Mistaken For A Girl Singer - Chapter 6

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"Will you two, please get a move on!? I want you to have some breakfast before you go!" Terry and Chris' mother was shouting towards the living room from the stove where she was making French toast for the twins. Today was the day! Her babies were leaving and it had all happened so quickly. So unexpectedly.

"I'm right here, mom."

Terry said, coming into the kitchen.

"I've got everything packed and in the hallway. The girls won't be here for another forty-five minutes or so. There's plenty of time."

It didn't matter. Their mom was way too emotional to think clearly today. "Well, where is he? What is he doing?"

"She, mom. You have to remember that you don't have a son. You have two daughters. Where is SHE? What is SHE doing?"

"Alright! Where is SHE and what is SHE doing!?"

"Ironing."

"WHAT!?"  "She's ironing. After she packed up all of her clothes for Nashville, she needed something to wear today. She looked through my closet and found a box of clothes that I wore in my junior and senior years of high school. She took it to her room and, this morning she tells me that she found something she liked, but it was wrinkled, so... she's ironing it."

"Does she even know HOW to iron?"  "I guess so. She asked me where the spray starch was."

"Spray starch?" Mom let out a little, surprised laugh. "I should have put that boy in dresses years ago! I hate ironing."

It was Monday morning. Five days since the girls had signed their recording contracts. It had been a whirlwind five days, too! Setting up new business accounts for the girls. Shopping for everything they'd need especially for Chrissie who had nothing appropriate to start with.

Then the hard-working schedule that the girls had set up for themselves; four to six hours of rehearsal every day, at least a few hours of writing for Margo, Terry, and Chrissie.

Chrissie had downloaded some recording software and read and watched tutorials online to learn how to work in a studio. The resulting files were very good - not professional quality, but very good. They all felt good about their ability to do well in the studios in Nashville.

Above and beyond all this, Chrissie had been practicing how to do his makeup and hair so that he wouldn't have to rely solely on the other girls. He was surprisingly good at it, now. Today he was insisting on picking out his own outfit - that was a first. For the last ten days, Terry had handed his daily attire to him every morning.  Terry came up behind her mom at the stove and wrapped her arms around her waist, hugging her back.

"I know it's hard to face, but our little girl is all grown up, now, and she's leaving the nest."  Mom laughed and turned to hug Terry correctly.

"Oooooo. Both my babies are leaving my nest." She hugged her harder. "I am going to miss you both so, so, so much! Call me every day.

Ok!?"

"Of course we will. And you can come down anytime you want. We may be back soon if things don't go well!"

"Nonsense. You, girls, are amazing and they know that. You're going to take them by storm!"  They hugged again. Then, they heard a quiet cough from the doorway. They remained in the hug but turned to see Chris.

His hair was brushed and shining with a couple of bobby pins on each side pulling it back off of his face. His make-up was understated and beautiful. He was wearing a short, simple string of pearls with matching earrings and his shoes were two-inched-heeled sandals with very thin, white straps surrounding his pink-painted toenails.

The most startling thing though was his choice of dress. It was a little, navy-blue shirt dress with little white polka dots and tiny cap sleeves.

The feminine lapels dove down to a modestly sexy bust line, then three little, white buttons held the garment tightly around his slender abdomen, and, just above the hips, it skirted out into a softly draped, pleated skirt that just touched his knees.

He was the picture of a pretty girl and, since the dress was actually a hand-me-down from Terry, it was just the tiniest bit too big on him, making him look just slightly younger than usual.  Both Terry and her mom smiled and let out a quiet, maternal, "Oh."

"Do I look ok?" He spun around so that they could see the back of the dress.

"I don't look stupid, do I?"

"Oh, baby," Mom said with great pride as she crossed to him and turned him so she could tighten the bow in the back of the dress a little and thereby pull the dress a little tighter around his form.

