Chapter 3-Jett Leaves Georgia

Chapter 3 Jett Leaves Georgia

Two weeks passed and things quieted down, I was back home in Georgia with my family. Life slowed down to a snail's pace and I wondered what to do with myself. College loomed ahead of me, but I didn't want to go to school just yet. I wanted to publish my own songs under my own name. Now that Disney had no say in my packaging, I could finally be Jett Black again. I approached Dad about getting into a studio in Atlanta or maybe Nashville and that's when reality hit the fan.

"Jett, I was hoping that you wouldn't have to hear this," he began. He sat me down and I waited. I wondered what was happening.

More bad news? What more could possibly go wrong?

"Disney has the rights to all things Smoky Blue. They will make money on the name Smoky Blue in the future  and  any re-runs of the show. Any merchandise like the doll, the clothing, the eye shadow  is also owned by them. We have the house paid for and we  have some money set aside for college for all three of you, but there is no extra money for studio time. You know how expensive it is, right?"

I knew that one album could run into millions by the time it was released. Musicians, studio time, packaging, distributing, copyright agreements, lawyers, oh, yes, always lawyers, cost a fortune. I was devastated.

After that, I holed up in my room. Mostly I stayed in bed and felt sorry for myself. I listened to my mom's message a lot, too. I could always listen to her voice on my old phone when things got bad, but even Mom's cheerful message wasn't picking my spirits up. I should have put my energy into writing music, but I was depressed. Words simply would not come to me.

 I was spending yet another day doing nothing  when my dad practically busted down my bedroom door…

“Jett!” he yelled, scaring the daylights out of me. I thought the house must be on fire or one of the boys was choking to death or a rattler had finally  found its way into the house somehow.

“Dad…what?” I squeaked.

“Jett, they want you! A new job,” he couldn’t stop smiling. It was downright goofy.

He sat down, barely containing his excitement.

“It’s a new reality show—“Wild at Heart” –and they want you! You don’t even have to try out. You’re in already.”

“Well, what is it? What do I have to do?” It sounded pretty exciting and I needed a new project in the worst way. A new job would allow me to maybe launch my album. In the very least, it would get me out of my bedroom and out of the house.

He explained the show’s premise: 12 teen contestants, 6 boys and 6 girls on a deserted island in the middle of nowhere. We’d have to survive the elements and each other for 28 days. In the meantime, we gain votes and popularity by blogging and tweeting to gain followers. The public decides the winner. The money was great and the exposure was sure to boost my name and get me more acting roles. I jumped at the chance. Even though he thought it was a great opportunity for me, Dad was worried about sending his daughter off to God knows where with a group of strangers. I reminded him that I was practically raised by strangers: hairdressers, stylists, producers, writers and my favorite guncle Dougie. Dad finally relented and it was set.

It wasn't until much later I learned my true financial picture.

*********************************

“Who’s that?” Harley asked, peering out the front window. Harlon beat him to the door and onto the front steps just as a long black limo pulled into the drive.

Harley pushed Harlon off the step, and Harlon retaliated with a quick punch to Harley’s shoulder.

“Boys…” Dad warned, sounding quite stern. I looked at them. Both of them grinned up at Dad and I could almost see the faint angelic glow of polished halos over each tow-blond head. They really knew how to work Dad.

The car came to a stop and a driver emerged, coming around and opening the heavy limo door. He offered his arm to someone in the back. A middle aged woman slid out. She was attractive and reed thin with porcelain skin and dark green eyes that were feline beautiful and jungle quick. Her hair was a disturbing shade of red that matched her red snakeskin cowboy boots.  Definitely a bottle job--that hair color did not exist in nature unless you found it on an exotic bird in the depths of the Amazon rain forest.

“Welll…..helllllllooooo,” she cooed. “How are ya’ll? I’m Carol Silva—the producer of “Wild at Heart”.

She rushed over and began to pump my hand, patting me on the shoulder with her other hand. For someone so thin, she had a construction worker’s handshake and a crushing presence.

“Oh, Jett….!” She smiled looking like a benevolent queen. “We’re going to have such fun! You know, you really have a face for reality television, darling,” she smiled and her dazzling white veneers seemed to wink at me.

A face for reality television? I wondered if that was supposed to be a compliment. I had always heard stuff said about other actors like, “The cameras love her” or “She was meant to be a star, “ but I’d never heard  anyone described as having a face fit for a reality show.

