Chapter 13
My Monday starts at four in the morning, after a full weekend spent preparing for the first day of what will be a weeklong audition process. Running around the theater in semidarkness with other PAs, I realize how small the team is.
“All hands on deck,” Mileidy says upon arrival, in that raspy voice of hers.
The judges are scheduled to be here in thirty minutes, and per Mileidy’s request, everything has to be spotless.
By the time I’m done unrolling an endless supply of cords, it’s six in the morning. I silently move to the catering table and start the coffee. I already left snacks and water bottles in all of the dressing rooms.
As I’m pushing the start button on the coffee maker, one of the PAs approaches me, carrying three thick binders.
He’s thin, with a long nose and slightly crooked teeth.
He seems young, probably a couple years younger than me, probably here as an intern.
He gives me a tight smile as he sets the stack of binders down on a nearby table.
“What are those?” I ask.
The guy looks over his shoulder. “Contestants’ info for the judges.”
I perk up. “Can I have Simón’s?”
Each judge will mentor a team of singers.
Irina Montalbán—movie actress and voice-over legend—will mentor teen girls.
Federico Gómez—music producer and songwriter—will mentor teen boys.
Simón will mentor everyone under thirteen.
Wouldn’t it be helpful to highlight all the under-thirteen profiles so it’s easier for Simón to find them?
He could read them prior to meeting the kids, know a little about them before he hears them sing.
It’s also a good way to stay busy and not think about Simón getting here in—I check my watch—twenty-five minutes.
Or that he might have the list. That he might have read the list.
“I don’t know…” the PA says.
“I promise I’ll get it to him in time,” I vow.
Somewhere behind us, a tray hits the ground with a clank and Mileidy is yelling, calling for someone. The PA winces. It must be him. So, his name is Victor.
“Fine,” he says, and hands me one of the binders. “Do not lose that. There are like a thousand pages in that and we’re already using recycled paper.”
“Recycling is good.”
Victor ignores me, taking his leave. I carry the binder to the dressing rooms. Armed with a block of green sticky notes, I sit and start flipping pages.
The thought of using star-shaped stickers crosses my mind, but that could be a little much.
I’ve only gone through half the profiles when the door opens.
Simón walks in, his nose buried in his phone. He’s in beat-up jeans and a navy blue T-shirt. His hair is a little damp, sticking to the back of his neck and leaving a visible watermark on his shirt. With bags under his eyes, he looks less like a rising pop sensation and more…normal.
My face instantly warms. Wonderful. Simón scans the room until his eyes land on me. His face lights up, his shoulders relaxing.
“Maria Antonieta, cómo vas?” he says.
“Good,” I blurt out. “You?” I push to my feet. “How was your weekend? Do you want coffee? The hair and makeup crew should be here soon, you can sit.”
“Good, thanks,” he says, following me to the snacks table instead of sitting. “Busy weekend, though.”
I’m pouring coffee into a paper cup when a neatly folded square materializes in front of me.
“Odd way to ask for an autograph, but here you go,” Simón says.
Slowly, my gaze travels from the cup in my hand to him. Amusement shines bright in his eyes. At my pained expression, Simón smirks. I could officially die.
“Simón, I—”
Behind us, the door flies open. Irina marches in, followed by an entourage of stylists.
They all carry suitcases that, when unpacked at Irina’s vanity, reveal enough makeup to last a lifetime.
Simón and I watch the scene unfold, and when I look back at him, his eyebrows are raised and his lips are pressed together.
His beard is longer today. I hadn’t noticed. It looks nice.
He shrugs and startles me by taking the cup of coffee from my hands, replacing it with the list before he steps back and moves toward one of the tall chairs in front of a vanity.
I stare after him, the pointy edges of the paper square digging into my palm as I try to regulate my nerves. I didn’t know how much I needed him to be okay with this, to not judge me, until I saw his playful gaze. I could pass out from relief.
I start unfolding the list. We can put this whole thing behind us and—
My eyes snap up to where Simón is sitting, watching me through the mirror, biting a corner of his lower lip as he studies my reaction. Because he didn’t simply sign the list. He edited it.
The Ex-Perimento
Evoke a memory
Be busy.
Be unpredictable (so he knows I’m not a control freak)
Be yourself. He fell in love with you once, didn’t he?
Send him a text that “wasn’t for him,” so he’s thinking about me (repeat as many times as needed).
Do not text him! Stop texting him.
Get a makeover so you look the way you did four years ago. He’ll remember what he’s missing.
Show him he’s not the only one. Make him jealous.
Send him a bouquet of flowers (manly flowers) so he knows I appreciate him, like he did whenever I helped him through finals.
Do not do this, for the love of God.
Reconnect with his parents.
Trust me when I tell you, harassing his family is not going to help.
Dress to kill and show up somewhere you know he’ll be, like you did for your third anniversary.
Have a blast without him.
Make him feel needed. Men love to feel needed.
I mean, yes. But also, no.
