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Ways of Life That Never Happened to Brian and Justin 7: Starlet
Summary: The Peterson twins, Brian and Lindsay, dominate their high school's musical theater department, starring in the annual musical year after year. A new student, a child star named Justin Taylor, threatens to change that.
---
Justin Taylor's first day at Pittsburgh Schenley High School begins at five in the morning, when he wakes up extra-early to beat the reporters. It seemed like a clever idea the night before, when he decided to set his alarm clock as early as possible, but now it seems like the worst idea ever conceived by mankind, probably because by the time he went to sleep, it was almost midnight.
For the past six days, reporters have decided that the lawn in front of Justin's house is an excellent camping ground, despite the "Private Property" signs posted all over the grass. (The police apparently have no interest in salvaging Justin's social life, such as it isn't, and have declined to chase the newscasters away.) However, everyone has to sleep sometime, and Justin's father announced two days ago that they disappear once the lights go off. This means that they have been walking around in utter darkness for several days so as to confuse the reporters. Alas, this has little to no impact on them - only the electric bill.
Justin showers quickly and quietly, so by the time his watch alerts him to the fact that it is four hours before he would like to get up - five-fifteen - he is already dressed and is just shoving the last few pages of summer homework into his backpack. By five-twenty, he is out the door and in the backseat of his driver's car. The driver, a man named Vic, finds the scattered reporters asleep on the lawn infinitely amusing.
The school is nothing like Lakewood High School, where Justin had been going until he was cast in his last movie, some shit about spoiled brats in their posh New Mexico school who were way too pale to really live there. Lakewood High was gorgeous and huge, the entire campus both beautiful and terrifying. The kids were all rich or famous in one way or another, and Justin hated it with a passion.
Pittsburgh Schenley High School looks like a shithole, so Justin has high, high hopes for it.
---
"Hey! Watch it!"
Justin yawns at length and turns to see who it is that he offended. When he sees a short, thin brunette, he blinks and realizes that the big voice is coming from a tiny person.
"Sorry," he says, trying not to laugh.
The girl eyes him with a glare, trying to figure out if he means it. Justin, ever the actor, puts on a remorseful face, but the girl's not buying it.
"You aren't." She sticks out a hand with unmanicured fingernails, and Justin glances at his own nails, perfect as always, and sighs. She's one of those. "I'm Melanie Marcus," the girl says.
"Justin," Justin replies. He excluded his last name to prevent fawning, but Melanie is already sizing him up, eyeing him curiously.
"Justin Taylor," she tells him, as if he didn't already know. Hello, it's all over the papers. Of course he knows.
Cautiously, Justin agrees. "Ye-e-e-e-s."
Melanie nods and walks all around him, looking him over. Then she leans closer and murmurs to him conspiratorily. "Look, I'm sorry you have to get a lesson in high school politics on your first day here, but if you're hoping to get involved in theater here, don't. There's these two kids who are, um, kind of a step ahead of you on that front."
Justin furrows his brow. "What do you…?"
They are interrupted by a clacking of high heels against the linoleum floor. A shrill voice is chattering with every click of her heels. "Okay, so Deb says she's not going to start auditions until November, like in sophomore year. So that gives us some time."
"Not really, though," comes a deeper voice, a smooth coat of honey over a sarcastic sneer. "Because we still have to prepare our songs, charm our asses off, and work on accentuating our resumés. Not to mention the whole college business."
Justin slowly turns, mostly because the guy has a hot voice. But also, Melanie is staring at the backs of the people's heads with loathing mixed with a kind of intrigue. He and Melanie simultaneously step backwards around the figures' bodies to stand off to the side, staring at their profiles.
They are exactly who Justin would have imagined from the shrill, entitled voices. The boy is a tall, chiseled brunet in an expensive-looking black vest and a pair of trouser jeans. Beside him is a slender blonde in four-inch black heels, a pink plaid skirt and a matching cardigan. Both of them have perfect hair. Justin groans.