“ Let’s go inside, Ms. Silva,” Dad offered. “After you,” and he motioned into the den.

The producer chose a high-backed wing chair and Dad settled into his favorite leather chair, I perched on the ottoman near him. The boys stayed outside to admire the limo and probably pepper the driver with a thousand car related questions.

“So, Ms. Silva…what brings you here today?” Dad wondered. I wasn’t due on set for two more weeks and I could not imagine why a busy Hollywood producer would stop in our neck of the woods.

“I’m here to pick up Jett, of course,” she purred, leaning forward, emerald cat eyes blazing. She notices my dad and I exchange a look of surprise.

“What?....” I manage.

“What…you mean…” she looked exasperated and a little embarrassed. “Oh…damn.” Surprise clouded her face and she fumbled with her Blackberry. She smiled a rueful little smile and began typing furiously.

“Why are you here today? I thought Jett had a few more days at least,” Dad said.

“My assistant was supposed to contact you….Oh, you just can’t trust anyone…” She puts the device down on the chair beside her.

“How long will it take you to pack?” she asks me.

“Umm,” I stammer, having no idea how to pack or what to take for a reality t.v. show.

“Remember, you’ll be in the wild. Just a comfy pair of shoes, shorts,  tshirt, and a bathing suit. Oh, and you can bring one item from home.”

“In that case, 5 minutes,” I jumped up and scrambled up the stairs.

“Jett!” my dad called. “Oh, never mind,” and I clunk up the remaining steps, smiling because I know that Dad stands no chance against the scarlet-headed force of nature named Carol Silva.

Grabbing my favorite checkered Vans, I don a pair of jean shorts and a “Jamaica, Me Crazy” t-shirt. I pack my blue polka dot bikini, some sunscreen, and my old cell phone in a beach bag. It isn’t activated anymore but I feel like a part of Mom is always with me.

I read the rules to the game last night—well, actually over 100 pages of rules! Contestants can’t take any beauty or hygiene products, no brushes or combs, no hair gel or mousse, no toothpaste or toothbrush, no mirrors, no medicine—not even aspirin. Sunscreen wasn’t on the list, so I’m hoping it will be okay.  I can’t imagine the show wanting to expose 12  teenagers to a high risk of future skin cancer.

I flew downstairs and into the den. I. Am. Leaving. Today. Today. Right. Now. My mind raced.

Dad stood up and held his arms open for me.

“Don’t worry, Dad, it’s only 3 weeks. I’ll be home before you know it, “ I assure  him. I was so excited to be off on an adventure. Alone. And I was being paid practically as much money as I made pretending to be cutesy Smoky Blue.

“Jett, you behave yourself. Remember your manners, young lady. Your mama and me didn’t raise no fool, “ Dad warned. “Now go out make us proud!” His eyes looked strangely tearful. I’ve never seen my father cry—well, except that once at the funeral, but it looked like he might just now. “The boys and I will be watching,” he assured me.

I hugged my brothers before stepping into the limo that whisked me away to the airport. Goodbye again, Georgia.

Wild At Heart-Chapter Two-Fashionista

Chapter Two-Fashionista

Fired!

I closed my eyes for the ride home.

It started out a joke. I was just messing around in my room and decided to sing a silly song and tape myself. I was home alone for the summer with nothing to do. After awhile, the Internet bored me, so I decided to put my new camera to use. After a few takes, I had what I decided was a pretty cute two minute tune. I strummed my old six-string, a hand me down guitar from Dad as I sang and hammed it up for the camera:

Fashionista…not just your feast-a

I won’t bow at your feet

Or believe your deceit

I won’t fall for you boy

Won’t be your girl toy

You betta watch yourself

Check your attitude

Watch your mouth

Mind your manners

Say what is true

(two 8 beat instrumentals here—me, fiercely strumming my old six-string, no guitar pick for me, no sirree)

Fashionista..not just your feast-a

I’m not like the others

I got my own druthers

Don’t need you to be my brotha

I won’t bow at your feet

Or believe your deceit

I won’t fall for you boy

Won’t be your girl toy

(16 beats, trying to finish strong and still  look fashionable and cute)

I walk by in my boho chic

You watch me, smiling and sweet

I got mad fashion

I got true abandoned, uninhibited passion

I gotta try and fly high

Want no reasons to cry

Wings untethered, not held back

Everything peaceful, not out of whack

I won’t bow at your feet

Or believe your deceit

I won’t fall for you, boy

Won’t be your girl toy

Fashionista….Fashionista….Fashionista!

