Fifteen Minutes

6

Chandra Olson sat back in her seat while her makeup artist worked a brush full of loose powder over her cheeks and forehead. Auditions were under way. Touch-ups for the camera happened after every ten singers or if any of the judges needed a break. This one was called by Kelly Morgan. Her recent Botox injections were making her shinier than usual. At least that’s what she said.

Chandra kept quiet, taking in the moment. Analyzing it.

The judges on the panel for the tenth season of Fifteen Minutes had been handpicked by the show’s infamous producer, Samuel J. Meier. Over the past decade, national singing competitions had come and international contests had gone. But Fifteen Minutes remained. The show had topped the ratings chart every year since its inception and after ten seasons everyone knew the reason for the show’s success.

The reason was Samuel J. Meier.

Tan, blond, and fit, Meier was in his late thirties, a machine with a net worth in the hefty nine figures. Everything Meier touched turned to gold. He had produced five successful pop artists, all of whom had multiple records with platinum sales. Meier hadn’t only produced the artists, he’d written most of their music.

His talent was world-renowned, his name synonymous with pop music success. When the first singing competition show came around, Meier quit working with artists and started Fifteen Minutes. The show debuted the next year. In an interview Meier once explained why he created a singing competition when one already existed. Simple. He could do better. Fifteen Minutes drew the best talent and the best production, delivering polished emotional pieces on the contestants’ lives and making America feel personally connected to everyone in the top twenty.

Meier had explained a number of times that success was an intangible. There was no way to figure out the formula for what worked and what didn’t. But this Meier knew . . . He needed to stay ahead of the curve. Over the last decade a number of singing shows had come along and tried to knock Fifteen Minutes off its platform. Meier managed to keep the edge. One way, he had told reporters, was through the judges he chose. They had to be as likable as the finalists. No one scandalous or scantily dressed. The panel would never have someone whose reputation was in any way tarnished, no one who had ever been labeled by paparazzi as a failure or a joke or a has-been. Fifteen Minutes paid its judges well and expected articulate commentary and feedback. Meier kept certain judges, but he also liked bringing in newcomers.

Chandra closed her eyes while the artist dusted her brows. She and Kelly Morgan were new this year and after six weeks on the road they were friends. As far as that was possible. The panel was rounded out this year by longtime judge Cullen Caldwell, a colorful Australian-born hit songwriter whose expertise and talent analysis were unprecedented. Cullen added a level of credibility and eccentricity. He used Down Under slang and spoke with a charming Australian accent. He kept his head shaved and owned an entirely white wardrobe with accessories in bold colors. His spot color today was a red sweatband that accentuated his white jeans and V-neck. The combo would’ve looked ridiculous on anyone else. Somehow Cullen pulled it off. Women were crazy about him.

The judges were expected to bring something to the table. Cullen brought expertise and sarcasm. Not the sort of sarcasm that demeaned contestants but the sort that drew a laugh from the home audience and even the other judges. Cullen was funny, no question.

Kelly Morgan brought her famed history, musical flair and her ability to spot talent. She could be hard- hitting, but over the last five weeks she’d found her stride with the contestants. Once the show aired, people would hate Kelly at times for her biting remarks. Meier would be fine with that. Kelly was pretty enough to pull it off. America would love her either way.

The compassion this season would come from Chandra. Meier had made that clear from the beginning. Chandra wouldn’t have done it any other way. In the last seven cities she’d been moved to tears a handful of times. She, more than anyone, understood the depth of the dream, the impossibility of it. The cost.

Kelly sat in the middle, and now she leaned in close to Chandra. “I’m not impressed with this group. That last girl was pathetic. She’d be laughed out of a karaoke bar.”

“The next ten might be better.” Chandra had to agree about the first several groups. No one really stood out. She’d done her part, done it as easily as she breathed, giving the contestants a sad smile and the suggestion that maybe there was another dream they could follow. Painting or writing. That sort of thing.

