1
Quinn: Fine Print
“Quinn, you’re on in two.”
I nodded, stretching my arms back to loosen the shiny brown vinyl jacket vacuum-sealed to my body. I’d been assured the suit was the height of fashion. It wasn’t. But what did it matter what I looked like, anyway? I wasn’t here to walk the runway. I was here to make a name for myself, and truth be told, I’d prefer to do that in a pair of jeans and a t-shirt. The plastic suit was… well… not my idea. Rest assured, when the stylist sprang the getup on me during rehearsals, I’d protested loudly. I think my exact words were, “No way am I getting up on stage looking like a Slip ‘N Slide.” And that was when I learned my opinion was not required—nor appreciated. Apparently, there was a clause in the contract I’d hastily signed giving the show the right to dress me any way they saw fit.
In hindsight, yeah, I probably should’ve paid more attention to the fine print, but at the time, if they’d asked me to sign over my left nut—it would’ve been missed, but I still had another. I’d been advised to hire a lawyer to look over the contract, but patience had never been one of my virtues, and I was convinced that taking extra time to comb over the document would just slow down the process of fame and fortune. Besides, the show had been around for fifteen years. If there was anything nefarious going on, I would’ve heard about it, right? Well, not quite right. I later discovered there was a gag order hidden in the fine print I did not read.
But here was the deal: It wouldn’t have made any difference. Even if I’d known in advance they were going to make me cut off my rocker locks—another unfortunate casualty of the fine print—and turn me into a vanilla pretty boy, I still would have signed. Nothing was going to stop me from competing. This was my chance to make a name for myself, and I wasn’t going to let it pass me by on technicalities.
Ignorance really was bliss. In the beginning, everything was fine—great, even—and I felt nothing but positive vibes as I was encouraged to stay true to the artist I wanted to be. I’d auditioned as the token rocker, and had then gone through four grueling elimination rounds as the token rocker. But with the live shows looming, suddenly the token rocker wasn’t good enough. The song I’d chosen—a stripped-down version of an Imagine Dragons song—was nixed by the show’s producers in favor of a more upbeat number by an artist I didn’t follow.
Trust in the process, they’d said when I’d fought for my song.We know what we’re doing, they’d said. And who was I to question the producers ofNext In Line, the most popular televised singing competition in America—a show that had spawned huge names in the music industry? They were the experts, I’d been told.
Oh, man. I should have fought harder for my song… and for my hair.
At this point, though, I didn’t have a lot of options left. I’d toured the country playing in dive bars and fairgrounds in a couple of no-name rock bands. I’d gone solo. I’d gone duo. I’d even considered a boy band for a hot Hollywood minute, but nothing caught fire until I stepped up to the audition table a couple of months ago and sang for my ever-loving life. They’d sat up, taken notice, and it truly felt like they’d heard me—just in the nick of time. I mean, at twenty-three, I wasn’t getting any younger, and in an industry that valued youth and looks over all else, I was pushing middle age.
And so, I bit my tongue and learned the new sugary sweet lyrics. In rehearsals, the judges raved about the performance, assuring me the song was the perfect fit for my vocal range. I’d even been awarded the pimp spot at the end of the show, given to the singer they thought would make the biggest impact on the audience. That was good, right? So then why did it feel all wrong?
The stage director pointed to me and whispered, “You’re on.”
It was too late for second thoughts now–too late to make my stand. Willing my legs to carry me across the stage, I squinted into what I hoped would be the blinding lights of the rest of my life. If all went as planned, I’d be exiting left in seven minutes’ time, flushed with the thrill of accomplishment. The spirit of the crowd energized me, adding a spring to my step that bordered on boyish enthusiasm. Oh, shit. I had to get that under control right away. Skipping across the stage was not in line with the rock star vibe I was going for, although one glance at my boogie nights dance party outfit and I could be moonwalking across the stage and stillno onewould think I was cool.
Easing back into a more relaxed rhythm, I allowed myself to savor the moment. This was the first time in my professional life there was even the slightest possibility I might be judged on my own merit and not on the triumphs of others. I’d never been more ready. Every party I’d missed, every girl I’d stood up, every person I’d flaked out on in pursuit of my dream had all been in preparation for this performance. Tonight was my moment to shine–my chance to step out from behind my superstar brother and claim the coveted spot beside his throne.
