Chapter 3
Tate
“There’s another gate?” The words slip from my lips, filling the small car and skipping the processing center of my brain completely.
This is very much a Tate-ism. The excitement over what will come out of my mouth next is not lost on me.
The driver, Jerry, tilts his head slightly so he can see me in the rearview mirror, eyes smiling.
“The first one is for the community and this one is for the house. You’ll be happy for the extra security when the show really ramps up. Fans can sometimes be extreme.”
Fans. Extreme. House.
A strangled laugh dies somewhere in the back of my throat.
The concept seems so far-fetched. Superfans?
Breaking and entering...just to see us? To see me?
The funny thing is that it isn’t even the most outrageous part of his statement though; it’s his use of the word “house.” These are not houses by any definition.
People may live in them, but they’re more like, I don’t know.
..mini malls. Each should have its own light-up directory of where to find certain rooms in the house—kitchen, bathroom, etc.
I turn in my seat, pressing my face as close to the glass as I can without actually touching it as the car goes from the asphalt to the cobblestone driveway, very similar to the cobblestone road you’d find on Bourbon Street.
A touch of home, I think to myself, and it settles somewhere into the nerves of my chest.
The car slows to a stop right beside a guard post where a man dressed in all black has to bend to peer inside the car.
Jerry lowers his window. “Yeah, hi there. I’ve got Tate McGregor.
” The man’s eyes loop to the back seat where I probably look something like a dog scratching to get the window open.
I smile, but his face of stone remains unchanged, all but his eyes, which are diligently running over the length of my face before dropping back down to his clipboard.
He flips through the first couple pages rapidly enough to hear the paper edges catch wind.
From the discarded papers over the top, I can see silhouettes, photos.
Other contestant photos. A thrill of excitement starts to build again.
“Miss McGregor, do you have identification?” he demands, his fingers now idle, having found the page he was looking for.
“Uh, yeah. Somewhere.” I start moving my suitcases around till my patchwork saddlebag comes into view.
Airplane snacks, receipts, and luggage tags burst out upon release of the zipper.
“Here it is!” I exclaim, holding the card in the air like it’s the last Golden Ticket and I can finally enter Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory, from one of the best movies of all time.
“Great,” he says, as monotone as humanly possible.
After he makes a copy of my ID and staples it to my page, Jerry receives a temporary parking permit and we begin our ascent up the steep, winding driveway.
Juniper trees line the ridges like tall feathers reaching to the heavens as we climb higher and higher.
On the fourth or fifth time winding around (I lost count), the landscape flattens, and we roll onto a spacious, circular driveway.
At its center, there’s a large, mature olive tree that I can’t help but think of as Grandmother Willow.
Then the “house” comes into view. It is a massive estate covered in limestone boulders and large windows leading up to a sloped roofline.
At its base, an arched front doorway big enough for a Prius to drive through greets us.
“Good grief!” I gasp in awe.
“Welcome to Rocca Vista, Miss McGregor,” Jerry says through a laugh as he pulls the car to a stop in front of the palace.
“I’ll get your door.” The car engine cuts, and he gets out.
The sound of birds singing in the trees merrily intertwined with the roar of the ocean in the distance filters through the car.
It’s like you can hear summer, even though it’s technically fall.
You wouldn’t know it by California’s weather, though.
Jerry’s figure crosses my view, and something about it feels weird. I hear my heart whisper; this is where it starts.
Clips from last night fill my mind...my going-away party.
I was just coming back from the store with my sister to get Mom some milk (should have known then) when I was ushered outside to “see something” (definitely should have known then) and ended up walking into my very own farewell Cajun crab bake.
The night was perfect. Everyone I love was there, all gathered around a red-and-white-checkered table under a canopy of twinkle lights and stars.
Conversations mostly surrounded the show and how I was feeling and how much they were going to miss me.
It was the perfect send-off, but at the end my best friend, Mary, said through choked tears, “Don’t forget about us little people when you become a big star, okay? ”
Now, I know what you are thinking—that’s just something people say.
And you would be right, but for me, it felt like more.
Sin is slippery and people don’t fall into it on purpose.
I would hate for things like mansions to become idols and people opening my door to become normal, while things I love, like Cajun backyard crab bakes, become something I used to do with people I used to know.
The thought of getting too big for my regular life is enough to sour my stomach.
I catch a glimpse of Jerry approaching my car door, and with very little thought and with fire-drill urgency, I throw my entire body from the vehicle, somehow forgetting that lifting my feet from the floorboard in the process is essential to walking.
My entire body comes down in a crash and I end up kissing the cobblestone I’m so fond of.
“What in the world! Tate!” Jerry drops to the ground beside me, finally breaking code and using my first name.
It makes me smile while the rest of my body screams in pain.
Any minute someone will arrive to mark the scene of the crime, outlining my body with white chalk.
Here lies Tate McGregor. She was this close to her dream of singing professionally.
“I’m okay, really,” I promise, pulling myself up from the drive onto my forearms and then rolling to a sit.
My eyes catch movement beyond the glass front doors.
People—likely the other contestants—huddle together in the foyer.
They’re probably debating whether or not to approach.
File this under another Tate-ism. In addition to using only movies as references in life, I am also one of the clumsiest people on this planet, and I’ve made peace with that.
The sound of wheels gripping the cobblestone drive as they push up and over a hill hits my ears.
Turning my head, I see another black sedan—not unlike the one I just fell from—pull up behind us.
It takes a minute, but the driver does notice me as the engine cuts and his eyes quickly grow to the size of donuts when he processes that there’s a girl on the ground in the driveway.
Startling for anyone, I’m sure, but I can’t help but wonder. ..who has he got with him?