"Melanie Marcus!" exclaims the boy of the pair in a drawl that Justin suspects is not entirely new for him. "Only Monday morning and already you've stopped looking new and shiny. Who's the friend? A new beard?"
Melanie clucks her tongue and looks at Justin in a tired, familiar way that makes him feel as if she's already given him this same look, although Justin's sure that she hasn't. "This," Melanie says smugly, "this is Justin Taylor. From those Disney movies."
The blonde girl eyes Justin and tosses her hair. "You must have heard of me," she says smoothly. "I'm Lindsay Peterson. My brother and I are nationally reknowned."
Justin nearly chokes on a snort. Nationally reknowned? Who talks like that? Not to mention that he's never heard of her. But he puts on his game face - a huge, fake, charming smile usually used for reporters - and looks Lindsay right in the eye. "Yes, I think I have," he says brightly. "Remind me again what it is you were in?"
He's taking a gamble assuming that she's an actress, but nobody dresses like that and is known for anything other than acting or modeling, and somehow he doubts that she's doing the latter if her brother is in on it too.
Lindsay smiles sweetly. "Well, a number of things. Brian and I really do get around in the theater department. But we've done summerstock on Broadway, if that's what you're asking. We were in one of the latest revivals of Grease."
"Oh," Justin says, pretending to be impressed. After all, the silver screen trumps the White Way, as far as he's concerned. "I haven't been to New York in a while, but I do think that I've seen you before. Have you done any solo acting?"
"No," the boy beside the blonde interjects. "Our contracts specify that we don't work without each other. One can be the lead and one can be in the chorus, whatever, but we don't - "
" - act by yourselves," Justin interrupts. "Interesting. Is it purely social, or…?"
A bell rings. Lindsay heads off in one direction, and her brother in another. Melanie clasps her hand around Justin's wrist and leads him down another hallway.
"Listen," Melanie hisses as she drags him down the hall to an unspecified venue. "I get that you're all bright and smiley, but you can't go messing with the Petersons. Your acting may be great and all, but there's no such thing as a match for them."
Justin pauses in his steps. "What do you mean?" he asks warily.
Melanie sighs dramatically. "Justin, Pittsburgh Schenley is known for its drama program. And that came after they got here. The Petersons made us famous. They're so good, they do Broadway almost every summer. So they're definitely good enough for PSHS. I'm sorry if you wanted to do theater here, but… they do it every year. There's really no negotiation there."
Justin looks as if he's about to say something, then thinks better of it and purses his lips. When he opens his mouth again, he is nearly smiling. He looks at Melanie and crosses his arms over his chest. "Not this time."
---
Justin steps into his second-period class and swears inside his head. Great. The other Peterson kid, what's his name, is here. Justin's not sure he ever heard his name, but he did see his face, and he knows that he's absolutely gorgeous.
But keep it cool, Justin. Keep it cool. No expression. The typical child star beam, nothing more. Level.
To be exact, the teen heartthrob of musical theater is sitting in the fifth row all the way over on the left, his loafers kicked up on the desk. A black leather bag, distinctively Italian, sits at his side. He is surrounded by a gaggle of girls, but he does not pay them one iota of attention. He snaps his fingers - manicured, of course - and points to a short, heavy girl with thick glasses who couldn't look happier to be acknowledged by him. "You," he says. "Go get me a latte."
Fierily committed, the girl nods empassionedly. "Where do you want it from?"
The Peterson boy sighs. "Come on, Nicole, don't you know anything? I only drink coffee from Starbucks and nothing but Starbucks."
"N-Natalie," the girl stammers, getting up and hoisting her fake Vuitton over her shoulder. "I'll be right back with your latte, Brian."
Brian. Justin tries out the name in his head. Brian. It has the same cold, unaffectionate ring as Lindsay. Impersonal. Devoid of the warmth of the softer vowels. Justin sings for a living - sings and talks - and he can analyze names and words and sounds with the best of them. He searches the room for an aesthetically-appropriate seat.
