook my head.

“Good.” Star cracked open a thin rectangular box that resembled a painter’s palette and set it on the vanity. “Rose for your lips, and cantaloupe for your cheeks.”

Cantaloupe?

Without question, I knew very little about makeup. However, the use of flowers and fruit still came as a surprise. Star finished taking the products out of her box and turned to face me. She looked above my forehead and frowned. “Has someone already done your hair?”

I knew I didn't want to say yes"it was obvious she was less than pleased with the results.

“They told me the hairstylists were busy, and that I should do it myself.”

“Mmm." She nodded slowly, her lips pressing into a thin line. "I see."

I looked in the mirror, at the shoulder length catastrophe spiraling and poked out in every direction. Never had I understood the concept of a good hair day; each morning I awoke and showered, and the entity on top of my head made its own choices.

“Okay, well . . ." She shrugged ambivalently. "If we have time I’ll try and help"I mean do it,” she corrected, pushing brown corkscrews out of my eyes. She spun me a fraction to the right and began drawing on my eyebrows with a colored pencil. “So how’d you score this gig? This is a pretty swanky concert, lots of famous bands. You can’t be more than fifteen, right?”

“Seventeen,” I said softly.

“Really?” She leaned back to examine me. “Hm, must be the heart shaped face. Makes you look younger. So what? Is your dad a record producer or something?”

At that, I couldn’t help but laugh a little. Dr. James Kelly a record producer--never in my wildest dreams would I imagine that. “No,” I said, careful not to jostle around too much. “I . . . I placed first in a competition at school,” I said quietly. Even to my own ears I sounded unsure, and I was of course; unsure as to how I had ever arrived here.

“Really? What kind of competition?” she pressed.

“A songwriting competition," I replied. "At Shorecliffs""

"Where?"

"Shorecliffs," I repeated. "That's where I go to school."

"Uh-huh, go on," she said in a voice that made me feel ridiculous for telling her something she already knew.

"They have an incredible music program, and each year for our final grade the seniors are asked to write an original song. It’s called the Senior Piece.”

“And this Piece, it’s just you?”

“No. Every student is assigned a partner,” I explained. “The class is divided up into vocalists and instrumentalists, one of each in every pairing.” I opened the eye she wasn’t brushing powder on to see if she was following.

“Uh-huh,” she said, nodding. “And?”

“And, at the end of the year, each pair performs their song for the school. Then the entire school votes for their favorite and the winner competes in a final competition with all the other schools.”

“And the prize was to perform your song? Here?”

“Mm-hm, that’s right. One of Mr. Balfy’s"my music teacher," I added before she could ask who. “One of his former students is affiliated with a company that promotes new unsigned artists.”

“And they, what? Promise you a spot?”

“I was told they organized the competition around the annual BandSlam concert hoping to attract more attention from high schools.”

Star’s mouth hung open in intent focus. “Huh. I never knew they did that,” she said. “Pretty good deal if you ask me.” She picked up a utensil that looked like a miniature chimney-sweeping tool and swirled it around in orange powder. "So are you the vocalist or the instrumentalist?”

“Vocalist.”

“Soprano or alto?” she asked, stabbing my eyebrow with something sharp.

I made a noise, but stayed still even though the pricked skin begged to be soothed. "Soprano.”

“Sorry. Like I said, there should be two of them.” Her tone wasn't especially mean, but it wasn't apologetic either. “How many schools compete?” she asked, resuming conversation.

“About seventy-five, I believe.”

"Impressive." I blushed furiously at her complimentary look. “That’s a lot of schools.”

“It is,” I agreed, still sounding mystified.

“Do this face for me,” Star instructed, pursing her lips. I did, and closed my mouth when she came toward me with a wand covered in sticky pink goo.

She stepped back to admire her work, twisting the cap on the tube of lip-gloss. She mashed her lips together instructively. “So where’s this partner of yours?”

I stared at her, confused, mashing my lips like she showed me. I understood the question, but at the same time . . . I didn't. “Hm?”

“Didn’t you say you had a partner? An instrumentalist?”

My entire body went rigid. Like robotic fists, dread and terror pummeled me from all sides. Why didn’t I know where my partner was? A better question, why didn’t I know who my partner was? How could I not know this? By now I would have worked on the song with him or her for at least three months.

“Are you okay? Do you not like the makeup?” Star asked, resting a hand on her hip. “I can use a different color for your lips, if you don’t like it.”

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t answer. I was paralyzed.

Star waved her glittery hand in front of my face. “Hel-lo? Anyone there?”

“Foster Kelly. I need Foster Kelly right now.”

Lionel was back.

I barely noticed as he rushed toward Star and me. “Oh, your face looks much better,” he said bluntly. "Let’s go. Coldplay is just about done with their set.” When I only continued to stare catatonically, he commenced shouting. “Hey! What’s wrong with you?”

“I don’t know what happened to her,” Star chimed in, with a shrug. “All of sudden she went all blank on me. Poof, and then nothing.”

More snapping fingers in my face. “Foster! Are you daydreaming again? Why aren’t you dressed? You need to get dressed"immediately!” Lionel’s naturally ruddy complexion turned an even deeper shade of magenta.

Dazed, I looked down at my green T-shirt, jeans and sandals. “I-I-I don’t know," I said weakly. "I wasn’t given any clothes.”

“Wardrobe!" Lionel shouted in the air. "I need wardrobe immediately. Where’s your partner?”

There was a great pressure at the nape of my neck. “I’m not sure,” I confessed.

“Well, what does he look like?” he demanded through clenched teeth.

I inhaled a ragged breath, swallowing back tears. “I’m not sure if it’s a he.”

Lionel released something like a sigh and a growl. “Where is wardrobe?” He whirled around and smacked someone on the back of the head with his clipboard. “You! Get me wardrobe now!” To me, “Why isn’t your hair done?” Beads of sweat glistened at his temples, dripping down the sides of his face. “Why isn’t her hair done, Star?”

Star put two languid hands in the air. “I do the makeup"not the hair.” Then she shut her suitcase and sauntered away, sparkling and sparkling.

Lionel threw his exasperated hands in the air. “You know what? I don’t have time for this. You’re on in thirty-eight seconds. I don’t care if you can’t find your partner, if you’re dressed for bowling, and your hair looks more like Medusa’s than Madonna’s. You get out there on that stage and sing your song!”

“Okay,” I replied, from someplace not so close. Suddenly Lionel’s face went blurry. He swayed back and forth like a flickering pendulum.

“Oh, you better not!” he roared indignantly. “Don’t you dare pass out, Foster Kelly!” Lionel’s enraged face rippled in half, distorted, and caved in on itself, like a soufflé that didn’t quite turn out. I heard him screaming at me to “Get up! Get up!” but it sounded like he called to me from inside a fish tank.

And then I was the one under water, and I had a tail; a shiny, scaly, luminously gorgeous tail. I was a mermaid.

I was . . . dreaming.

I came awake, clutching the sheets to my chin. The alarm on my phone beeped monotonously, puncturing my skull with every beep-beep, beep-beep, beep-beep. I dove beneath my pillow and shut it off, but not before glimpsing the reminder typed neatly across the screen in bold black letters. It had arrived, the day I had been dreading since the school year started: March 11^th Senior Piece Partners Assigned 

Between the two choices, I would have preferred to spend the day with Lionel.