Page 22 of Going Solo

“If we lean into it, though—if you come out to your dad and then we let them tell this story—we could be famous forever. We’d have something to leverage a career out of. Forever. This could be our big shot.”

Cole met my eyes. “I can’t risk that, Tobes. I want a career as an artist and songwriter. I want to be a serious musician.”

What he meant wasA novelty narrative might be your big shot, Toby, but it won’t be mine. And he was right. Deep down I knew I wasn’t going all the way in the competition, not in Robbie’s group, anyway. But Cole had a real shot. It wasn’t fair for me to ask him to risk that for me, let alone force him to come out to his dad so I could get what I wanted. I would have to use my charms and guile to stand out on telly instead.

“I know,” I said, sliding my hand onto his thigh under the table. “And you will be. I can feel it in me bones.”

Cole smiled. It lit up his face. He was so beautiful.

“Thank you for understanding, Tobes. I know how much your dreams mean to you too.”

“Of course.” I squeezed his leg. “I care about youso much.”

It was a masterful understatement. Care about him? This was love. Young love. First love. Body-engulfing, brain-soaking, intense-as-Shakespeare teenage love. I ached for Cole. I hated every minute I wasn’t with him. I would have done anything for him. I’d have opened my own chest and carved his initials into my heart with a rusty compass if he asked me to.

“I know.” His hand found mine under the table and squeezed it. “You know I care about you, too, right? Like,a lot.”

I nodded.

“I’m worried they’re not taking you seriously, Tobes. The way Robbie was talking, I feel like they’re disrespecting you.”

I pulled my hand away. “Did Robbie say something?”

“Nothing specific, but… why are you in Robbie’s group? It doesn’t make any sense.”

Clarity dawned. “It’s part of this romance narrative?”

It made sense. They needed us in the same group so we’d be around each other all the time so they could get us on camera together.

“Exactly.” Cole wiped his hands on a napkin. “You would have shone in Johanna’s group. Everyone knows it’s where you belong. I think you might be in Robbie’s group because of me. And I’m worried that’s ruined your shot. I’m sorry.”

I was fuming. Not at Cole. Not even at the show. I was angry with myself. I’d watched every single episode ofMake Me a Pop Star. Reality TV was my religion. I had an honorary degree in trash telly. And I’d fallen right into the oldest trap there was. Well, two could play at that game. I would not be turned into this season’s Jamie Struff. I felt a plan starting to form.

“This show lives and dies on manufactured narratives,” I said.

Cole’s eyebrows went up. “I’m listening.”

“Every storyline costs time and money to film and edit. If Robbie says they’ve decided to tell our story, they know how they want it to end. And I thinkweshould get to decide how our story ends—if it ends. We need to take charge of our narrative, babes.”

Cole’s thigh pressed into mine. “You’re very sexy when you’re worked up, do you know that?”

“They need us on camera together for this story to work. What if we refuse to give that to them?”

Cole nodded. “You mean if they don’t have the footage, they can’t tell the story?”

The best strategy, I suggested, was to keep our distance from each other on camera—to be aloof from one another. We could still hang out when the cameras weren’t around—I wasn’t going to give up our nights together after the crew had gone home and our overworked chaperones had passed out from exhaustion. But anytime we were on camera, or in a situation where a camera could easily turn up, we’d put a few good metres between us. If we were asked about each other, we’d be polite but evasive. No details. Absolutely nothing to indicate we knew each other so intimately that we’d permanently altered each other’s gut biomes.

“Are we agreed?”

Cole smiled. “Agreed.”

ChapterNine

Indira passed around the lyric sheets for the Bruno Mars hit “Marry You” to the fifteen boys in Robbie Johnswagger’s group. It was a sunny day, and we were rehearsing outside on the lawn. For the past few days, Cole and I had successfully given the producers the runaround. They’d try to get us into the same interview, and one of us would need the toilet. Whenever all the contestants were together, Cole would stand at one end of the group, and I’d stand at the other. When the cameras were around, Cole and I stayed at least ten feet apart. When they weren’t, we shagged until the skin shed from our knobs like potato peelings.

It was day six of the group stage, and I’d already clocked the producers wanted to put together a boy band. They had tried us in every variation imaginable—in combinations of threes, fours, fives, and sixes—testing how we looked and sounded together.

“When I call your name, come and line up over here,” Indira said, pointing to a patch of lawn by a tropical flower bed. “Yoshi. Chase. Duncan. Paul. Cole. Toby.”

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