But as each dejected or devastated singer walked out of the room Chandra silently celebrated. They could go home unchanged, unharmed. Whatever life they’d left behind would be waiting for them. Nothing lost. No psycho fans waiting on the front porch for their unsuspecting parents.

Kelly pulled out a compact and checked her look. “Love that Botox.” She glanced at Chandra. “You use it?”

“No.” Chandra allowed a confused laugh. “How old do you think I am?”

The question seemed to catch Kelly off guard. She turned and stared at Chandra. “You could be twenty-five or forty-five.” The compact caught her attention again. “You know what they say. Black don’t crack.”

“True.” Chandra laughed. Inside she felt sorry for Kelly. The girl was a piece of work. So totally consumed with herself that she barely noticed anything about her surroundings or the people who made up her world. At least that’s what Chandra thought so far. “Twenty-five. I’m twenty-five.”

“Well, good for you.” Kelly added a fresh layer of lip-gloss, her eyes glued to her image. “You’ll be just as stunning in twenty years. Botox or not.” She stopped and looked at Chandra. “How many Twitter followers?”

The question felt jarring. “I don’t know. Ten million or so.”

Kelly shrugged and smacked her lips, her eyes back on the compact. “Me, too. That’ll double once the show airs.”

“Yeah.” Chandra wanted to think of something clever to say, something about how it didn’t matter how many followers they had as long as they were true to themselves. Nothing came to mind. Besides, Kelly wouldn’t hear her, anyway. She was going on about how her boyfriend didn’t know about the Botox and how she felt flabby if she didn’t work out twice a day. Chandra tuned her out. The sky behind them was brilliant blue. The judges’ table was set up in front of an expansive window that gave a stunning view of downtown Atlanta and an expanse of the day’s cloudless sky. The room was airy and spacious, and the table was made of chunky hundred-year-old wood planks from some local teardown. The feel of the set was warm and inviting, vintage and high-end.

Cullen was talking to Samuel J. Meier, who was nodding and frowning appropriately. The producer made a point of being at every taped audition. Like a consummate director, Meier would give the judges praise and pointers, check the lighting and angles caught by the cameramen, and talk with the sound guys about music and production. Meier prided himself for being a hands-on producer, and today was no exception.

Whatever was being said, Cullen was upset. Chandra tried to hear the conversation.

“I thought we were looking for different stories this year. Something new.” Cullen snapped a document with his hand and slapped it on the table. “The best we can do in the next ten singers is three waitresses and two Christians? That’s not different. We can’t lose ratings, not if we want to stay on top. You know that.”

“Trust me.” Meier’s tone was respectful, clearly concerned about his top judge’s opinion. But he hardly looked worried. “The Bible series broke records on the History Channel. America will love these contestants.” He smiled, patience marking his expression. “You know the drill. It worked last year. It’ll work again.”

“I don’t know, mate. Have you checked the Fifteen Minutes hashtags on Twitter?” Cullen sat back hard, his red headband wrinkling with his brow. “More Jesus talk than ever.”

“Jesus talk brings in viewers, Cullen. Nothing new there.”

“Yeah, well, I want different. Rodeo blokes and strippers. Hot-air balloonists and medical students. That sort of thing.”

“We’ll have those. Don’t worry.”

Chandra could hear every word and she felt uncomfortable. Something about the way Samuel Meier spoke about his strategy troubled her. She held a finger up to Kelly, who was still talking to her compact. “Hold on.” She sat a little straighter. “Mr. Meier, excuse me. What’s this? A strategy?”

Meier stopped cold. He wore a tailored charcoal suit jacket over a pale aqua V-neck and expensive dark skinny jeans. His blond hair couldn’t have been more perfectly styled. “Strategy?” He hesitated, then found his smile again. “Oh. That.” He clearly hadn’t intended for Chandra to hear him. “It’s nothing.”