And I finish big and save a copy

In a quirky mood, I posted it toYoutube and my Facebook page. A few clicks later, the rest is history…ground-breaking Internet history. What happened next can only be explained if you know who Justin Beiber is—and how could you not? The unknown golden boy who became an Internet sensation then a prodigy discovered by rapper JayG,  Beiber’s meteoric rise to fame is hard to fathom, yet it happened. Then it happened again—to me!

Two days later, my little joke song had over 80 million hits. Kids were posting it to their own facebook pages. A ringtone app was born for the Iphone and people were paying $2.99 for each download. Ladies lunching at the Wilfred Springs Golf and Tennis Club heard “Fashionista” when someone’s phone rang. The dining room echoed with my voice.  The golf director hummed it under his breath as he teed off.  Everywhere I turned, I heard myself.

My dad, knowing a miracle from heaven when he saw one, moved quickly to contact t.v. stations and radio stations in our area. I ran from interview to interview, stopping long enough to strum my song and sing my tune. Soon, he was fielding calls from Los Angeles, Chicago, Orlando, and New York. Everyone wanted to know who the “angelic”  blonde girl who sang “Fashionista” was. Where did she come from? Could they meet her? Would she agree to an appearance?

I was thirteen and bored.

I guess my parents always knew I was destined for stardom and named me for it. I was born to the Black family of Wilfred Springs, Georgia, and named after Mom’s favorite girl punk singer Joan Jett. Joan Jett had a band called Joan Jett and the Blackhearts. I guess Mom liked the “Black” in their name or something. Even though I was a towhead blonde with blue eyes, my moniker was Jett Black—I know, destined for stardom, right? Either that, or it was a great name if I ever decided to pole dance or star in porn. I’m just glad dad didn’t get his way—he wanted to name me Loralei after a German myth about  a beautiful siren who lured and bewitched sailers of the Reine River to their untimely deaths. While under her lethal spell, their boats hit the rocks and they drowned. Lorelei, I’m happy to say, I wasn’t.  So, Mom, thanks for the cool name. I wish you could see me today.

So, Jett Black soon became the most sought after interview since Kimye got engaged. I was the new “it” girl—all of Hollywood was calling.

I was poked and prodded, waxed and curled, tanned and manicured, spit-polished and ready for my close-up. My teeth were bleached, my hair was teased, my face was masqued and peeled, it was decided I didn’t have enough hair for fashion or t.v., so extensions were added to puff me up,  my clothes were chosen by a team of real fashionistas—a guy named Dougie who wore more guy-liner than Adam Levine of Maroon 5 fame  and carried a huge bag full of make-up and moisterizers, spritzers of this and that in his murse—his man-purse, a girl with spiky hair named Angel who had more tattoos than biker diva  Kat Von D, and a 40ish peroxide blonde cougar named Jill whose radar for younger men started pinging at each and every photo shoot.  I was a Disney Cinderella and they were my chattering and oft times my  malicious magpies.

“Sweetie, look this way…no, up…”

Dougie was attaching yet a few more false eyelashes. I felt like my eyelids were way too heavy for my eyes.

“Ouch!” I practically jumped out of the make-up chair.  “You got glue in my eye, I think” I complained, dabbing at it with a Kleenex.

“Oh, darling…so sorry, darling! Nearly done here,” Dougie assured a bleary eyed me.

“Voila! Divine!” he said, turning my salon chair to face the mirror. The face that stared back to me wasn’t my own. I looked older, maybe in my 20s or 30s; I didn’t look like the angelic girl who sang “Fashionista” anymore. I looked more like a slutty Claire Danes.

Disney Studios took notice of me right away and offered me a screen test. “Smoky” was a new sit-com about a girl who gets Internet stardom and her “reality” t.v. show—sounds familiar, right? Instead of Jett Black, my character’s name was Smoky Blue---not much of a stretch, really. So the story was based on my life, but not on my life. My acting ability wasn’t the draw, obviously. They just wanted a perky girl who could wear fashion, sing on-key, and get kids to buy products, and scream on cue. Lucky fans got seats at live shows and the truly lucky got to meet me and come back stage.