"You look absolutely perfect." Then she turned him around again to face her, hugged his face in her hands, and kissed him firmly on his forehead.  Mom asked Terry to come join them in a group hug. As she kissed Terry's cheek and then leaned down a little to kiss Chris, she said, "I love you both, so much! Now, you two take care of each other. There is no one in the world more important to a girl than her sister.

I am so glad that you each have one to rely on." She released them and ushered them to the table. "And, now - eat your French toast before you have to go."  Terry laughed a little. "Well, this will probably be the last French toast we eat in a while. According to Evan, we're going to be "in training" starting tomorrow. Strict diets and a personal trainer to get us ready for pictures when the album is done."

"Mmm," Chris mumbled through his nibble of food, "Sounds like fun. I can't wait."  The rented van was in the driveway and the instruments and suitcases were inside as 9:00 rolled around. There were hugs and kisses and tears and promises to call and then they were on their way to Tennessee.

Fourteen hours later, five very tired members of Dusty Rose walked into the beautiful, four-bedroom suite of their hotel, called dibs on which room belonged to which, and, as quickly as possible crawled under the covers.

Terry and Chris took the master bedroom with the king-sized bed, which they shared, and the lights went out. The last thing that Chris heard before drifting off to sleep was Terry whispering, "So, this is life in the fast lane."

There was a knocking on the door on Tuesday morning. All the girls tried to ignore it, hoping that someone else would answer it. Finally, Chris rolled out of bed and headed out towards the door. He was still wearing the little polka-dot dress. It was wrinkled. He was barefoot and his hair was a mess and his makeup wasn't looking very fresh.

"What!?" he said a little more tersely than he intended.  There was a very pretty and obviously very fit woman at the door with a shopping cart full of yoga mats and exercise equipment. "Good morning, sleepy-head. Time to get to work!"

The voice was way too cheery for this time of the morning. "Which one are you and where are the others?" And she pushed past Chris into the suite.  "I'm Chris. They're asleep. Who are you and what time is it?"

"I'm Denise" She smiled at Chris, but when there was no indication of recognition, she continued, "Your personal trainer. I know they emailed that I would be here this morning.

It's 6:15 and you girls are supposed to be ready for me every weekday at 6:15. They have a lot of confidence in you girls and they want you to look your very best for the cameras."  Chris processed this information while Denise walked around him and appraised his body.

"Not much meat on you, is there? Well, we'll do what we can!" Then she walked from bedroom door to bedroom door, swinging them open and turning on lights while shouting, "Good morning, ladies! Let's get our cute little butts in gear!"

Eventually, Chris was joined by the four other equally tired and disheveled members of Dusty Rose in the common room. They all squinted at Denise as she spoke, nonstop, in her energetic manner. "This is not a good way to start, girls!

I work for American Records, too, and my job is to make you as fit as possible in the next three or four weeks, so, here's the deal: Every morning, Monday through Friday, for the length or your stay at this hotel, I will walk through this door at 6:15 on the dot and I will find five, beautiful, young women ready to exercise. Is that clear? '

You will be wearing appropriate exercise clothing; shorts and tee shirts or, preferably yoga pants or leotards. Is that clear? I will give you an outline of a healthy diet to follow and you will do it without argument. Is that clear?"  Everyone nodded and grunted in agreement while rubbing their eyes and shaking the sleep out of their heads.

"Now, which one is the face of this crew?"  Confused stares from everyone.  "Who is the lead singer?"  The other four pointed to Chris, who realized that, except for Denise, no one else had said a word since being roused from their beds.

"Hmm." Denise gave him another look-over.

"Well, you're pretty enough, I guess, but not exactly built like a brick outhouse, are you?"  Chris was stunned.

The other girls jumped in with one-syllable shouts of defense, "Hey!" "What?" "Huh?",  "Sorry, what's your name, sweetness?"

"Chrissie."

"Chrissie, Sorry, Chrissie, but this is my job. One thing I am glad to see, though, is that you all seem like a team, so we can work together.

