"Jennifer! Jennifer!"
Over and over. The sound reverberates in your head until it becomes a mantra, reminding you of who you are, where you came from, the person you once were.
See, it wasn't always like this.
****
You remember your childhood, and the people associated with it; your parents, Yvonne and Dave, your brothers, Jason and Kevin. For a couple of years, your grandmother lived with you, but you were so young when she died that all you remember of her is soft, quiet touches and the smell of lilacs.
You were the popular kid in school, always surrounded. You were the light and they were the bugs. You didn't necessarily care who did the fluttering or how close they got, but they couldn't get enough of you.
The only thing you really cared about was singing. In 7th period choir you came alive. Your angel voice soared to the heavens and even the angels wept. It was the only time you were truly happy.
People expected you to go places, see things. You were voted "most likely to succeed" in your senior class. For awhile, you thought it ws going to be the most ironic occurence in your life.
You didn't apply to college. All you wanted to do was sing, and you already knew how to do that. What could some stuff shirt in an institutionalized, sterile enviroment teach you about the energies in your soul?
You believed in luck. In fate.
You moved to New York where all the big record companies were. You made a demo tape, a song you'd written yourself. It was about hopes and dreams and nice things that let you sleep at night.
So you made the rounds. Half the time you weren't even allowed past the front desk. Other times you were ushered into back rooms, side rooms, broom closets. Important looking men in expensive suits would demand sex for the opportunity to audition. You were pretty, and while they talked they'd grab your ass they'd whisper in your ear that you were gonna be a star.
It took you years to figure out that the men fondling you were interns, underlings, message boys who had no impact on your deal at all. When you realized that you wanted to go back and kick their balls in, but too much time had passed and you didn't know where they were anymore.
You remember one guy, Lennie, who looked but didn't touch, and treated you like a lady instead of a pair of boobs. He told you to start in the night clubs because door to door at the record companies wouldn't get you anywhere.
So you got a job at a hole in the wall resteraunt. Ashley, the owner, let you sleep in the cramped room in the back. You earned enough for the sparkles that got you noticed on stage but little else. You went hungry many nights.
So you started the rounds. Sang in karaoke bars to warm yourself up. You'd sing anything, but your favorite was old school Gloria Gaynor. You'd shake your ass and wiggle around the small stage crooning "oh as long as I know how to love I know I'll stay alive! I've got all my life to live..." because you needed something to believe in and hold onto. A song was enough, most of the time.
When you moved to night clubs, you left behind the pop machine and surrounded yourself with real musicians. Most of the nightclubs you sang at had a band willing to learn new stuff, and they'd play your song. You'd stand before the small crowd, and you'd sing your song about hopes and fears and pray that somebody was listening this time. Somebody who actually cared.
You became a regular at one club, After Midnight, because the owner, Ann, took a liking to you and made sure people listened during your set. That and she fed you, gave you free drinks. She became your only friend in New York, and a lifeline when it felt like you were headed in any direction but the limelight.
Ann grew up in Brooklyn. She knew the streets, was intimately familiar with their dangers. She provided you with a safe haven, and you gave her a steady act for Friday nights.
She like to introduce you to all her customers. Normally, names were exchanged over the bar while serving up a shot of liquor or some drink with a fancy name.
"Hey, this is the talent" to the couple on honeymoon.
"Watch her, she'll be recorded some day" to the college students begging for your phone number.
"Man, one day you are gonna be begging to breathe the same air" to the one with the hands.
You knew something was different and special one night when introductions occured on the other side of the bar. After running to embrace one of two customers coming through the door, she dragged them in your direction.
"This babe. This is the one I've been bragging about."
You stood slowly, held out your hand. You didn't know what to expect.
"Jen, this is Joey, we grew up together." She motioned towards the man she had embraced.
"And this is Lance."
