Some Part of Me is You Read online

  “So, go on—what else do you have, Al?” Tony asked, glancing at her in the rearview mirror. She reached into her bag, shaking off her thoughts, and lifted a copy of Pop World with K-Nic on the cover, proclaiming her love for rescue dogs and feminism.

  Mitch jokingly called it ‘homework’: studying up on their headliner, so that however far out of their depth they were, they would at least somewhat recognize the brand they were tying themselves to. Or at least, what that brand had been like.

  Out of all of them, she and Brian were the most inclined to follow through on homework; and only Ali didn’t have anything else to be doing, having pushed back her placement with a local architecture firm until the end of the summer because of ‘unavoidable family commitments’. She hoped none of the partners were Knickies, or she was going to have to come up with a really persuasive spiel about how they had just assumed someone had been ill and she just hadn’t corrected them.

  “This one’s a few weeks old and an interview; not just a report on her having been spotted buying groceries like, you know, humans do,” she said, flipping to the relevant pages. “Three pages. And they start with questions about a Home Rule reunion show, which she deflects... before going on to talk about her three rescue dogs, who she doesn’t spend as much time with as she wishes, but taking them on tour is cruel... I do take extensive breaks from touring to spend time with them, which then segues into questions about her rumored romance with Jason McCullers... I’d say no comment, but you’d fill five pages with exactly what that meant, so why don’t I just cut this short by saying that I’ve known him since we were both fourteen and can’t see myself ever dating anyone I’ve seen eating hot dogs until they vomited...”

  “She really is funny,” Brian said, flipping between a spreadsheet and an email. “Very down to Earth sounding, even if you do ascribe a twang to her that she definitely doesn’t have.”

  “Yes, Dad, I know... okay, here’s something on her views on feminism... I try to work with women whenever I can; my touring musicians are always female if possible as well. It’s harder for women to get noticed for being skilled in this industry…” Ali let the sentence trail off, licking her lips. “This is pretty far away from the standard ‘I love everyone’ fare that she used to put out.”

  “It also doesn’t really explain how she ended up with Steve O’Dell producing this album as well as the previous two,” Mitch said, blowing on his nails and nodding his head along to the music.

  “No, it doesn’t,” Ali agreed, glancing out the window. They were going to hit up corn country soon. There wasn’t much living or worth seeing between them and Nashville, and she should rest while she could, but found her eyes drawn back to the interview anyway. “The last few questions are about what’s next for her; that things have been quiet from Camp K-Nic for a longer period than usual, and was it just her wanting to spend more time with her dogs? Quote, ‘Kristen hesitates before answering but finally produces that smile and says that when she has something she’s comfortable sharing with the world, they’ll know, but she can’t force the magic to happen. Here’s hoping for an abracadabra moment from Kristen Nichols soon.’ Unquote.”

  Accompanying the interview—her first in almost a year, which Pop World was very eager to point out repeatedly—was a shot of Kristen Nichols in a pair of pressed slacks and a comfortable off-the-shoulder burnt orange sweater, sitting on a cozy-looking brown couch that undoubtedly would’ve cost Ali about a year of college loans. Hair down, perfectly styled, and something close to a smile on her face. She looked accessible, even though she clearly wasn’t. It was the perfect marketing gimmick.

  “A lot of words to say very little,” Ali concluded, closing the magazine and shoving it back into her bag. “The only reason you’d pick up on something big coming is if you already knew about it. Other than that, she’s just...”

  “No pun intended, but I think ‘polished’ is the word you’re looking for,” Mitch said, grinning at his own joke and capping the varnish in his hand.

  “Or like, managed to within an inch of her life. I mean, it hits all the right notes—but is any of it real? It sounds it, but is that just because she’s so good at what she does? And she’s been doing it for so long?” Ali re-crossed her legs and shook her head. “What if this whole... being true to herself thing is just another level of marketing stunt?”

