I was on
cloud nine the rest of that night, giddy with excitement and disbelief. I pinched myself quite a few times, convinced
I had to be dreaming or hallucinating or something. I kept checking my phone, looking for
“PRIVATE CALLER” in my list of recent calls, to make sure there had actually
been a person on the other end of the line and I wasn’t just hearing
voices. Nick Carter! That person had been NICK CARTER!
The next
morning, reality sunk in. I woke up with
a feeling of dread in my stomach and quickly realized it was because of the
phone call – the phone call that had to have been part of a really incredible
dream. I checked my phone again, and my
heart leapt when I still saw the two calls from “PRIVATE CALLER” in my
log. For a moment, I was elated again –
it had really happened! In the next
instant, my heart plummeted.
I realized
he hadn’t left me any of his contact information. I didn’t even have his phone number, thanks
to the whole “PRIVATE CALLER” blocked call bullshit. Nor did I have any details whatsoever. All he’d told me was when the tour started –
and that I could have just looked up.
Hell, I’d already bought tickets to their show in Chicago in June. That was another thing that seemed fishy –
concert tickets had already gone on sale, but they still didn’t have an opening
act? I was no insider in the music
business, but to me, that was strange.
And he was going to just “fly me out there” two weeks before the first
show to “talk about the tour,” without even hearing any of my original
music? I didn’t even know where “out
here” was! I assumed Los Angeles, but I
wasn’t sure. Hadn’t he also bought a
place in Nashville? But the first show
was in Miami… maybe he’d meant Florida.
Who was I
kidding? I wasn’t flying to LA or
Nashville or Miami. It was all clearly a
joke. I’d been set up by someone – him
or Ellen or Ryan Seacrest or… someone!
I’d gotten punk’d.
I moped
around the rest of the week, devastated.
I told no one about the phone call.
I felt like enough of an idiot myself; I didn’t need everyone else to
know I was one, too.
Friday
after work, I went out with a few of my coworkers for a much-needed Happy
Hour. After a couple of drinks, I was
feeling better than I had in days. On my
way home from the bar, I rented a movie and picked up some comfort food and
more booze, ready to spend the rest of the night in, making myself forget Nick
Carter – or whoever could do such a dead-on impression of him – had ever called
me.
When I got
home, I fixed myself a rum and Diet Coke and sat down at my computer to check
my messages before I put in the movie. I
pulled up my email, and there, in my inbox, were two new message from
Twitter. One had the subject, “Direct
message from Nick Carter,” and the other, “Nick Carter is now following you on
Twitter!” I nearly choked on my drink. Managing to avoid spewing my keyboard with
rum and Coke, I clicked to open the first message.
Hi, Cary,
You have a
new direct message:
nickcarter:
is this the real cary? whats your
fav bsb song?
Reply on
the web at http://twitter.com/direct_messages/create/nickcarter
Send me a
direct message from your phone: NICKCARTER
I clicked
the link, and sure enough, it took me right to his Twitter page, his verified
Twitter page, with a box for me to send a message back. In it, I typed: It’s
really me. And as far as you know, my
favorite BSB song is Evergreen. ;) My hand shook as I reached for the mouse and
clumsily clicked the send button.
Then I sat
back in my chair, stunned. It was really
Nick Carter who had called me. And now I
had a way to contact him back, even if it was only through Twitter. It might have been the liquor, but suddenly,
the whole thing seemed real again.
I refreshed
Twitter and my email for the next hour, waiting for him to reply. When he didn’t, I finally got up and put in
my DVD, but I couldn’t focus on the movie.
I’d brought my laptop over to the couch with me, and I kept opening it
up, checking to see if I had any new messages.
Lying on
the couch with Hambelina curled up on my chest and my drink perched on the
coffee table beside me, I fell asleep before the end of the movie. When I woke up, Hambelina was gone, and my
Twitter page was showing several new tweets and one more direct message than
I’d had the last time I checked. I sat
up quickly and propped the computer on my lap, my finger fumbling over the
touchpad as I tried to get into my direct messages.