Jake. My step faltered as I fought the frown threatening to crush my confidence. It wasn’t that I didn’t love or respect my brother. On the contrary, I worshipped the guy. To the outside world, Jake McKallister was a rock star, a survivor—a goddamn legend. But to me, he was the larger-than-life big brother I had the privilege, and pain, of sharing a bedroom wall with.
Yeah, I went there. Deal with it. I just found it easier to acknowledge my family’s history rather than watch people awkwardly stumble around it. Only a little kid when Jake was snatched off the street, I’d grown up in the aftermath of the tragedy. While other kids were happily playing in the sandbox, I was hiding under press conference podiums listening to my parents beg for my brother’s safe return.
Look, I wasn’t going to go into the whole sordid tale. Everyone knew—or thought they knew—Jake’s story. How he’d barely survived after fighting his way out of the clutches of evil. And everyone agreed that was some next level shit right there. But surviving had never been enough for my brother. Somehow, he’d found the strength inside to rebuild his tattered life, make a name for himself in the music industry, and find a woman to help him heal. He was what true kings were made of.
And therein lay the problem.
Like Jake, music was in my blood. From the time I could talk I was singing and from the time I could walk I was banging, strumming, or clanging on anything that made the ears ring. And, although my brother and I shared a love of music, that was where our similarities ended. As a professional, everything Jake touched turned to gold. But me? I was like that wide-eyed prospector migrating west only to discover he’d arrived at the river a decade too late. And because my brother had already staked his claim, no one wanted me anywhere near his homestead. I was universally dismissed in the music industry with little chance to prove my worth. Still, I kept trying, chipping away at the earth and hoping beyond hope that there might be one tiny nugget left for me.
It was that nagging faith in myself that brought me here today, ready to roll the dice again. Look, I got it, this wasn’t the most prestigious way to stride into the limelight as a contestant on a reality talent competition. But there were some distinct advantages to a show like this—namely, no Jake. Add to that no naysaying music executives or loudmouth haters accusing me of piggybacking off my brother’s fame and you handed me an honest chance.
Stopping on my mark at center stage, I looked out over the studio audience. My fate was in their hands. Up until today, it was the judges who decided which contestants moved on and I’d survived those elimination rounds with glowing praise. So much so that I actually thought I might have a real shot at winning this whole competition. But now that I’d made it into the top ten, the power had shifted to a voting audience of millions. If I could deliver the performance I knew I was capable of maybe, just maybe, they’d look past my lineage and find the true musician in me.
Fuck Jake’s golden river!
This right here… this was my pot of gold.
* * *
“Please welcome our final contestant, Quinn McKallister. Let’s take a look at his journey to the top ten.”
The overhead lights dimmed as the big screens came to life. For the next two minutes, the prerecorded story of my life would play out over the monitors, broadcasting onto television screens across the country. I dragged in a deep breath, nervous despite knowing I had nothing to fear. The producers had promised my participation on the show would focus solely on me, not Jake, and not the long-ago event that had shaken my famous family to the core. Any mention of my tumultuous past, I’d been assured, would be cleared by me first.
Still, I had an uneasy feeling that refused to fade. This show was as much about the sobfest life stories as it was about the music. Spun right, even a stubbed toe could be worked into a message of empowerment and perseverance. So why show restraint with me? I shook that nagging thought from my head. Was it so hard for me to believe that I, for once, would be the focus?
The clip began with lighthearted footage of me in the earlier rounds, bringing laughter from the live audience and a smile to my face. Right on. This was what I was talking about.
But then, without warning, the video took an abrupt turn into doom and gloom, complete with a Humane Society musical soundtrack. Suddenly, the carefree tale of my rather boring suburban life became entangled in someone else’s tragedy, plunging me headfirst into a hard-luck life story that trumped all the others. Even the poor girl who’d survived a mountain lion attack while playing hopscotch on her front porch was sidelined by my backstory.
The one they’d promised not to exploit.
