Run To You

"Okay...well...that was good. Good job Christina. Yeah, that was um...nice."

I stared at my team of producers through the glass window as they stared back at me.

Another spoke, fiddling with a bright green knob at the same time. "Can we get that again?"

I picked up a glass of water and took a sip. "I don’t know, guys. My voice...is getting pretty shot. That last high ‘e’ used up the last of it for today, I think."

One of them nodded doubtfully. "Well we can try it again tomorrow, because it didn’t sound all that great."

My face flushed the same color as my shirt, a bright cherry red. When I had first looked in the closet that morning—in yet another hotel—this shirt had screamed out at me. It had said, ‘Wear me! I’ll make you happy!’

The magic obviously wasn’t working, because here I was, standing exhaustedly in front of a microphone, with a pair of clunky headphones over my head—just like I’d always imagined. Like I’d always wanted. Dreamed. Wanted. NEEDED.

However, what I hadn’t been counting on, was that it would be so hard. That my voice would be gone by the end of every day, only to be jump-started in the morning and worked again all day until the cycle began yet another time. That the dance steps would be HARD. All the competition, the critical side of every little thing I did.

"Why don’t you go to the dance room, Christina."

It was more of a demand then a request. I wanted them to call me ‘Chris’. Just like my mom did, like my friends did, and like little baby Ben did. But no, they insisted on calling me ‘Christina’. At the beginning they had told me that it would make me feel more sophisticated, and look more grown-up in the public eye.

‘Christina’ wasn’t me. I pulled disdainfully at the cropped edge of my shirt. This wasn’t really me, either. There were times when I went to parties, or clubs, that it was me, but recording studios weren’t the place. They insisted that ‘I had to get in the mood. That I had to practice’.

"Okay." I rubbed my sore throat and smiled hesitantly at them. "Thanks, everybody...I’ll see you tomorrow?"

There were a couple of short grunts from the control panel where they were already hard at work, touching up my voice, adding little trills and such that I couldn’t perform today.

Slipping the headphones off, I walked out of the studio and hopped into the elevator. On either side of me were busy-looking men in black suits with cell phones propped to their ears, arguing forcefully. As if on cue, they hung up, and stared down at me. It was like their stares were turning into creepy-crawly things that spiraled and danced all over me, creating a very uncomfortable atmosphere. I was glad when the always present bell ‘dinged’, and I stepped off.

A couple of choreographers and other artists were milling around in the hall, and they smiled dimly at me as I pushed past a group and went into the spacious dance room. My three dancers were running through my ‘Genie in a Bottle’ routine, for the upcoming tour. Of course there were new songs to do, off the upcoming new album, Run To You, but we all knew the crowds would want old favorites.

My choreographer, Tina Landon, stood up from stretching and waved slightly at me. "Well now that Christina’s here, we can start on a new one, guys."

We worked until I thought I would fall over. My muscles ached and groaned in displeasure as we ran through routines over and over, sometimes eight or nine times before Tina clapped and nodded her head, signaling that it wasn’t perfect, but it would be tomorrow.

Finally, my God, FINALLY, she dismissed us, and I waved to the dancers. Jorge, the last to file out, paused for a minute before waving more exuberantly in my direction.

"Bye, Chris!"

At last. SOMEBODY knew who I was.

"Bye, Jorge..."

I summoned all of my strength to return his friendly gesture and then projected my voice across the room. He smiled, knowing that I was straining my voice for him.

The limousine ride home was long...they always were. When I was little, I had always dreamed of riding in these sleek black cars EVERYWHERE, gazing out the tinted windows, and having the satisfaction of knowing people couldn’t see me.

Brian, the chauffeur, came around to my side and opened the door. I stepped out and people gawked. A little girl rushed up to me with a camera and a notepad. I obliged her frantic, excited requests and took multiple pictures and signed several messages for her and her friends.

The fans were what I lived for. There was always the knowledge that you were doing this for yourself, pushing yourself to seemingly endless limits for your own sake and your own goals, but no one could deny that you were also doing it for the fans, to make them happy.

The fact that they might just disappear from my life scared me, it honestly did. They supported me and kept me going when there was no one else. Where would I be if they deserted me? A has-been.

A while ago, maybe a year ago, ‘Teen’ did this article on me, and in it, they showed me in some fancy outfit, lifting weights. Of course, the weights were hollow, so they hadn’t been hard to lift. But it was so cute. After that article and photo shoot, I had received several pieces of mail from fans, telling me how strong, and how brave I was.