Brian catches sight of Justin and puts on a phony smile. "Well, well, well. Look who it is. It's the new celeb." He clucks his tongue and smacks his loafers together. "Hey, Justin."
Unnerved for the first time in years, Justin slides into a seat beside him. "Hi," he squeaks. He gulps and tries to regain his composure, his smooth manner. Sweetly, he asks in an attempt to assert his superior fame, "Remind me of your name?"
Brian eyes him like he doesn't quite believe in Justin's ignorance. "Brian," he grits out, his voice hard. "I'm Brian Peterson. Did you really never hear of the Peterson twins?"
Justin knows how to handle these kinds of questions. The ones reporters ask, trying to dig up dirt and stir up drama. And Justin knows exactly how to appease them. "Well, I read a lot, so I must have read about the two of you somewhere and then forgotten. In fact, I'm almost sure that you two are the reason why my dad chose Pittsburgh. Obviously shooting stars land here. This would be a great place for me to thrive." He forces a charming smile so bright he can feel glitter on his teeth.
Brian isn't fooled one bit. "That was interview speak. I should know; I give enough of them myself." Justin doesn't believe that for a second, but Brian plows on, "I don't want to hear what you have to say to reporters. I want to hear what you have to say to a classmate. Or do you not know what it's like to have peers?"
"I don't know," Justin says, drawing his coffee out of its cardboard sleeve and taking a long sip. "Do you?"
---
It's fifth-period gym by the time Justin runs into either of the Peterson twins again. Both fortunately and unfortunately, it's not Brian.
Justin makes fast work of his time in the locker rooms; he's learned it's best not to dwell in an area where one might be branded a "fag." When he emerges, the gymnasium is mostly empty, but for the other musical theater starlet of Pittsburgh Schenley.
Lindsay, small and slender and inappropriately-dressed, saunters right up to Justin and tugs on her short-shorts. "Looks like we're the only ones here who don't actually need this class," she mutters to him.
"Yeah," Justin agrees with a laugh. "And your brother, but he's…"
"In chem," Lindsay supplies helpfully. "I don't have to take chem because Daddy wrote a note about my reaction to the fumes. Instead I'm taking Anatomy again for an extra credit."
Justin, impressed and disgusted by her ingenuity, nods. "That's cool," he remarks. "That's like how in my old school, most kids didn't have to take math since their careers were already planned out for them, and didn't really include algebra or trig. It was a film and theater school, so…"
"Oh," Lindsay muses. "That sounds really nice."
"Nah," Justin laughs. "It was completely… smothering. No new raw talent, anything like that. I bet your school has all the emo kids doing goth poetry, right? Ours was all L.A. fantasyland."
Lindsay nods, understanding. "L.A. fantasyland sounds like exactly what I want," she confesses. "New raw talent is all well and good, but I'd rather blend in than have no competition. I need to be driven."
"I get it," Justin assures her. It hits him that this is the first genuine conversation he has had in maybe a year. He reviews what he has said thus far in his interaction with Lindsay. Any blatant lies? Any compensations to make her feel special? No on both counts. Well, that can only mean… is Lindsay becoming a friend?
Oh, hell no.
"There's no friends in this business, Justin. It's all competition. If you get invited to a dinner, you can be one hundred and ten percent sure that the host wants to show you off, or win your trust, or get something from you. Everyone is watching you, trying to figure out what move would suit them best. Think of it as chess. The good players make their move and react to the opponent, but the great players make a move based on the assumption of what the opponent's move will be."
She's an actress. She's an actress who'll be scourging for material in Justin's school. Well, that just won't do. Ordinarily he'd be content to work with her, but that can't be what she's after - she has a contract stating that she won't work without her brother. And that must mean…
She wants Justin to like her enough to give up his role to Brian.
Christ. He thought media politics were bad. High school politics are a thousand times worse.
---
Justin knows it's getting bad when Lindsay invites him to sit at her table at lunch. As subtly as he can, he racks his brain for a way out, but in the end he doesn't have to - Melanie races up to him and fakes a crisis. It seems pretty real, her insistence of losing her keychain, but the second they're out of the cafeteria, Melanie breaks into a grin.
