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That made him laugh.
By three o’clock we all looked fabulous—except John, who was still in his room.
“The van’s waiting,” I called, knocking. “Are you coming?”
I gasped when he opened the door.
“John!” I even took a step back. “Your beard! Your hair!”
He always wore a bushy beard and his hair had been longer and thicker than mine. Well, it had been. Now it was gone. It wasn’t quite as short as Dale’s, but almost! He had always looked to me like the long-haired hippie English professor and that’s pretty much what he was. The haircut and clean-shaven face gave him a totally different look.
“What’s Debra going to say?” I wondered out loud.
“It was her idea.” He grinned and blushed at the same time. “What do you think?”
“It makes you look younger.”
“Well that’s a plus!”
We got to see Debra’s when the van drove around to pick her up. Her eyes lit up and a slow smile spread across her face. And all of a sudden I felt like we needed to leave the two of them alone because she looked like she might eat him alive, which was rather awkward. She sat next to him and they held hands, talking quietly together for the rest of the ride.
And for some reason, I couldn’t stop smiling, the whole way there.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Sidney Clare’s studio was downtown New York. We met Ben at the door, along with Aimee and Matt. Greg wasn’t there but he left tickets for all of us. Someone came to direct special guests to their seats and a pretty brunette took Dale’s sleeve and said, “You’re coming with me.”
“Not with me, he’s not,” I countered, taking Dale’s other hand.
I’d been in green rooms before. Lots of snacks. Lots of waiting. I glanced at the clock. It was almost four and the rest of the guys in the band hadn’t arrived. I was getting worried.
“Greg did call them right?” I asked.
“I’m sure he did.” Dale looked nervous—as nervous as I felt.
The intro music for Sidney Clare’s show was starting. She a small woman who wore big, thick framed purple glasses—her trademark—and everyone said her name as if it was one word, SidneyClare. She was one of the more controversial talk-show hosts, pushing the boundaries of topic to the edge, although other talk show hosts were jumping on that bandwagon too. But her show wasn’t taped. It was live and whatever happened—happened. The audience loved it, both at the show and at home. People got angry, threw chairs, punched each other. Sometimes when I flipped by, there was a free-for-all brawl. She actually kept security guards standing sentry on either side of the stage for every show.
And she liked to surprise people for even greater impact. I remembered one story she did about a gay teenager who had a crush. She brought the crush on television under false pretenses and then sprang the gay crush on him. The crush didn’t appreciate it too much, and after the show, he had murdered the gay teen and then killed himself.
I glanced up at the screen and saw the show was starting. I felt Dale tense beside me.
“Turn it up!” he urged, feeling around on the couch for the remote. It was next to me on a table and I grabbed it, pushing “volume” until we could hear the end of Sidney Clare’s introduction.
“And here to talk about that is the man himself, Tyler Vincent!”
The crowd burst into applause.
“What’s he doing here?” I asked. “Is he giving you the award?”
It made some logical sense—Tyler had been the announcer at MTV’s Battle of the Bands, although he hadn’t been a judge. All the rumors already flying about nepotism were patently false. Tyler Vincent didn’t have a direct say in whether Black Diamond won—there was a whole panel of judges who had decided that.
“I don’t know.” Dale frowned at the screen. “But I don’t like it.”
I didn’t like it either.
Dale stood, arms crossed over his chest, as Sidney Clare asked Tyler questions about his music career, his movie career, his family, his wife. She’s lulling him into a false sense of security, I thought. I imagined her like a viper, ready to strike.
“So I know you’ve heard the reports, the rumors going around about Dale Diamond, lead singer of Black Diamond, being your son.”