I hadn’t had the heart to tell them that they were wrong...that I didn’t have that much courage, that it had taken ALL of my guts and more to audition for the record label. That had scared me out of my mind.

I remembered that day so clearly. I had sang, a cappella, a beautiful Whitney Houston song, in an executive’s office. He had nodded after I sang.

"We can do things with the voice. The voice can be worked with."

Worked with. But it was my voice. My years of training, of life experience, of powerful practice, all poured into notes, measures, and songs. How could they WORK with it?

"But tell me, Ms. Aguilera. Why do you want to do this?"

And even to this day, I knew, somewhere deep inside, that it was only my answer that had gotten me here.

"I need to do this...not want. It’s become more of a need than a want, really. I...I can’t imagine myself doing anything else. I wouldn’t be HAPPY doing anything else."

Now I was finding myself hurting every time they needed a measure over again, that the line didn’t have enough ‘sexiness’ in it. But I did it. Because it was my dream.

And dreams hurt, don’t they? Mine do, at least.

Across the street, I saw a group of girls stop, stare at me, and laugh. In unison, they imitated the famous ‘genie in a bottle’ dance step and sang just loud enough so I could hear.

"I’m a hooooooker in a bottle..."

Blinking back a curtain of tears, I ducked my head and stepped into the fancy lobby, then headed toward the brassy elevators. As soon as the elevator came, I stepped on, and it filled with other people. I saw an older couple, just holding hands and smiling at each other. To my right, there was a brother and a sister arguing playfully, but anyone could have seen the love shining through their eyes. And in front of me, a young woman cradling her dog lovingly in the crook of one arm. They all had someone. Someone to be a ‘together’ with.

How did it work that I, the girl with millions of fans, had no one to be a ‘together’ with?’

I walked down the hall toward my room, but before putting the key in, rested my head against the door and filled my mind with images of the happier times in my life. I knew that the room would hold nothing but darkness and emptiness, so I hoped maybe this would ease the incredible pain that would come.

Not surprisingly, the first image to fly in and settle down, was one of Jorge, when he had laughed at a joke I had made. When he lifted me for a new dance sequence. When he smiled as I finally got another of the songs for the album done.

I tried to push him out of my mind—knowing I wouldn’t see him again until tomorrow—but it didn’t work. They kept on coming.

About two weeks ago, my dancers and I had gone out to a club, and well, gotten drunk. I was depressed, what can I say? It seemed like the easiest way to stop feeling the pain.

When we had finally decided to stop drinking, we went outside, but the limo hadn’t been parked there. Laughingly, in my disgustingly giddy state, I had decided to step into the street and see if I could find the car myself. I had taken only a few steps out, when a pair of strong arms fastened around my waist and pulled me back. Not more than five seconds later, a car whizzed by, blaring it’s horn angrily at me. I had turned, only to see Jorge gazing down at me.

So many times when I wanted to step into his arms...kiss him with the emotions I wasn’t allowed to feel...experience something I had forgotten how to live.

But I was too scared.

I pushed the key into the lock and sighed with relief as the door opened. That was all I needed, to have my key not work. I’ll tell you, now THAT would be fun times for everyone.

The suite was exactly how I had left it—cold, dark, and empty. Shadows seemed to seep out of the corners, taunting me, reminding me how very alone I was at the moment.

A blinking light on the phone alerted me that I had messages, so I picked it up and dialed the desk.

"Yes, hi, this is Marie Aghee, I’d like my messages?" I looked out the window and rolled a pen between my fingers as I used my fake name.

"Right, Ms. Aghee...please hold." There was definitely a tinge of sarcasm in his voice but I chose to ignore it—I had learned to do so.

"Hey Christiiiiiiina! It’s Brit. Listen, we’re not gonna be able to do the lunch thang next week...I just learned I actually hafta be in California for some promo stuff. Sorry girlfriend! Maybe later, k? Gimme a call whenever. Ciao!" Even the click that followed Britney’s message was cheerful in its own way.

"Christina, this is Steve. Your manager." Like I didn’t know that. "I wanted to remind you about tomorrow...dance rehearsal early on, recording, and then the midnight outside photo shoot. Be there...and don’t be late. Also, can we try and get some more out of your voice tomorrow? The producers didn’t like what they got today. Brian will be outside at seven. Bye."

It was just like Steve to leave that kind of message. Not rude, but cold, and emotionless. It was strange—he was one of the most important people in my life and yet it just seemed like he didn’t care.

I climbed into bed a few minutes later—not bothering to wipe the layers of makeup off. So what if I got a pimple? The makeup artists could deal with it.