"You looked like a deer in the headlights when she offered you a seat," Melanie tells him. "Not your face, you have pretty good control over that, but your hand started spazzing. Figured I'd get you out of it."
Justin smiles genuinely, and it almost kills him when he realizes what he did. "Thanks," he tells Melanie, speaking over the voice in his head telling him over and over again - Everybody wants something. He squeezes his eyes shut, feeling the approach of a migraine, and is surprised to open his eyes and find a two-pack of Tylenol in his hand and a smile on Melanie's face.
"What?" she asks. "Never seen a girl carry drugs before?" She flips through her purse - a leather bag hanging diagonally across her torso and slapping against her thigh. "I've got your whole array, really - Tylenol, Advil, Aleve and Motrin, not to mention some harder stuff for the really needy occasions."
Justin peers over to examine the bag, but Melanie bats him away by pressing the heel of her hand against his forehead and pushing him back. "Nice try, blondie. If you need any of this, I'll know. Take your pills and be grateful."
Justin laughs and swallows them with the ease of a teenage celebrity who just spent a year and a half filming a Disney movie in L.A. with a drug addict director. "So," he says, taking a look around at the hallway through which he and Melanie are parading. "Where are we headed?"
Melanie reaches back to adjust her ponytail and answers, "You'll see."
---
Four minutes later, Justin has seen, but he has not believed.
In the darkened hallway, there are two doors opposite one another, each with a star on it. Thinking he knows what the rooms are before he even goes inside, Justin announces, "I hate to disappoint you, but your dressing rooms most likely will not impress me. I've worked with Disney."
But as Melanie inserts a bobby pin into the lock of the door on the right, Justin begins to change his tune, and curiously tries to peek inside through the star-shaped window. Melanie bats him away. "I'm working," she berates him, and with one final nudge to the lock, it clicks open.
There is a moment of standing in the darkness before Melanie slaps a light switch and Justin gasps.
To say that the room is elaborate would be the understatement of the century. The walls are metallic pink. The floors are marble. High-quality artwork dots the walls - portraits of starlight, spotlight and one of Lindsay Peterson herself. A vanity mirror with heart-shaped lightbulbs takes up a good third of the room, with a cushiony pink stool tucked beneath the protruding desk.
There is even a sofa, built in the shape of lips. (Justin is reminded of a similar sofa he saw once while filming in the Salvador Dali museum.) Gold and cotton candy pillows adorn it, and a fishnet gold jacket is folded neatly in the center.
"Wow."
Melanie crosses her arms over her gray wool vest and smirks. "I knew it would impress you." Justin hates to admit it, but he is genuinely impressed. And celebrity amenities never faze him. But maybe now that he's looking at a setup for an ordinary high school girl who's never been to Hollywood…
"I've worked with Disney," Justin repeats, and remains floored by this room. "Disney doesn't even - what the hell." He looks at Melanie seriously and asks, "Are they even talented, or are their parents paying the school off to do this?"
Melanie leans against a door that Justin realizes leads to a closet. He is determined not to enter, because he knows it will only lead to more surprise and jealousy. He wants one of these rooms.
"They're really good," Melanie admits. "They're totally convincing actors, they sing like they've been digitally altered already, and they're coordinated enough to make dances look easy."
Justin throws his hands up in the air. "I don't get this!" he exclaims, frustrated. "If they're so good, why aren't they in Hollywood filming or off on Broadway somewhere?"
"Well, they do summerstock on Broadway," Melanie reiterates patiently. "But they like being the best. Off on Broadway, there'll always be some people to challenge them. But here it's just admiring kids oohing and ahhing over them. They stand out. Not to mention that this way, they get newspaper articles written about them and interviews and all that. In Hollywood, teenage starlets wouldn't be anything out of the ordinary. Just look at you."