Ask him out on a date to “catch up,” then another date, then another date, and before you know it, you’re back together again.
Treat him like a friend. Don’t ask him out, he’ll ask you out.
Atte. Simón Arreaza, lead singer of your favorite band.
My face grows violently hotter with each item on the list. I must be so red I could stop traffic. What the hell?
I turn away, hiding from his knowing smirk. I want to shrink until I disappear.
Not only did he read my list, but he also thinks none of it will work.
What does he know? I’ve known him for, what?
Three days? He’s met Alejandro once. Hell, he’s met me once.
I wrote my list thinking about our past and the reasons Alejandro had for our so-called break.
I know these will work because, as Simón so kindly pointed out in his list, Alejandro fell in love with me once.
And my list will remind him of that. I fold the piece of paper and put it in my back pocket before leaving the room.
The quiet of the lonely morning has officially broken. PAs run from one end of the studio to another, Mileidy barks order after order, and I’m standing dumbstruck in the middle of it all.
Don’t think about it, I say to myself, thinking about it. Back to work.
I make my way from backstage to the auditorium—past thick concrete columns and up a flickering staircase—pushing the doors open to take a peek inside.
The faint scent of musty carpet drifts from the open doors.
I can hear the clicking of cameras, some hanging from a metal structure while pointed at center stage, and faint background music playing through the speakers.
The room is otherwise quiet. Onstage, getting another coat of powder on her face, is my mother.
She wears a fitted navy blue dress that comes down to her knees, split at her middle by a beige belt.
Her hair is down, a cascade of chocolate brown and champagne highlights.
I make my way down the auditorium stairs. The only binder missing from the judges table is Simón’s, so I place it carefully in front of his seat and set down a black gel pen and highlighter.
With that taken care of, now it’s my turn to run from one end of the theater to the other.
For the next hour, I make sure the contestants all have their badges, bring water to a man who looks a little green, bring my mother a Gatorade so she doesn’t pass out because she refused to have breakfast in her dress.
By the time I sneak back into the auditorium, Simón is already in his seat at the table.
There’s a water bottle to the right of the binder, while a large cup of coffee grows cold on the left.
I choose to sit in the very top row, where lighting is poorest, hoping to blend into the shadows.
Simón’s attention is split between the binder and his phone. His lips move over the phone as he flips through the pages. Sending a voice message, I assume. He leans closer to the binder and frowns. He sets his phone down and leans over his seat to spy on Irina’s pages.
Oh, he must have noticed the bookmarks. I managed to finish with ten minutes to spare.
Simón twists in his seat. I don’t know how he knows where I am, but he spots me immediately and smiles. He gives me a thumbs-up before turning back around and slouching over the binder, his phone abandoned.
Even though no one can see me, my chin drops to my chest to hide the smile I’m fighting back.
No, Marianto.
The door to my right opens, light streaming in, as Federico Gómez makes his appearance.
He walks in unceremoniously, adjusting his sleeves.
When he’s almost to the end of the stairs, he looks straight at the camera and waves.
Judging by the cameraman’s defeated expression, he wasn’t supposed to do that.
He disappears backstage. Five minutes later, Irina joins Simón at the judges’ table.
Ten minutes after that, Federico takes his seat beside her.
The sound of shoes clacking on the stage echoes across the auditorium as the first contestant walks in.
The spotlight follows a short blonde girl.
She’s in a skirt, tights, and a crop top.
A huge golden sticker depicting a bright “1” is covering her stomach.
Elena Pérez, fourteen, according to her profile.
The empty stage dwarfs her, her walk to the center unbearably long.
I get my phone ready to record this. I’m thinking it’d be cool to have the first and last person to audition, so I make sure I’m getting the number 1 card hanging from her neck.
After introducing herself, Elena announces she’ll be singing “Dynamite” by BTS.
Judging by Irina’s and Federico’s expressions, they have no idea who BTS is. Nor does my mother.
But Simón smiles and says, “Perfecto.”
How is one girl going to sing a song by seven men?
Elena begins and oh how I wish her song choice was the worst part of her audition, but no.
Her singing is. Maybe 10 percent nerves, 90 percent not being able to carry a tune, but her voice is shaky and pitchy and plainly unpleasant to the ear.
Not that I’m a great singer; I’m pretty sure I sound worse than she does, but I’m not trying out for a singing competition that will be broadcast on national TV.
Where are her parents? I think, and immediately hate myself for it. Maybe she has supportive parents who didn’t want to clip her wings, parents who support her choices even at fourteen. That’s not a bad thing. Not every kid needs to hear they’re not good at the thing they love. Life will tell them.
Irina raises her hand, stopping Elena abruptly. Elena blinks, trying to see despite the bright lights.
“No,” Irina says.
Apparently, today life goes by the name of Irina Montalbán.
Elena straightens in place. She’s strong. She’ll be fine. I’m willing to bet that her parents will be out there ready to console her.
Simón whirls to Irina, wide-eyed.
I dissolve into my seat, lowering my phone. No need to get this on video after all.