Lying in the bed—so hard, so unlike my soft bed at home—I wiped a salty tear from my cheek and shook my head desperately. How had this turned from a dream life to a horror life? When had it changed? And why hadn’t I noticed?

I reached over, turned the light on, and picked up the phone. Not surprisingly, the machine picked up back home.

"Mommy? It’s Chris...I...I love you. I miss you. Will you call me tomorrow? I have to leave at seven...but call me anytime before then. Tell everybody I’m thinking of them and loving them. Bye Mommy."

All I wanted was someone to rehash the day with, go over the amazing scale I had done, but that had got ditched because it wasn’t right for the song. The dance sequence I had made up, but was rejected because it was too simple looking.

Finally I slipped into a sleep...however, it wasn’t dreamless like it had been so long. This time, my mind was chock full of "Jorge" memories...things that made me happy.

Memories that made life bearable.

Morning came, and Mommy didn’t call. It disappointed me, but I knew that she had to have better things to do than listen to her daughter whine about the dream she had always wanted, and now, didn’t think was perfect enough.

Brian finally pulled up at the studio and I hopped out, waving to a few fans, then flouncing inside. Tina was waiting impatiently, even though I was ten minutes early.

"Okay, right. For a few minutes—just a FEW, this is SO simple, guys—we’re going to work on the little tiny routine for ‘Run To You’. Okay?"

We all nodded and took our places. I noticed right off the bat that Jorge was nowhere to be found. That puzzled me, because he had always been on time in the past...he was just a punctual guy.

I focused my attention back to the task at hand. This really was a simple routine, except for the lift at the end. I remained in one place for the entire song, until the climax began, and then I would run toward Jorge, ironically enough. He would lift me, I would sing the most dramatic part of the song in his arms, and then I would finish the rest of the song back on the ground.

Not on cloud nine anymore.

Right as Tina was beginning to have one of the other dancers do the lift, Jorge raced in and set his bag down.

"Sorry everyone, my mom called me at the last minute...I hadn’t talked to her in awhile so I thought I should stay. What are we doing?"

Tears burned at the back of my eyes as he mentioned talking to his mother. It was silly, really it was, that I was getting this emotional over a simple excuse for being late. For the past few weeks I had been realizing how truly alone I was, and this only confirmed it. I wasn’t that much of a crying person, but the emotional state I had been in lately showed me how much I wanted someone to hold me, to comfort me when I was sad, and just be someone I could depend on through thick and thin.

He was informed, and then got into place. I picked up my microphone and performed the song.

I took a deep breath and raced forward at top speed, then launched into Jorge’s arms, giving all of my trust to his muscles and to his ability to keep me stable while I was in the air. I felt myself being lifted into the air and then his arms locked into place.

I opened my mouth wide and belted the string of difficult, high notes, feeling light as a feather when he circled me once, then let me down.

The song was over soon, and Tina’s cell phone rang. She picked it up and then frowned, obviously displeased.

"What, she’s having trouble with it again? Yes...yes I’m painfully aware of the fact that her tour starts in three days. I don’t think you understand, I’m in the middle of something right now, so I can’t just come over there. What? FINE. I’ll be there in a half hour." She jammed the phone into her sports bag and then fixed us with a stare.

"I have an artist who’s having trouble with a song, and she leaves on tour altogether too soon, if you ask me. I’ll be back in about two hours...I want you all to take a break, relax a little, or whatever, and then we’ll work harder when I come back." Without waiting for a response, she swept out of the room.

Just as I was about to announce that I would be in the cafeteria if anyone needed me, Jorge fell into place next to my side.

"Chris...do you want to...to..." He was stumbling over his words, which was part of the reason it surprised me so much when he grabbed my hand and ran his thumb over the back. "What do you want to do?"

This was it. I could fell my heart pick up immediately.

It was the perfect setting, the perfect time, and it was just TOO perfect, the way he was stroking my hand gingerly, as if it were glass. I couldn’t help the words that flew out of my mouth.

"I...I want to run to you."

His eyes went wide, and just as I was preparing myself for rejection, his face broke into a smile. "My arms have always been open to you, Chris. I’ve just been waiting for you to be ready for the long run."

And then I did cry. The words coming out of HIS mouth were exactly what I had always dreamed of, hoped for. But I couldn’t help it.

I had to ask.

"Will you stay?"

His smile told me everything I needed to know.

And I knew I could run to him.

This was the story so please give Katie - the author - some feedback. Thanx

main    Christina