  Brian looked over at her and smiled faintly. “Well, what if it is, Al? Doesn’t change what our job here is.”

  “I don’t know,” she admitted, sinking back into the corner of the back seat. “I guess I just don’t know what to do about the fact that we’re going to be spending the whole summer with someone like her. Or, well, somewhere near her. I doubt we’ll actually see her more than once.”

  “Gotta remember that’s not her fault, though,” Tony said softly, reaching for his iPhone and clicking through a few songs. “I’d bet Kristen Nichols hasn’t had more than fifteen minutes that weren’t scheduled or run through assistants in like, the last decade of her life. Like, I don’t really know what to expect of her, but her entourage and setup? That’s going to be massive.”

  It was probably true, but did little to dispel Ali's recurring gut feeling that they’d be completely out of place as her opening act. They might as well be from a different planet, not just a different part of the industry.

  “Yeah,” Mitch added after a moment. “Honestly, it sounds a little lonely. At least I have the three of you, you know. What does she have, other than people telling her what to do?”

  The music kicked back in, and any further conversation was lost to Mitch’s off-key whistle, as he and Brian started harmonizing to the classic Cure song blasting through the van’s crackling speakers.

  ...

  She rolled her eyes at the part of herself surprised to find Nashville as just a city; not a collection of barns in which hoe-downs could take place, or anything particularly agricultural at all by the time they passed the limits. Sure, it made her feel incredibly naive to have expected any of that—but then what didn’t? Everything about this experience was managing to show her just how green she was.

  GPS was navigating Tony to their hotel—no bunking in the back of the van or a hostel on a K-Nic production, not even for her appetizers—from where they'd be redirected to their stylist teams for initial consultations and make-overs, or so Kevin had rattled off of in a seemingly endless to-do list. These first meetings would be with Kristen’s manager and image coaches; Kristen presumably had better things to be doing than watching their transformations. Or, Ali thought, maybe K-Nic had exactly as much to do with K-Nic’s image and ‘vibe’ as she suspected, meaning that she really wasn’t necessary to anything except the live shows themselves.

  The hotel was the kind of luxurious that made her want to laugh a little hysterically. A Travelodge had been an unaffordable extravagance any time they’d had to pull an overnighter in the last two years. They’d never have comped for this, not even with the check Ali and Mitch's father had written right before they left, which was a graduation present or a safety blanket, or maybe both.

  The boys were sharing a suite and she left her suitcase and backpack in a single that was about three times the size of her bedroom at home. She spent a few moments staring at herself in the bathroom mirror, mostly to touch up her eye make-up, but also to remind herself what she looked like before the 'K-Nic’ experience befell her. Great hair, sharp eyebrows, greyish-green eyes that tended to serious if not cold, and lips that were unremarkable without lipstick.

  Goodbye, she thought, leaning forward to kiss her own forehead in the mirror.

  ...

  “I can't feel my face,” Tony whispered when she sat down on the couch next to him.

  Mitch and Brian weren't back yet, and Kevin had disappeared upon arrival to go over a few things with Team K-Nic (looking legitimately terrified at the prospect), but she and Tony had been declared finished. A look at him revealed a new haircut—layered and uneven, but someh
ow adding some maturity to his overall appearance—and a replacement of the Hawaiian shirts she was pretty sure he'd worn non-stop since the fourth grade. The new button-down was French-tucked into shorts she was pretty sure he’d demanded keeping—a professional necessity, Tony swore—but they were a step up from the baggy cargo monstrosities he'd arrived in. His shoes, they hadn't touched. Probably because they were part of his kit, much in the way her guitar strap was part of hers.

  “I like it,” she said, suppressing a smile. “Sorry they tweezed you.”

  Tony shuddered. “I will never understand why you let this happen to you on a regular basis.”

  She laughed, looking him over again, only to see a faint dusting of pink on his cheeks. “What?”

  He sputtered and mussed up his already messy hair even more. “Ah, Alison, you know you're like a sister to me, right, so don't take this the wrong way—”

  She raised her eyebrows at him and his cheeks darkened further.