Against his will, Justin finds himself hurt by this little soliloquy. Just because he works in Hollywood doesn't mean he's average. Maybe the classic golden boy looks, but nothing else about him. He's talented. He's… he's Justin Taylor! It would drive the reporters crazy to know that he's giving himself this little speech - the "I'm so special" speech that nine-year-old day camp theater stars seem to have downpat.
"I'm not ordinary," Justin mutters, annoyed.
Melanie just gives him a pinched, uncertain look that speaks volumes without saying anything at all.
---
That night, after the limo flanked by bodyguard vans on all four sides takes Justin to his voice lesson and then back home, he sits unslumpingly at his cherry oak dinner table, picking soundlessly at his salmon with shallot rillettes. Could he really be - ordinary?
"Justin," his mother says, interrupting his misery. "Are you all right? You aren't eating."
It's so typical, all of this - the fixation of a concerned mother on an unhappy son; the cherry oak; the wordless Vietnamese maid off to the corner, waiting to take their plates. Justin sips his Chardonnay, swishes it around in his mouth and swallows - less typical is Justin's imagination that with a little luck and some secrecy, the next time he swishes something around in his mouth and swallows, it might not be wine.
Brian.
He looks up from his dinner and tries to meet his mother's eyes. He makes it as far as her neck, replying, "Yes, Mother. I'm fine."
Justin's mother looks at him. "That's nice, Justin. How was your day at school?"
How was your day? Probably the most-repeated statement of mothers in the world. Justin cringes. Maybe Melanie has a point. To distract himself, he drinks the rest of his wine and licks his upper lip, savoring the taste.
"It was lovely, Mother, thank you," Justin replies, now looking solely at his plate.
Justin's sister Molly, eleven and always curious about the inner workings of her starlet brother's life, swallows and inquires, "Are you going to act there?"
Justin looks at her hard. Average, average, average. "I'm a celebrity, Molly," he says. "High school acting is just so… ordinary. I'm on a completely different plane than that."
"Most celebrities don'tdo high school acting," Molly reminds him. "They think they're above it. Do you think you're above it, Justin? Like everyone else does?"
Average.
Justin cuts a piece of salmon and sucks it into his mouth, squeezing out the flavor before he chews. "No," he says decisively. "Of course I don't."
---
November rolls around, and Melanie and Justin sit outside the auditorium for two periods as the stampede of freshmen and sophomores piles through. Pudgy-fingered girls with thick glasses and falling bra straps rush to the list and skim for the names of their competitors. An hour and a half after the rush subsides, Lindsay and Brian Peterson amble over to the auditorium to sign their names. A crowd forms. Justin and Melanie make their way to the front.
Lindsay is first, and signs her name diagonally across the entire first sheet in a pink gel pen, disregarding the fact that she is writing over other people's names, and that there are plenty of blank spaces on the sixth and seventh pages. In a smooth, perfectly legible cursive, it now reads "Lindsay A. Peterson" across the page, glistening with the glittery ink of the pen.
She hands her pen off to Brian, but he has his own, and tucks hers into his shirt pocket. In ballpoint black ink that makes Justin think of a cloudy midnight, Brian signs his name in a messier, almost doctor-esque scrawl beside Lindsay's name, effectively crossing out two or three names of other students. He does not seem to care.
Then, with a bored sort of ease, Lindsay flips to the last sign-up page and turns it upside down. There, in a rigid red font, it reads "The name of this year's play will be found on page 438 in the History of Pennsylvania textbook, paragraph nine."
Lindsay nudges Brian and indicates the hint. Brian nods and the two of them briskly exit.
Melanie, however, is prepared. She is sitting on an abandoned desk, and reaching inside, she reveals a textbook that reads - sure enough - History of Pennsylvania in bright blue across the cover. The crowd that previously surrounded the Petersons now relocates to surround her as she turns to the page in question and moves her finger down to the ninth paragraph.