"Now, after we finish our workout in this room, I have reserved the hotel pool for a half hour on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, so, starting tomorrow, we will 'cool off' by swimming laps we'll start with, say, fifty minutes tomorrow and work our way up from there.

On pool days, we will finish up by 8:00. I assume you can all swim, right?"

"Yes..." came a unison, unenthusiastic response.

Then, suddenly realizing a problem, Chris shouted, "No! I can't!"  "Can't what? Swim, or just go swimming, because if it's just you're period, I can give you some guidance there..."

"No, umm. I can swim and it's not, well. it's not THAT!

But, well... ummm. Oh! I didn't pack a suit! Sorry!"

"Oh," Denise remarked with feigned pity, "that's too bad, little girl." Then her manner changed back to her former drill sergeant persona. "Let's see.

I know that you just got paid more to sign a contract than I will make in the next seven months, so, maybe after you girls meet the company big-wigs and get settled into the studio today, you might find a store that sells swimsuits SOMEWHERE in this teeny-tiny city! What do you think?

It is, after all, the capital of Tennessee - there must be a store someplace in this little town that sells swimsuits! Don't you think!?"  Chris tried to think of something to say, but Margo jumped in.

"It's ok, Chrissie. I'll help you with it. Don't worry."

But Chris was worried! Where would he hide his 'junk' in a bathing suit for God's sake! And this was the FIRST DAY that he was away from home trying to pull this off! This didn't bode well!

Denise let them off that morning. She left the equipment she'd brought for future use in the suite and gave them some paperwork with diet guidelines pretty restrictive, mostly a vegan diet with some fish or eggs allowed here and there - and left them with a warning that she would not be so nice to them tomorrow and left them to start getting ready for their day.

Each room had a shower, so they all set about preparing for the day. They had picked out the clothes they wanted to wear to impress everyone and they did everything that they could to look like the country stars they admired the most.

By 8:45, the suite smelled of singed hair from curling and straightening irons, hairspray, makeup, and subtle, "daytime" colognes. Their stomachs were so full of butterflies that no one could even consider breakfast.

At 9:30, they were greeted by a receptionist in the offices of American Records.

They were led to a conference room in which there were seven men and two women including the president of the company, some lower-level executives who would be overseeing production, marketing, and promotional things, their recording engineer, Mark Johnston, their producer, the legendary Alan Bennett and Evan Stewart, who they had met and who had offered them this opportunity just a few days ago.

They met for more than an hour and the words just spun around the heads of the members of Dusty Rose. They frequently looked to each other to see if anyone understood the corporate talk and legalese of the record company execs.

Margo passed a note to Terry and Chris at one point, 'Should we call one of our parents to come down and hear this?' Terry grabbed the note and wrote back, 'No! Man-up! Grow a pair!' Margo read it and smiled and wrote on the note again, sliding it back to Terry, 'Maybe we should let Chris take over. He has two pairs.

One above and one below."

Terry read it and almost burst out laughing. She passed the note to Chris, whose face turned blood red. He crumpled the note and threw it into a nearby waste basket.

Finally, after they had all been numbed by the meeting, one of the women, Ellen Jacobs, who had been introduced as their company liaison, "You need anything at all, ladies, ANYTHING!, you tell Ellen and she'll get it for you!" they'd been told, led them to an elevator and down to the recording studio.

"This is it girls! Your home-away-from-home for the next month. This is yours 24/7.

You can practice without the staff if you want, or you can have all hands on deck to record you. Whatever you need, different guitars, a piano, a sitar whatever we have it and I can get it for you!"

The place was amazing! Wood-paneled rooms with huge microphone stands everywhere.

Their own instruments had been brought up and set up in their basic rehearsal circle and there were microphones set up in front of each of their amplifiers.

"Holy cow!" Gina said as she looked at the elaborate mic-ing system around her drum kit. "This is so, effenin' cool!"  They all moved with wide eyes to their instruments and looked at all the equipment surrounding them. For the first time since they arrived, they started talking. It was a non-stop din of chatter as they looked around at everything.