  “I sometimes forget how hot you are.” When she started laughing, he added a, “Don't tell Mitch I said that.”

  “He won't care, not least of all because he knows nothing will ever come of your crush...” She elbowed him in the side, and as he groaned, she laughed again, resting her head on his shoulder. “Thanks, Tone. I'm glad you like what they’ve done.”

  Her upgrade involved fitted skinny jeans, knee high boots—not cowboy boots—and a sleeveless green top made of something definitely not polyblend. It showed off most of the tattoo spanning her left shoulder and arm, even with her hair down, which they were encouraging. Angelo, the hair guy, had teasingly called her his wild child, and the loose hair would ensure she lived up to that name when playing.

  The styling was in many ways the antithesis of Kristen Nichols herself, dark red lipstick and solid eyeliner and a level of edginess. But none of it felt forced; it was probably what she'd try to make herself look like if she cared about her appearance enough to prioritize it over work, school and the band.

  And apparently, it really did work for her.

  A cleared throat sounded behind them, and she jumped at it, grabbing Tony's knee reflexively. “Oh, sorry - do you two need a moment? I'm just here to get you guys; because they did clothing last on Mitchell and Brian, they're already in the conference room but Chelsea forgot—-anyway, I'm so sorry, I obviously interrupted something—”

  The girl was backing out of the room already, but then abruptly spun on her heels and looked at them again, cringing.

  “Sorry—geez, I don't know what's wrong with me, it’s like I’ve never met people before, right? Let me try that again. Hi, it's really nice to meet you both, and I'm so happy that you're doing this with us. I think you guys are amazing.”

  Ali felt her jaw slacken.

  Next to her, Tony was shifting and getting to his feet, shaking his head. “No, don't worry, you weren't interrupting anything other than Ali making fun of me, so really, thank you.” With a few quick movements he'd made his way around the couch, stopping abruptly in front of the girl. She had long blonde hair in a ponytail, wearing a worn-in pair of red jeans and a white t-shirt proclaiming her to be “with the band”, and was currently pushing a pair of glasses up her nose, holding out her other hand to Tony.

  “Hi. I'm Tony Castillo,” he said, taking it and scratching the side of his head. “Drums for Right Turn.”

  “Hi. I'm Kristen,” the girl said, with a quick and firm-looking handshake, her smile softening and her eyes widening a little as she turned to look at Ali. “Welcome to Nashville.”

  2.

  “Okay,” Kristen said, from the head of the table and looking at her manager—Chelsea, whose handshake was wrestler-strong—for a nod. “So, I know Chelsea will have talked to you about what I’m aiming for with this tour amidst all the contractual nonsense, but I thought I’d put it in my own words, just to ensure we’re all on the same page.”

  Ali was sitting almost directly across from Kristen and Brian; Tony and Mitch were bracketing her on one side, and her manager and Kevin were—in an unintended mirroring—on her other side, both tapping into tablets.

  “I am thinking of this... as a fresh start. Hence the album title. It’s not a K-Nic production; I want something... intimate, or as close to that as I can get. Performing in clubs, not stadiums. I’ve never done anything like it before, so I’ll probably be going about it wrong—but that’s the goal.”

  It was a surreal admission. What band hadn’t started out small, opening up for others, lugging gear around themselves in the back of a van or a bus, sleeping on friends’ couches and breaking even? It was the only story; but it wasn’t Kristen Nichols’. She’d already been a star long before she’d ever been near a record label. She’d never played a club tour. And now she wanted to.