Aloud, Justin reads, "Despite all the controversy surrounding the demographics of Pennsylvania's population, it cannot be disputed that the populace of Pennsylvania is extremely diverse and varied. From the Amish to the Jews to the elderly, Pennsylvania is a state that reflects the plain and fancy vision of the United States. In 2002 at the Lancaster Fulton Theater, this was portrayed by a "Culture Season," when dozens of plays reflecting Pennsylvania's diversity were performed throughout the summer, from The Melting Pot to Fiddler on the Roof."
The hallway begins to buzz, and students crowd around the textbook to get a better look. With a sense of survival, Melanie snatches up Justin's wrist, signs both of their names to the sign-up sheet on the last page, and drags him away.
---
"It must be Fiddler," Melanie decrees in the school library that afternoon. As usual, she and Justin are studying, flanked by two of Justin's bodyguards. This afternoon the subject of choice is Chemistry.
"Why Fiddler?" Justin asks, tapping his pen against the desk.
Melanie sighs. "Last year, we did Grease. The year before, it was Rent. When I was a freshman, we did Seussical. Everybody on God's green earth knows those plays. Who the hell has heard of The Melting Pot?"
Justin leans his head against the bookshelf behind him. "Well, I don't know. It's in here." He gestures to the textbook. "Obviously some people think it's important."
"Ten bucks says it's about multiculturalism," Melanie tells him. "Pittsburgh and multiculturalism have nothing to do with each other. We're practically all white."
"Yeah, but this isn't exactly a city overflowing with Jews, either," Justin reminds her. "I don't know any Jews here besides you."
Vin coughs. "I'm Jewish," he grunts, looking affronted.
Justin blinks. "Sorry," he says insincerely.
Truth be told, he is a bit overwhelmed by all this speculation and indecision regarding the Pittsburgh Schenley spring musical. Acting professionally, the only speculation involved is whether a callback will necessarily lead to a role. In Justin's environment, everything is remarkably cut-and-dry: here is the director, here is the producer, and sign here if you want to do it.
But then there is student acting, and already he can tell it is different. An ordeal must be surpassed before it's even time for rehearsals: guessing the play and checking for the names of people who are better than you. There are no distinctions like SAG or Actors' Equity (both of which are in Justin's possession); it all boils down to the audition. And in this particular school, auditioning takes courage and a bit of resignedness; after all, there's no way in hell that anyone is going to to trump the Peterson twins. There are small parts for smaller actors.
"I don't know," Justin sighs, slamming his Chem book shut. "I guess we'll find out."
"Yeah," Melanie agrees, stretching. She closes her book as well and places it in her backpack. "Hey," she says. "Could you give me a ride home in the limo? It's fucking freezing today."
Justin grins. "There's room."
---
By the time three days have passed, Justin is a master of two new types of music of which he was previously unaware: standard 1960s musical theater and eccentric, wordy 1900s musical theater. He takes to belting out Matchmaker in the shower at five in the morning when he's getting ready for school and reciting lines from The Melting Pot as he ambles down the school hallways. Melanie is about ready to stab him, but Brian - well, Brian finds it amusing.
In Calculus the day the auditions are set to begin, Justin is in the first row as always, using his smile to charm Mrs. Edelson into calling on him every single time he raises his hand. Three rows behind him and off to the left, Brian is doodling an image of stick figure Justin holding a microphone and looking horrified and scared.
"Six A plus the square root of nine B cubed," Justin volunteers toward the middle of the period, which is the final straw for Brian. He balls up his drawing and flicks it across the room, where it lands neatly on Justin's desk.
Justin does not question it, does not turn around to see who sent it, and does not look even remotely fazed. He merely opens the note and examines the crude drawing within. After looking at it long and hard, he takes out his pencil case, where he has a brown colored pencil and what is known as an "artist's pencil," or a charcoaly pencil with no particular function besides for drawing.
A few minutes later, the image of a terrified Justin is instead a terrified Brian, with super-stick figure Lindsay at his side looking equally scared (and slutty). Pleased with his work, Justin folds it up neatly and walks to the back of the room where the pencil sharpener is. Smoothly, he drops the note on Brian's desk without attracting attention from anyone at all besides the recipient himself - least of all Mrs. Edelson.