Sure
enough, the new one was from Nick.
nickcarter:
whats your address?
I was
disappointed that that was all he’d said, but I diligently responded with the
address of my apartment. I wondered why
he wanted it when he already had my phone number.
Though I
didn’t hear from him again all weekend, I found out why the following Tuesday,
almost a week after he’d first called, when I opened my mail to discover a
plane ticket tucked inside a plain envelope with no return address. The ticket was for a flight to Los Angeles
that left the next Saturday. There was a
handwritten note with it.
Tweet me to let me know you got this. I’ll have a car pick you up at the airport
and bring you to my place. See you next
Saturday. – Nick
***
Besides
tweeting Nick, there was a lot I had to do before the date printed on my plane
ticket.
First I had
to figure out my living situation. Nick
finally gave me his phone number, and I called him to find out all the details
he hadn’t made clear in his 140 character tweets. It was hugely reassuring to be able to plug
his number into my contacts and know that I could reach him, that I wouldn’t be
relying on Twitter alone as I flew into the great unknown. Nick promised to book me a hotel room in Los
Angeles for the two weeks I’d be there before tour rehearsals began, so at
least I knew I’d have a place to stay.
Then I had
to notify the nursing home that, once again, I was taking off to
California. It wasn’t exactly a two
weeks’ notice – Nick hadn’t given me that much time – but they didn’t take it
as such, anyway. The director was great,
and just as he had when I’d made it onto Idol,
he assured me that I’d always have a place there, if I wanted to come
back. With Idol, I’d always assumed I’d be back, unless I ended up winning. This time, I wasn’t so sure.
It was one
thing to be in a singing competition where the top prize was a recording
contract. It was another to be taken
under the wing of an established musician.
I would not only gain valuable stage experience opening for the
Backstreet Boys, but if Nick had been serious about helping me with my songs, I
would have a mentor all to myself. It
still seemed too good to be true.
I wasn’t
the only one who felt that way. My dad
tried to act happy for me when I broke the news to him, but I knew he was
concerned. I was his only daughter, and
he was the only family I had left. We
were both protective of each other. It
had been as hard for him to watch me go out to Hollywood for American Idol as it had been for me to
leave him behind. But with Idol, there had been a contract and
plenty of precedent for me to know what I was getting myself into. The only unknown was how long I’d last in the
competition. This time, it was different. The journey I was about to embark on was full
of unknowns.
To me, it
was exciting, but to my dad, I’m sure it was scary. He had always been a skeptic, and I knew he
was worried I’d be taken advantage of.
“It’s the chance of a lifetime,” I told him again and again. “It may be a risk, but it also may be my big
break. I need to do this.” And he needed to let me. At twenty-eight, I’d been on my own for
years, and I knew he couldn’t stop me from going, but I still wanted his
blessing.
He drove me
to the airport that Saturday and helped me with my luggage. Before I passed through security, he hugged
me tight and told me how much he’d miss me.
“I’ll miss
you, too,” I said, my voice muffled by his broad shoulder. “But I’ll see you in a couple months, in
Chicago.” I had already given him the tickets
I’d bought for the show in Highland Park, one of Chicago’s suburbs.
“I can’t
wait,” he replied, releasing me gradually.
Holding me at an arm’s length, he offered a proud smile. “You’re gonna have a blast, kiddo. Big things are gonna happen for you.”
I grinned
back. “This is pretty big on its own.”
“Thatta
girl,” he chuckled. “Keep that
attitude. That way you’ll stay humble
when you’re a big star.”
I laughed
and shook my head at the “big star” part.
“We’ll see…”
He clapped
me on the shoulder. “I love you, Cary,”
he said gruffly.
“Love you
too, Dad.”
“Call me
when you get there?”
“Of
course. Take good care of Hambelina for
me.”
He grunted
in reply to that, and I laughed. We
shared another quick hug, and then we separated. I joined the line to get through security,
while he turned to head back to the car.
The line moved surprisingly quickly, and before I knew it, I was waiting
at my gate for the plane, ready for my new journey to begin.
***