Being Audrey Hepburn

My brain felt like a piece of paper that someone had ripped in half. If anybody in this car was a phony, we all know who would get the prize. The contradictions were too great. Galileo licked the tears off Tabitha’s face.

“I feel like such a fake,” she said.

“Your fans don’t seem to feel that way,” I remarked. Including me, I wanted to add.

Tabitha shook her head and practically snorted in disgust. “I was counting on Mother to put a stop to this, but now I have to go back into the studio to record another album. They won’t let me stop, even though I told them I wouldn’t tour. I totally freaked out on stage last time.”

“What do you want to do?” I asked.

Tabitha made a sad laugh. “I wanted to go to veterinarian school and work in an animal shelter.” I worried she might burst into tears again. “I like animals.” No way.

I squeezed her hand. “So why didn’t you?”

“Are you kidding? They weren’t about to let me become an unglamorous vet in this family. They’d have to get Do

She was so grim that I wasn’t sure if she was kidding. “Tabitha Eden: celebrity veterinarian,” I said. Tabitha laughed. “Well, why can’t you do what you want now?”

“You’d be surprised what I can’t do. Too many people decide what I get to do. I feel awful. Ever since I can remember, I’ve always felt awful. I know one second I’m fine, smiling, and then I can barely say hello. Like I’m not even a person, and everyone in the room knows. One minute, I can see myself in the mirror, and the next, the mirror shatters and I’m gone, and there’s no way to get myself back. And I think, maybe everyone is that way, but I know they’re not. You’re the only one I know who doesn’t seem to be weirded out around me.”

I tried to think of what I could say, but we heard Mocha over the intercom. “Excuse me, Miss Eden, we’re here.”

Tabitha nodded and turned to face me.

“Lisbeth, you’re my angel. You appeared out of nowhere to rescue me. You have to help me.” Her eyes said everything—sadness, desperation, and the tiniest hope that I could change her life. Boy, did she have the wrong girl.

“I’ll do whatever I can,” I answered.

33

Max, Tabitha’s guitarist, stood outside the studio entrance smoking a cigarette, bored as usual.

“Are they pissed?” Tabitha asked, wiping away the last of her tears as we made our way inside.

“Why? Because you’ve kept them waiting two and a half hours? Nah, they have their toys to play with.”

As we entered together, Galileo leapt from Tabitha’s arms and ran ahead. The receptionist, bookish in black-rimmed glasses with multicolored tattoos on her arms and neck, introduced herself as Brit.

“Hello, Miss Eden, you’re in studio A today,” she said. “Can I get you a Pellegrino, cappuccino, lemonade, or…?”

“I’ll take a lemonade with tequila,” Tabitha answered without stopping as she pushed open the studio door. I guess when life gave Tabitha lemons, she couldn’t help grabbing the tequila and salt.

Upon entering studio A, we were met by a massive wall of sound—bright, bubbly pop with a driving shake-your-body bottom beat. I knew the patented Tabitha Eden signature sound, and it felt like entering a club. I wanted to dance, but the music stopped abruptly as Tabitha entered.

“The Princess of Pop has arrived!” said a guy, younger than me, as we walked in. He seemed like an intern but wasn’t acting like one. He had dark curly hair and the kind of beard a guy grows when he can’t grow one. He seemed to be a mix of Latino and Jewish. His warm welcome put me instantly at ease. Galileo barked at him.

“Hey Be

“You’re too kind, Tabby,” Be

Brit entered with Tabitha’s drink and placed it on the table in front of her. She grabbed it and took a long draw.

“Kind of early for the tequila gargle?” Be

“It’s for my voice,” she said and gave him a defensive scowl. “Don’t give me shit just because you’re too young to buy alcohol legally.” She noticed me watching and became a little self-conscious.

“You don’t want to let her drink alone, do you?” Be

“No thanks,” I said, grabbing a bottle of water off the bar for myself. “I’m good.”

“Cool, then come on. While Tabitha warms up, I’ll introduce you to da crew,” Be

Designed like a small amphitheater, the studio had a massive soundboard in the middle with automated sliders, buttons, and blinking LEDs, and at the bottom was a big glass room for musicians and singers. As we descended the levels to the main area, I noticed the framed gold and platinum CDs on the wall, four of them Tabitha’s.

“This is where we make the hits,” Be

“Those girls inside the fishbowl are our secret weapon—the backup babes, especially Oleta; she’s our gospel diva,” Be

The main room was strewn with lots of coffee cups and Chinese food containers. It was pretty clear that everyone had been working for quite some time while waiting for the Princess of Pop. There were laptops plugged into the main board and mini keyboards everywhere. Every few minutes, we would hear a bouncy beat or a mean riff being played, but everything was on a computer or prerecorded in some way. As far as I could tell, no one was playing an actual instrument. I guessed Max was only there for emergencies.

Tuning and adjusting the sliders and knobs on the enormous soundboard in the middle of the room was this superserious guy, tall and thin, wearing red Converse sneakers, light-gray jeans, a gray shirt, and a pencil-thin black tie.

“Come on, guys, let’s finalize your kicks and synths so I can run the premix,” he demanded. “I’ve got another session after this.” The three engineers working with him scuttled about.

“And this is my partner, Dr. K,” Be

“I can see that,” I said and giggled. Dr. K rolled his eyes and managed a tepid smile.

“Come on, Be

“Thanks for the tour,” I said. “I don’t want to get in the way. I’ll find my way back up to the couches and chairs at the top.” He did a fu

Tabitha was walking down as I made my way up. I stopped and gave her a hug, but she was already in her tough-ass mode and didn’t seem to need it. She joined Dr. K at the big soundboard. He gave her a set of headphones and seemed to be teaching her the song that they had already written and produced the tracks for.

“It won’t work,” I overheard her say. And then a few moments later, “That’s not what I want to do.”

They seemed to be arguing over the song. Dr. K would try to convince her, and although there was a give-and-take, from my vantage point, she seemed to always get her way. Be

Up top near the entrance, I sat down next to Max, who appeared to be nodding off. Right behind us was a craft-services table on the back wall, loaded down with fresh fruit, sandwiches, cookies, a full bar, and enough sweets to stock Dylan’s Candy Bar for a week. Seriously, there was more food than at my house and almost as much alcohol.