Pop Princess by Rachel Cohn Page A

Dad’s Teen Girl subscription for me. In my room, in that mirror, I was anybody I wanted to be. For hours, instead of studying, I could pretend I was a pop princess. The mirror didn’t know that at school I was considered a freak.

Eleven
    Confident with my dance moves and sadly following through on Mom’s advice, idiot-for-brains here really did audition for the school musical. I thought I could make a decent Miss Adelaide in Guys and Dolls, which would be so convenient, as Doug Chase was a shoo-in for Nathan Detroit. I sat through the auditions watching Jen Burke warble through “The sun will come out, tomorrow,” looking like a stick figure with fake emotive hand gestures and sounding like a tone-deaf Miss Piggy, I swear she was awful, but her whole clique of friends screamed and applauded when she finished and the drama teacher pronounced her performance “Very nice indeed!”
    My name was called next, and even though Jen and her group were giggling and pointing at me, I didn’t care—one thing I knew was that I was a better singer. My heart was beating very fast and my ears were ringing because I knew I was the object of Jen & Co.’s scorn and laughter, but I heard Lucky whisper in my ears: You show them. I didn’t need piano accompaniment, I just stood there on the stage, closed my eyes, and tried to block out the laughter coming from the seats. I started out, “ Don’t cry for me, Argentina,” and was pleased that my pitch sounded right and my voice strong and pretty, when suddenly I heard Jen spew, “Some B-Kid here thinks she’s Madonna!” I stopped singing.
    The drama teacher shushed Jen, saying to me, “That’s quite a powerful voice you’ve got there, Wonder. Sounds like you’ve had professional training. Would you like to try again?”
    I nodded and closed my eyes, because I felt like I was going to cry from embarrassment. I went back into the song, but only made it to “ the truth is, I never  . . .” when I heard farting noises coming from a corner of the auditorium. Oh fuck it, I thought, why am I bothering with this?
    I opened my eyes, looked upward quickly so tears would not fall down my cheeks, and, careful not to wipe at the tears, said to the teacher, “Ya know what? Between dance class and schoolwork and my job, I don’t have time to do this.”
    I ran off backstage and out the fire exit. I stood against the brick wall of the school building, taking deep breaths, considering taking all my savings and running away, back to Boston—anywhere but Devonport. I’d figure out how to survive later, once I was out of this stupid town.
    As if the situation wasn’t bad enough, Doug Chase burst out the door just after I did. “Hey,” he said to me.
    I looked over my shoulders to make sure he wasn’t talking to someone else, but no, it was just me standing there. I didn’t say anything back—I was still choking back tears. Was he to be the last stage of my humiliation?
    â€œYou have an awesome voice,” he said.
    Shock-a-rooni! I sputtered, “Thanks.” I sniffled.
    Doug said, “We need a backup singer for my band. You interested in meeting the guys, hearing us play?”
    I so almost said out loud, If that meant getting to stare at your gorgeousness for one extra second, then yeah. But there was that whole issue of my loser status; I couldn’t imagine Doug’s buds actually entertaining the notion of having an . . . UNPOPULAR person (NO!!!!!!!!!!!) in their band. Then again, I thought, how much would Jen Burke be pissed off by the invitation?
    â€œI don’t know,” I said.
    Doug said, “We’re playing at the Homecoming Dance. Come hear us, see what you think.”
    And just like that, he was gone, Doug and his serpent tattoo slithered back inside the school auditorium without a good-bye, as if they’d been a figment of