Smoky Blue took off like a rocket and social media exploded. I knew was on my way when my Twitter-verse was rocked by no other than Justin Bieber himself.

His tweet was: @justinbieber: hey jett welcome to the good life. teen stardom rocks, like me! now U! don't let it get to you ;) #great2B_us

How ironic his tweet is now.

At first, I loved all the attention. I loved playing dress up and having beauty treatments and spa days. I wished every day that my mom was there to share all of this with me. She had been gone about a year when I sang “Fashionista.” I really missed her.

When my life became one long spa treatment and costume fittings took the better part of a day, the reality set in. This was not fun—it was hard work. Even singing for the camera began to feel fake.

The channel originally wanted me to change my name to Smoky Blue—not just on-screen but legally—through the court system—to be more “true” to the character. Besides, they reasoned, the name Jett Black was too harsh for kiddie t.v., too bold, too strange sounding, too biker babe, too punk rock. What they didn’t realize is that name was given to me by my now dead mother.

“You want her to change her name?” my dad asked incredulously, obviously upset by this turn of events. He was already mad that they had put low-lights in my hair without asking permission. I wished again that Mom was still alive. She would understand low-lights and up-dos, extensions and  hair color.

“We think Jett Black is too grown up for the show,” the producer named Stan said. He watched my father and looked impatiently at his Rolex, admiring its diamond and 18 carot setting. He had somewhere to go and he wanted us to know he was a very busy man—a very busy rich man.

“Smoky Blue?” my dad practically shouted, the vein in his forehead looking dangerously close to exploding. “You think Smoky Blue is a wholesome name? It sounds like a hooker’s name.”

“Now, Jeff, er…Mr. Black,  you have to understand….we chose Smoky because the character is born in the Smoky Mountains and Blue is a much nicer color for television than black,” Stan drummed his fingers on his pristine desk. Blue was a “nicer” color?

“Absolutely not! We change her name and the show folds? Then what? She’s stuck being Smokey the Bear for the rest of her life!?” This was not going well at all.

My dad ended up losing the Battle of the Names. Jett I was at birth but Smoky  I remained on television and in the public.

So for five years, I was the angelic waif of Disney  t.v., the darling of the minute, the songbird I was paid to be, and I warbled my tunes—the tunes they told me to sing. I sang about the mountains and my mountain home—mostly fiction, of course. I sang of home town values and family time. I sang of horses and unicorns, teddy bears and lip gloss, dreams and school—although I didn’t have a clue about normal school anymore. I was tutored on-set between takes and any other spare moments they could find.

I was becoming Smoky Blue. Kids came to the show to see her, not Jett Black. I was a commodity, not a person. The hottest eye shadow color that season was Smoky Blue—the average age of the consumer—eleven years old! “Toddlers and Tiaras” producers asked  Smoky Blue to sing a song at their pageant, but Dad put his foot down.

“Jett, you’re not singing on that show!”

“Why, Dad? You know I love that show,” I wanted to meet some of the contestants. Keally Lee was my favorite toddler. She was only five but walked like Miss America herself. I bet she wore Smoky Blue eye shadow.

“I won’t have you associated with such an exploitation of young girls,” was his only comment.

How ironic. I was a minor on the set yet I worked longer hours than most business people. Talk about exploitation!

Smoky Blue was a new jean made for Old Navy and an instant runaway best seller. Teens were wearing Smoky Blue hoodies that cost $68.00—for a hoodie! A Smoky Blue doll was marketed by American Girl just in time for Christmas that year.

K-Mart wanted to market my character’s name on a line of shoes, but Dad didn’t like the fact that the shoes were made by children in sweat factories in India.

My own songs were never published, the studio wanted control over my “image” and were worried my own songwriting was too mature, too worldly, too grown up. I wanted to sing about love and heartbreak, about the world and people, about freedom and peace. I wanted to change the world with my songs. I wanted people to know about child labor and sweat factories and how stupid it is to pay $68.00 for a hoodie.

When my contract was up for renewal on my birthday, Dad kept calling Stan the Man who suddenly wouldn’t return his phone calls.

And that’s when I knew I would lose the show and my job. And that’s what just happened.