  “So, because this is all so new to me, I want to make it clear that I think of you guys as a really essential part of it. You’re there to ... I don’t know. You’re authentic at something that people will think I’m only playing at, you know? And so you’re not there to keep people awake before I show up; I could’ve gone with my agent’s suggestions if that’s all I was looking for, and trust me, he had many. But I’m trying something different here, and when Steve let me hear your stuff, I knew that’s what I wanted for this, even if my fans...” She hesitated, exhaling with mild frustration. “Don’t get me wrong. I don’t want to sound ungrateful. I know I’m incredibly fortunate, and my fans are... some of the most loyal, devoted fans in the world. I would be nothing without them.” That statement lingered as she looked down at the table for a few moments, lifting her face again and straightening. “But they don’t know me, and I don’t mean that in the pretentious way where, like, the soul of an artist can’t be understood, or whatever—”

  Ali found herself smiling almost automatically. In person, Kristen was a lot like her recent interviews—but also somehow a lot more unfocused, which was the thing that made her feel the most real. Like she was managing to let go of her own image to some extent. Part of that seeming freedom probably came down to the multiple NDAs that were attached to the touring contract Kevin had been poring over for most of the last few months, but still.

  “I just mean, I got signed to release three albums over a period of six years when I was only 18 years old, and that deal was locked down because I was Lindsay on Home Rule and so I had a built-in fan base and...” She shrugged, after a moment. “It didn’t really matter what I could do, let alone what I wanted to do; it was about who I could be. And being Lindsay on Home Rule was a pretty natural fit then, but it isn’t anymore.”

  Mitch nodded, clearing his throat. Even her brother—made over into the boy prince he was at heart, with glitter sprinkling his cheekbones and guyliner making his grey eyes pop almost blue, a lock of his hair draped elegantly over one eyebrow—seemed to need a moment to brace himself to just talk to Kristen Nichols. She’d never seen him reserved before, and it would have been funny, except she knew exactly how he felt. Kristen, so far, had been... a blur. “Of course. Our first original song was an ode to Pop Tarts; Ali felt very strongly about those when she was 15, but I struggle a little to sell it at 26.”

  Kristen laughed, looking over at Ali with a small smirk. “Pop Tarts, huh? Can I convince you guys to play that on this tour?”

  None of the exposure to her in magazines or music videos or, hell, old episodes of Home Rule (which she may or may not have watched on Netflix a few weeks ago, in the middle of the night, when her mind just wouldn’t stop) had really prepared Ali for what it would be like to have those incredibly bright blue eyes laser-focused on her. Kristen Nichols the product was undoubtedly gorgeous, wholesome and clean, and categorically not her thing; but Kristen Nichols the person was something else.

  She managed a shrug. “Write what you know, right? If I’m not wrong, you’ve said it yourself in at least four different interviews in the last two years.”

  Kristen’s expression took on a sheepish cast and she looked at Chels
ea. “Yeah, I do say that a lot.”

  Chelsea—a mid-thirties redhead with impeccable make-up in a suit that looked both casual and carefully curated—rolled her eyes. “You could get more input into your soundbites if you actually wanted it, Kris.”

  “Ouch,” Kristen said, pressing a hand to her chest, until they laughed at each other. The ‘homework’ had revealed that Chelsea had been with Kristen before, and even though she’d had to learn on the job to keep up with Kristen during her Home Rule rocketing to stardom, she’d put in the time and Kristen had never considered replacing her with someone more experienced. She keeps me grounded, she’d said a few years ago, and Ali was seeing that in practice right now.

  “Anyway. Where she’s going with all of this,” Chelsea continued, with a quick smirk at Kristen, “is that last year, she delivered her deliverables to IMG, and with that ended a contract that tied her to Home Rule and its natural fan base. For the first time, now, Kristen has the room to do what she actually wants to be doing, which is still making music, but—”

  “Not for thirteen year old girls who really just want to be assured that their friends will all be forever, and the boy down the street will eventually realize just how special they are.” Kristen scrunched up her nose and laughed. “It’s okay; I know what I’m known for, and I can guess how you feel about it. Pushing the lyrical envelope to something more about feminism disguised as girl power on the last album already had the execs twitching at the idea of lost dollars. I had to throw my weight around to go that far, and I want to go further.”