"Well, it looks like we're ready to start!" came a man's voice through the speaker system. They all got silent and looked around. "In the booth. Look at the big window."

They did and from inside, they saw the smiling face of Alan Bennett as he waved out to them. "What we're going to do for the next couple of hours, ladies, is just have you play through a few of your songs so I can get a feel for them, and Mark, our engineer, can get an idea of how you play so we know how to proceed. Sound good?"

They all agreed.

"Chrissie," Alan Bennett said through the speakers, "you can sing from the studio while we rehearse, but you'll record from that booth over there when the time comes. Ok?"

Chris nodded that he understood.

"And one last thing, girls," He said and there was a little laughter in his voice, "you all look beautiful today, but recording is a long, hard process and I'd rather you were comfortable, so starting tomorrow, dress like you would for an ordinary rehearsal in your old space. Leave the high heels and perfect hair for the public.

Here, you can be yourselves. Alright?" They smiled and nodded. "Alright! Let's hear what you do!"  Then, until 1:00 when they broke for lunch, Dusty Rose played their songs and, with each new song they sang, they could tell that Alan was more and more impressed!

They broke for lunch.    Just outside of the studio was a moderately sized cafeteria with a huge variety of choices. The band was allowed to order first. While they were looking at the menu, they chatted with the crew they would be working with.

Chris was standing and talking to Margo and one of the technicians when  Margo elbowed Chris and pointed in the direction of Terry.

"Look at that!"

Margo whispered to him. Across the room, Terry was standing alone with  Mark, the recording engineer. Mark was in his mid-twenties, very tall, six feet two or more, and very handsome. Short, neat, full head of hair. Blue eyes behind steel-rimmed glasses. Well dressed in khakis and a polo shirt.

Terry's body language was readable even from across the room. She was flirting, no doubt about it and, you could tell by Mark's body language,  too, that he was flirting right back.

Just then, Ellen burst into the room and hollered in a not-very businesslike manner, "Margo, Terry, and Christine! I need to see you all in  the booth  Right Now!"

As if a teacher had just scolded them, the two girls and Chris walked shamefacedly out of the cafeteria, across the hall, and into the recording booth where they found Evan sitting in Mark's chair looking pretty upset.

Ellen slammed the door behind her and looked into the studio to ensure they were alone. When she turned on the group there was fire in her eyes.  She slammed a crumpled note onto the console and, with almost no control  left in her voice, she growled, "What the fuck is this all about!?"

It was the note that Terry and Margo had passed back and forth during the meeting.

No one said a word.

"What are you, a faggot? Take off that dress and let me see your body!"

Chris was stunned and couldn't make a move or a sound.    "Did you hear me!" She yelled! "I will not lose my job because some little fairy wants to play games and 'pretend' to be a girl! You got that,  Sally!" She had moved very close to Chris's face and her anger was pouring out of her. "So, you prove to me that you are a bitch, or you get our pansy ass out of my recording studio! You have three seconds!

One!"

No one moved.

"Two!"

Evan slammed his hand on the console, "Ellen come on,"

"Three!"

"That's enough!" The voice came from the doorway. Alan Bennett had entered unnoticed at some point and had obviously heard a lot. "I've heard plenty  of this conversation, Ellen, and you are way out of line here!"

"Look at this note!"

She handed him the note.

He read it calmly folded it and put it in his pocket.

"And?"

"And? And that's a boy!

We can't promote a band with a boy pretending to be a girl!

This can't be kept quiet! We'll be ruined!"

Alan looked at Evan. A question passed between them. Chris saw it. Alan was definitely asking Evan if Ellen knew for sure.

Evan shook his head in response.

Alan Bennett took a deep breath and let it out again. "Alright. Girls, go get some lunch and relax. In about an hour, we're going to try to lay down some scratch tracks on a couple of songs. Evan, you take them. Ellen, you  and I need to have a nice long, calm conversation right here."

"No, we do not!"