pulled out some Eggos and shoved them into the toaster.
Then I heard the scream.
It sounded like Dylan had broken a leg, pulled a tendon, and smashed every metatarsal in his foot—all at the same time.
“Dylan?” I hollered. All my stupid big sister instincts had jumped into overdrive. “Dylan, what’s wrong?”
When I found him sitting in the computer room, pointing to the screen, I could have killed him.
“Are you kidding? You scared the crap out of me, you jerk.”
Dylan just stared blankly oblivious to my outrage and kept pointing to the screen.
“I don’t care what it says about me, okay? It’s over. After today I’ll be old news. Got it?”
But Dylan shook his head and clicked the screen.
For a second I was confused. Dylan was watching YouTube, but instead of me, the screen showed the latest music video from the rock band ReadySet.
I’m guessing you already know about them. I mean,
come on,
it’s ReadySet we’re talking about here. Their songs have been
huge
ever since the band used inventive music videos to launch themselves into popularity. At the very least you’ve heard of their lead singer, Timothy Goff, the eighteen-year-old taking the music industry by storm.
I’m still impressed with how they handled the footage—the brilliant way they worked me into the music video for their high-energy song “Going Down.” The camera slowed with Alex midair before the drums burst into action the instant he connected with the ground. It was all so artistic: the changing background colors, the splicing, the close-ups … everything. It looked like my CPR Incident had been choreographed for the song. Really, the lyrics fit that well. Especially the lines:
You fell like a girl from a looking glass.
You swore that you’d always come back.
But I’ve got a scribbled-up document.
It says that you’ve gone away.
My expression, the naked panic on my face, gave the song depth as well as humor. A perfect blend and an instant hit.
I was so screwed.
“Th-That doesn’t mean anything,” I told Dylan. But I knew I was wrong. They had even incorporated my “AM I KILLING HIM RIGHT NOW?” into the song. And it sounded great.
Dylan met my eyes. Maybe it was the sisterly protective thing again, but he looked so small—just a scrawny runt with a mop of reddish hair and a sprinkling of freckles. And I was systematically screwing up his life.
“Mackenzie.” He said my name slowly, as if testing each syllable. “One YouTube clip can go away, but this … it’s a different story.”
I wanted to say that I’d already handled the press, thank-you-very-much. But as much as I hated to admit it, he was right. My life was already chaotic before America’s biggest rock sensation used me as some kind of muse. Now anyone who’d missed my moment of extreme embarrassment could catch it repeating endlessly on MTV-2.
And people would want to know about me. You don’t watch a great music video without wondering about the people in it. That’s why that wedding couple dancing down the aisle became so famous. First it went on YouTube, then AOL , until suddenly
The Office
was doing a spoof, and the couple was under fire for using a Chris Brown song after he famously beat his ex-girlfriend Rihanna. So then the newlyweds had to go on
Good Morning America
and donate money to the prevention of spousal abuse. All because someone filmed their nuptials and posted it online. Crazy, but true.
“ I-I have to go to school,” I said flatly. I squared my shoulders and walked straight to the kitchen to fix my mom’s coffee. The whole time I told myself that soon I’d be a regular teenager going to a normal high school outside Portland, Oregon. So what if my fifteen minutes of fame weren’t over yet? I could survive another fifteen.
Probably.
I played it cool. I handed my mom the mug and told her I needed her to drop me off at school. She sipped and nodded. But even though she never said, “Mackenzie, I don’t have time to
Then I heard the scream.
It sounded like Dylan had broken a leg, pulled a tendon, and smashed every metatarsal in his foot—all at the same time.
“Dylan?” I hollered. All my stupid big sister instincts had jumped into overdrive. “Dylan, what’s wrong?”
When I found him sitting in the computer room, pointing to the screen, I could have killed him.
“Are you kidding? You scared the crap out of me, you jerk.”
Dylan just stared blankly oblivious to my outrage and kept pointing to the screen.
“I don’t care what it says about me, okay? It’s over. After today I’ll be old news. Got it?”
But Dylan shook his head and clicked the screen.
For a second I was confused. Dylan was watching YouTube, but instead of me, the screen showed the latest music video from the rock band ReadySet.
I’m guessing you already know about them. I mean,
come on,
it’s ReadySet we’re talking about here. Their songs have been
huge
ever since the band used inventive music videos to launch themselves into popularity. At the very least you’ve heard of their lead singer, Timothy Goff, the eighteen-year-old taking the music industry by storm.
I’m still impressed with how they handled the footage—the brilliant way they worked me into the music video for their high-energy song “Going Down.” The camera slowed with Alex midair before the drums burst into action the instant he connected with the ground. It was all so artistic: the changing background colors, the splicing, the close-ups … everything. It looked like my CPR Incident had been choreographed for the song. Really, the lyrics fit that well. Especially the lines:
You fell like a girl from a looking glass.
You swore that you’d always come back.
But I’ve got a scribbled-up document.
It says that you’ve gone away.
My expression, the naked panic on my face, gave the song depth as well as humor. A perfect blend and an instant hit.
I was so screwed.
“Th-That doesn’t mean anything,” I told Dylan. But I knew I was wrong. They had even incorporated my “AM I KILLING HIM RIGHT NOW?” into the song. And it sounded great.
Dylan met my eyes. Maybe it was the sisterly protective thing again, but he looked so small—just a scrawny runt with a mop of reddish hair and a sprinkling of freckles. And I was systematically screwing up his life.
“Mackenzie.” He said my name slowly, as if testing each syllable. “One YouTube clip can go away, but this … it’s a different story.”
I wanted to say that I’d already handled the press, thank-you-very-much. But as much as I hated to admit it, he was right. My life was already chaotic before America’s biggest rock sensation used me as some kind of muse. Now anyone who’d missed my moment of extreme embarrassment could catch it repeating endlessly on MTV-2.
And people would want to know about me. You don’t watch a great music video without wondering about the people in it. That’s why that wedding couple dancing down the aisle became so famous. First it went on YouTube, then AOL , until suddenly
The Office
was doing a spoof, and the couple was under fire for using a Chris Brown song after he famously beat his ex-girlfriend Rihanna. So then the newlyweds had to go on
Good Morning America
and donate money to the prevention of spousal abuse. All because someone filmed their nuptials and posted it online. Crazy, but true.
“ I-I have to go to school,” I said flatly. I squared my shoulders and walked straight to the kitchen to fix my mom’s coffee. The whole time I told myself that soon I’d be a regular teenager going to a normal high school outside Portland, Oregon. So what if my fifteen minutes of fame weren’t over yet? I could survive another fifteen.
Probably.
I played it cool. I handed my mom the mug and told her I needed her to drop me off at school. She sipped and nodded. But even though she never said, “Mackenzie, I don’t have time to
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