When Justin gets back to his seat, smug and refusing to turn around and smirk, Mrs. Edelson declares, "These two pages in the textbook will be your homework. Except for Brian and Justin - the two of you have packed schedules this evening."
"What about us?" asks an irritated boy. "We have to watch."
Mrs. Edelson laughs shrilly. "Alex," she chuckles. "You can watch it on TV."
---
At three in the afternoon, standing with Melanie at the door to the auditorium, Justin realizes what Mrs. Edelson meant. Reporters are everywhere - from the standard media such as FOX, Star and Tiger Beat, but also from magazines that Justin has never heard of, like Music Monthly and Backstage.
Melanie tries to look unfazed, but in the end, she drops her jaw and gapes. "This is unbelievable," she states flatly. "There are Chinese reporters here. You have fans in China."
Justin snorts, recognizing the crude, nontraditional dialect of the conversing reporters instantly. "I don't doubt that, Mel, but those are from, like, Chinatown. I've been to China, and let me tell you - they don't talk like that."
"Like what?" Melanie challenges, prepared to march over to the reporters and back herself up with legal assertations.
A reporter somehow manages to clambor over to Justin. Ignoring the appalled look on Melanie's face, the reporter exclaims, "Justin! Is that your girlfriend?" Waving his hand around to get Justin to look at the camera, the reporter tries to flash Melanie a charming, enticing smile. She just growls at him.
Vin and Roy take a step closer to the reporter, and he and his friends scatter.
Unfazed by the whole experience, Justin replies, "Like in broken English, dolt. With bits of English thrown into their speech. And the accent's all off, too. If they were from China, the accent wouldn't sound so much like the movie stereotype."
"Oh," Melanie says. She reaches into her pocket and digs out a packet of pretzels. "You want?"
Justin gapes, one hundred percent appalled. "Melanie Marcus, if I trump Brian Peterson in this juvenile little audition session, I will not be eating for a year. So no, I do not want your overly-salted pretzels. Thank you but no thank you. Try offering them to Brian - that'd go over well." Justin can vividly imagine the look that would resonate on Brian's face if offered food during this critical juncture. Even more comical is the one that he can imagine would exist on Lindsay's.
But truth be told, imagining Brian and Lindsay's faces isn't all that entertaining for Justin. His heart is pounding against his will. Reporters are everywhere, and he can just see Friday's headline if he doesn't get the lead - "HIGH SCHOOL MUSICAL STAR NOT GOOD ENOUGH FOR HIGH SCHOOL MUSICAL" or "DISNEY HEARTTHROB EVADES SCHOOL SPOTLIGHT." He would be off everyone's cast list, that's for sure. People would laugh at him.
But Brian and Lindsay are really good. He's taking this on more than just Melanie's word, too. Turns out the twins' most recent stint on Broadway resulted in a number of reviews in reputable newspapers, including The New York Times. The theater critic for the Times happens to be the only man in the world whose word Justin will trust unconditionally: Ben Bruckner. Gay, out and undoubtedly talented, Bruckner is unbiased, at times ruthless, and literarily gifted. He has given many a Broadway show all the hype that it maintains for its entire run.
Grease, as revived by some unknown director and publicized by the Peterson twins, was one such show. Bruckner saw it, loved the kids, and wrote three damn columns on how amazing they were - from Lindsay and her strut to Brian and his smirk. He did say that the fact that they were siblings was made clear to him by their chemistry - "but I've been following everything that this brightest of constellations has done for the past five years, so purely objective I am not."
Justin is awed by this. Bruckner never admits bias. And the fact that he conceded it so unabashedly leads Justin to believe two things. One is that Bruckner's a little weird, slipping into high school productions to watch two kids take the stage.
The other is terrifying: that these twins must be really good.
Melanie waves a hand in front of Justin's face, but he looks right through her and fixates on Brian and Lindsay. And not because they're gorgeous.
---