The tall blonde held out his hand. It was warm and soft and you would have dismissed him as weak had it not been for the strength of his grip. The strength surprised you and you looked up to his face, to find his green eyes already locked on yours. You become lost in his eyes, and neither of you look away until he and Joey turned toward the bar.
You didn't listen to music, or watch tv, or leave the cave that had become your life. You didn't understand the significance of this meeting. After Ann clued you into their celebrity and Lance's production company, you got so nervous you threw up in the bathroom before your set.
You sang for a long time that night. Every time you tried to stop Joey would stand and lead the crowd in a chorus of "encore! encore!" until you'd exhausted the list of songs you knew by heart. When finally the music was stilled, you ran to the back room and gulped a gallon of water.
Lance and Joey were gone when you came back out. You attempted to rip your heart off your sleeve, swallowed your tears and ran home without dinner or a drink.
The next Friday they were back. They left without speaking again only to return the following Friday. Lance approached you that Friday, handed you a card.
"We're leaving tomorrow. I'll be back in two weeks. Call this number, tell them who you are and give them my name." He began to walk away. Halfway across the bar he stopped and turned, called out "How do you feel about moving to Florida?"
That's how you were signed as the newest artist under FreeLance Entertainment. You moved to Florida, found an apartment not to far from the studio, so you didn't have to worry about the fact that you didn't have a car.
Lance became very involved in your work, helping you produce your song and offering you some songs another of his bandmate's had written. You wondered if he gave all his acts this much personal attention.
You released your first single. It was your song, the one you'd written. You cried when Lance told you that was the one. You heard it on the radio two days later, and laughed.
Lance had a huge bash for you the night your album was released. He offered his mansion in Orlando, and handled all the details. You just had to show up.
You wore blue that night. Long, flowing, shimmery, with scattered sparkles. It reminded you of twilight when the sky is still sort of blue, fading to black, and only half the stars are visible. You felt beautiful.
He kissed you that night, in his backyard with the moon and stars overhead and the sounds from the party filtering outside. His warm, soft lips on yours were heaven, and you felt the stars leave the sky, come down and dwell in your chest. You felt them shining from your heart and your eyes as you watched the feeling reflect from his eyes. You'd never felt so alive.
He was always around after that, when he wasn't busy with his own group. He told you that you'd be opening for them during their second leg of the tour, and during your TRL appearance, he stood in the wings.
He always kissed you now. Not in public, not where anyone could see, but it was still frequent. You didn't quite know what to say, and you didn't know why he
hid. You tried to back away. He reminded you of back rooms and broom closets and groping hands. You didn't want to be another conquest, another notch in the bed post.
He confronted you one day, after the tenth time of you knocking his hand off your shoulder in the sound booth.
"What is wrong with you?"
"Nothing."
"How do you do that?"
"What?"
"Go from hot to cold in two seconds flat? Last week we were kissing and now I can't touch your fucking shoulder?"
"I don't know."
"Damn it. Give me something. An explanation, anything." He grabs your shoulder again, and you've had about all you can take.
"How many of your other acts do you do this with, huh? Do you initiate all the girls the same way? Give all the girls this much attention? Throw them all parties, kiss them all, get them all to trust you so they'll be pliant when you try to make deals?"
"You are fucking unbelievable."
"Me? At least I'm not playing god with a record company. At least I've managed to maintain my integrity."
"You're delusional."
"Fuck you."
With that timeless, immortal come back, you exit the studio haughtily and go home, head held high, moral principles intact and shining brightly. You try to ignore the fact that you now feel like shit. You try to ignore the shocked look on Lance's face. Not shocked that you'd found out, but shocked that you'd even think it in the first place. You didn't expect him to ever speak to you again, and you wondered how much they paid at Mickey D's.
You didn't count on a call from Stacy the next day. You hadn't had to much contact with her, other than the initial introduction and an occasional business meeting. She'd always been friendly.
"What the hell Jennifer?"
Now she was pissed.