Wild At Heart- Chapter One-Just Jett

"Okay, that's a wrap, people. Great job, people!" Stan clapped his hands and the cameras backed away. Another successful season of "Smoky Blue" was in the can, and instead of feeling exhilarated, I was exhausted.  I was ready to get out of the sweltering, unbearable heat blanket that was Orlando and wake up to the coolness of  clear mountain mornings.  I missed Georgia and my horse Rocky and even my rotten twin brothers Harlen and Harley although I would rather eat fire  ants than admit that fact to them.

 

"Jett, a word, please," Stan motioned me over to his chair. Now what? I’m tired and all I want to do is dive into a bubble bath.  "Have a seat," he offered, smiling a creepy little smile that was supposed to put me at ease,  I think.

 

"No, thanks, Stan, I have to catch my ride," I reminded him.

 

"Oh, about that..." Stan began, lowering his gaze.  You know that feeling you get when someone talking to you won’t look at you? Like they’re hiding something? I knew this moment was coming…I . Just. Knew. It.

 

"Um...Jett, you know you turned 18 last week, and..." he continued talking, or at least I think he did. I saw his mouth still moving but for some reason I couldn’t hear him anymore. I could feel  my pulse pounding  in my ears and I started to lose my vision.  I grabbed  the arm of the chair and hung on., afraid I might just faint.

 

 I suspected something like this to happen, but I was hoping in my hopes of hopes that I had at least one more season to film. Just one more. Let me find my next job, at least, I prayed! It’s a jungle out there for “child” stars once they’re past their prime. What would I do?

 

"Jett, you know Disney Studios caters to the 6-12 tween  crowd..." Yep, here it comes.

 

"Yes, Stan, I know," I held my breath, waiting for the bottom to fall out of my picture perfect life.  “Stan, if this is about my contract, you need to talk to my dad. You know he handles all that.” I reminded him.

“Yes, he DID handle all that. Now that you’re eighteen, your contract is now null and void.”

 

What a weasel. He doesn’t even have the stones to tell my dad. Shady.

 

"Well, the Studio believes you're just a little too old for our demographic. They’re not renewing your contract," Stan informed me with all the deadpan compassion usually reserved for swatting away a  bothersome fly. He reached out to pat my shoulder or something.  Lame.

 

I backed away. I didn't need his polite pity. He had never offered me any sort of kindness before--not for the past 5 years I pretended to be a cute country singing sensation named Smokey Blue. The studio had even made me change my name to fit their demographic. I had given them everything I had in me and more --working 14 hour days, singing, dancing, putting up with thousands of costume changes and hundreds of hours of hair and make up, smiling on cue, acting the happy-go-lucky girl playing to crowds of screaming tweens—faking excitement about supermarket openings  from Biloxi, Mississippi to  Pierre, South Dakota, cutting ribbons at new malls all over the country where the Smokey Blue clothing line was sold—smiling, laughing, singing, signing autographs and posing for pictures…even when my mom was sick.  Oh, I was the  real “it” girl—a regular Betty Boop.

 

  Don’t get me wrong. Sometimes I loved it. I loved the glamour and the glitz, I loved the pampering and yes, I even secretly loved the fawning over me. But sometimes, I just wanted to scream. I wanted to go to Starbucks and get a Mondo Mocha  latte or whatever it is people wait in line for so long for  without being mobbed by over-zealous  paparazzi and giggling gaggles of fan girls. I wanted to go see a movie and sit in the darkened theater stuffing my face with heavenly greasy buttered popcorn and pretend to be  a normal girl for just two hours. I wanted to sit in a high school classroom surrounded by kids my age. I wanted to go to prom and dance with a boy I liked. I even wanted to eat horrible school lunch from a crowded school cafeteria.

 

It hit me! I’m fired! Washed up at age 18... I just lost the best job a girl could have. Now I got no job and no hope in sight. What do I do now? Who was going to hire a washed up Disney  child star? Stan was looking  at me. I snapped out of it.

 

I bolted out the side door nearly colliding with a lumbering cameraman. I brushed hot tears off with the back of my hand. I didn’t bother changing into my own clothes—so what? They owed me at least the borrowed clothes on my back. Stan wasn’t going to get the pleasure of seeing me cry. Not today, not ever, but really,  now what?