The next morning, reality sank 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 messages 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 would always have a place there, if I wanted to come back. With Idol, I’d always assumed I would 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.
***