"Hello Stacy. Nice to hear from you."
"You think my brother does this for everyone? You think the fucking CEO comes to every recording for every artist signed on? You think he lets ALL of them open for his group after their first album?"
"You think I don't know his type Stacy? Maybe he took a little longer, but in the end they all want the same thing."
"The same thing?"
"I've been around. You think FreeLance is the first production company I've been too? I made the circuit. I know what they're like. A quick grope will get you an audition. A blow job gets you a deal. I know."
Stacy did too. "WHAT? You think my little brother is using you? You think you're a tool? Like he couldn't get ass every night of the week from one of his fans? Get your head out of your fucking ass. He thought you were different, special. Fucking tramp."
Stacy didn't bother to say goodbye before she slammed down the phone.
You didn't sleep much that night. The next morning you went to the studio. You knew that Lance was back in New York doing appearances with his group. Stacy was on the west coast, so you felt safe.
You talked to everyone that day. In an attempt to be subtle, you started with small talk that eventually led to Lance. In the end, all research pointed to one conclusion.
You were an idiot, and Lance was an awesome guy.
He never gave anyone the attention he gave you. He'd never come to every recording, and only a select few got to open for NSync, and then only after they'd been signed on for awhile. You felt like an ass.
Lance got home the next day. You met him at his door. Hands tightly clenched, shaking despite the warm Florida sunshine, you told him of the first year in New York, what you'd been through. By the end you were sobbing, and you don't know how he understood it all. But he did. He was holding you and rubbing your back, stroking your hair while he kissed your forehead. You chokingly told him that you're sorry, that you know he's different. He dried your tears and told you that everything would be alright. You believed him.
And then he was kissing you, like he couldn't help himself, couldn't control his need. And you were kissing him back and stars were exploding in your chest and you couldn't feel anything but him.
He gave you a ride home, but only to pick up some stuff from your apartment to bring it back to his home. He didn't have sex with you that night, or the next, or for three months. You slept together holding tightly to each other, but it never progressed past that. Eventually you thought he was waiting to prove that he wasn't like the others. So you set the stage, candles, music, skimpy outfit, and you ambushed him when he got home. He managed three words between the front door and the bedroom.
"Are you sure?"
You nodded. "I love you." As soon as the words left your mouth you wanted to drag them back in. As much as you wanted to trust Lance, as much as you really did love Lance, you couldn't help but think that he now had a tool, a weapon to keep you in place. He had the power.
He saw the doubts in your eyes. Without a word he pulled you to him, pushed you toward the bed. You fell back, expecting an attack, expecting his anger to spill over into this.
But when he joined you on the bed it wasn't angry, loud or crude. He was gentle and slow and sweet and considerate. He would barely let you touch him, because he wanted it to be about you, not him. It was all for you and with it, he was telling you that he loved you too.
You cried. He wrapped you in his arms, whispered what you'd just guessed. You both fell asleep in between kisses and woke to daylight streaming through the window, still tangled together.
****
That's how it was. This is how it is.
You're headlining your own tour. You've made the rounds; MTV, Leno, Letterman, Conan. You had an hour long special on Rosie. You hit the big time, you're at the top.
You finish the last song and exit the stage to cries of wonder, awe, and excitement. You couldn't ask for better fans.
You shower, change, and head to your bus, ready to take you back to your hotel, and then on to the next city, venue, screaming horde of fans.
Your cell phone rings. You check the display and smile.
"Hey sweetie."
"Darlin'" your husband's deep voice drawls.
"I'm on my way back."
"I'm waiting."
You say goodbye and hang up the phone smiling. He's waiting. After two years of marriage, he's still waiting. He's waited so much for you, even when you couldn't understand why anyone would.
You push past the doors to the venue smiling, your heart full of hopes and dreams and love. Love for the man who helped you find this new life, who led you to this point, who loves you despite your flaws, who helped you discover your talent.
You're a star.