From having a brother who was a total flop, whose agency just threw him into this top-tier survival show as "recycled trash" to fill a spot. In the second round of the show, the trainees had to perform an original song. The rich kid got a Grammy-winning producer to back him up. The nepo baby got his superstar older brother to pull strings. And my brother... got me, a "plain and ordinary" music teacher. But after that round ended, our group's original track blew up the entire internet: "This melody is too damn good! She killed it!" "What kind of school music teacher is this?! She's a literal genius!" My brother silently raised his hand on camera: "She's... she's from Berklee." 1 When I got my brother's call, I was in the middle of revising a track for a client in LA. The demo for his new single had been revised eight times, and he still wasn't satisfied. I was aggressively scribbling on the sheet music with one hand, and irritably answering the phone with the other: "I told you I'm swamped right now. I can't fly back to New York. Find someone else." I was about to hang up, but Dylan's desperate, panicked voice blasted through the speaker: "Avery, you're my only sister! Just help me this once. I swear, come Thanksgiving and Christmas, I'll block every single Auntie asking why you're still single. I'll take all the heat!" Women know how it is. Once you reach a certain age, relatives from miles away start aggressively interrogating you about your marital status. And my family is super traditional; I have to go back for the holidays. Thinking of Aunt Margaret's machine-gun-speed questioning, I caved. I rubbed my temples and sighed. "Send me the time and address. I'll arrange my schedule." Just as I hung up and finally finished the demo, Carter Vance leaned against the piano. He had heard the whole thing. He flashed his signature, charming smile: "Anaje, you're going back to the East Coast?" I packed up the sheet music and handed it to him. "Yeah, family emergency. Gotta fly back for a bit." I grabbed my bag and rushed out to book a red-eye flight. I was in such a hurry that I completely missed his last sentence: "Mind if I come find you?" 2 A week later, dragging my heavy suitcases to the entrance of the boot camp, I was nearly blinded by the paparazzi's flashbulbs. That idiot Dylan forgot to mention the show was recording from the moment mentors arrived at the camp. So, while others stepped out of sleek, tinted Escalades wearing designer couture, I was standing on the curb in a hoodie, haggling with a yellow cab driver. "We agreed on 60 bucks from JFK, not a penny more!" "Lady, look at this traffic! You see how backed up it is? This trip cost me my whole morning. You gotta add a tip!" I checked my wallet. I flew back in such a rush that I barely had any cash on me, and my Venmo app was glitching. A reporter nearby couldn't take the secondhand embarrassment anymore and handed the driver a crisp hundred-dollar bill. Even though I promised to pay him back once I got my paycheck, he still blasted me on the front page of his blog. #DylanHayesSisterIsBroke #DidDylanHireHisSisterForFamilyIncome? #DylanGroupDoomedToFailRoundTwo What can I say? Rumors stop at the wise, but Twitter isn't exactly known for wisdom. 3 After dealing with the cabbie, I followed the PA's directions onto the red carpet leading into the camp. The 80 trainees for this show were split into 8 groups of 10. Dylan was in Group 3. A bunch of trainees with zero backing, zero resources, and clearly no budget for a famous mentor. No wonder he begged me to save him. The mentors introduced themselves one by one on the red carpet. First up was the "superstar brother" Dylan mentioned. He debuted a decade ago and was a massive teen heartthrob: "Hey everyone, I'm Mason Reed. I'm the mentor for Liam's team. I specialize in rap and choreography." The fans behind the barricades went wild. The host chimed in perfectly: "Mason is being modest! We all know besides dancing and rapping, his songwriting is top-tier." Mason waved it off. "Speaking of songwriting, we have a platinum-selling producer right here. I wouldn't dare call myself top-tier." A woman in a stunning Dior gown stepped up, introducing herself. Maybe it was my imagination, but this Valerie Stone seemed to be glaring at me with open hostility. Before I could overthink it, she finished, and the mic was shoved to me. "Hi, I'm Avery Hayes. I'm the mentor for Dylan's team. I'm a music teacher, mostly focusing on music education. I also specialize in songwriting." The moment I finished, the crowd's vibe instantly turned weird: [Is this Avery trying to leach off Valerie's clout?] [A music teacher who "specializes in songwriting"? Can she even read sheet music?] [The Hayes siblings' desperation is showing.] [Ugh, my bias is in Dylan's group. Can he transfer?!] Hearing the whispers, the host tried to save the segment: "What a coincidence! Ms. Hayes is also a songwriter. Do you have any published works we might know?" I knew he wanted me to name-drop something to appease the fans. Worried my classical or highly technical pieces wouldn't land, I picked a recent commercial track I wrote back in the States. "Give Me Power." The crowd got even louder, but not in a good way: [What the hell is that? Never heard of it.] [Just searched Spotify. Nothing under that name.] [Is this chick okay? Does an unreleased demo count as a masterpiece?] The host clearly agreed. He forced a laugh, said "Ms. Hayes is so funny," and snatched the mic away before I could embarrass him further. Later I found out, the Olympic committee had changed the track's name for the official broadcast. So when fans later saw the credits for the Winter Olympics theme song reading "Composer: Avery Hayes," they lost their minds. [I am the clown.] [The Olympic theme song "Strength of the Nation" was originally called "Give Me Power"?!] 4 The mentors went to claim their teams. Before I even got close, Dylan grabbed me, panicking. "Guys, this is my sister! She's an amazing songwriter—" "How amazing? The kind of amazing that has zero published songs?" A trainee with bleached blonde hair cut him off sarcastically. "Ethan, shut your mouth. If you're not happy, go to another group." Dylan was fiercely protective of me. Ethan had a temper. He sneered, turned around, and walked straight toward Valerie's group. Her group had a 12-person limit, so there was still room. Seeing Ethan leave, Dylan yelled after him: "Anyone else who wants to leave, do it now! If you wait, the other groups will be full!" He yelled, and three more guys left. From the 10 who started, we were down to 6 in less than five minutes. The livestream comments were brutal: [Down to 6? Speedrunning elimination.] [These poor trainees got dealt a bad hand.] [Broke-sister needs to quit. We'll start a GoFundMe.] Dylan finally introduced the remaining guys. "This is Kael, an exchange student, currently ranked 77th. Wyatt, our main dancer, ranked 70th..." He rattled off the names. Not a single one in the top 50. "And me, your brother, barely scraping by at 20th." "So this entire group doesn't have a single debut spot?" I sighed, looking at this misfit crew. I felt like I was running a daycare for reality show rejects. "No, wait! Let me introduce my bro, Jaxon Pierce. Amazing singer and dancer, currently ranked 3rd." I looked at the kid. Very handsome, giving off a detached, bad-boy vibe that teenage girls go crazy for. "Everyone else bailed. Why are you still here? Aren't you worried about losing your top spot?" I asked. Jaxon tilted his chin toward Dylan. "I lost a bet to this idiot, so I promised to team up. But it doesn't matter. I'm strong enough to carry. If you can't write a song, I'll just do it myself." Damn. I'm kind of here for it. Guess I'm getting a cool brother-in-law.
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