Cadet Basic Information

Name: Harriet Casey "Taysee" Jones
Gender: Female
Age: 18
DOB: June 23, 1992
Height: 5'3"
Weight: 112 lbs
Hair: Teal blue
Eyes: Blue
Rank: Cadet

Memo and Important Notes

Role: Taysee would be more than happy to be an ordinary recruit, but that's unmanageable given her circumstances. Being an almost universally-known face among the Community, she is expected to be the model of an upstanding citizen, and her life is scrutinized much more closely than most. Even she, at times, questions her worth to the Revolution; her very status often leaves her paralyzed to act. It also allows her to offer the Revolution a few significant advantages. While she has no official position in the government, Taysee has connections with many Community officials, and can come and go within the government without creating much suspicion. She also enjoys great popularity and influence over the general public. Her name alone would unlock many doors in the Community, provided a suitable pretense could be found for the mission.

Previous Occupation: Singer and one of the public faces of the Community. Often voices the anthem or similarly patriotic songs at official events. As her popularity blossomed, she became a "public relations" agent for the government, often being used to spread propaganda and raise support for the government's orders. With her emotions as her muse, Taysee has also shown a raw talent for songwriting. The government has taken little interest in this talent, however; songwriters are required to be well-versed in politics as well as music.

Motives: Taysee is deeply loyal to the ideals of the Revolution -- individualism and freedom -- and she feels that she needs to be a part of the Revolution to fight for them. As an artist, she resents being treated like a parrot, with words and lyrics constantly being placed in her mouth. Her personal grudge against the government is icing on top of the cake; she blames them for the separation of her parents, which left a deep mark on her childhood.

Physical Description

Taysee is easily recognized by her long, thick, teal blue hair, usually worn loose and allowed to tumble down her back in waves. Alone, it's enough to give her the sort of striking appearance that stands out in a crowd. Add in her rather large, almond-shaped eyes, and she's often considered attractive; in reality, attention is simply shifted away from her otherwise plain appearance and strong nose. Rarely exercising intensely, Taysee is fairly weak and cannot pose much of a threat physically. She has a medium build and is on the short side, at 5'3".

Left to her own devices, she has a quirky fashion sense, often pairing items that would not normally be paired (for example, a blazer and a dressy skirt). For her public appearances, of course, she is supplied with stunning dresses.

Personality and Demeanor

Personality: Very much an outside-of-the-box thinker, Taysee often comes up with sometimes brilliant, sometimes illogical solutions to problems. Even before turning her back on the Community, she never conformed as well as the Community ideal. Taysee is usually polite and friendly, though it's not uncommon for her to violate social conventions and her strong emotions sometimes take over. She has created a "public persona" to show the masses.

Interactions: Reluctant to be seen with fellow revolutionaries in public, so as to avoid drawing attention to them and condemning herself. Has some respect for anyone who made the decision to follow the red flag, regardless of their rank, and interacts with most of them as she would her friends. She is wary of those who advocate blind violence as the answer, however; Taysee wants to create a new order in the Community, not burn it to the ground.

Brief History

Born into a relatively privileged family, Harriet was blessed with both a love of music and a voice that was often described as "angelic". Her teachers took notice, and reported her remarkable talent for singing up through the ranks. Her first public appearance came in second grade, when she was selected to sing the anthem at a festival. She received a standing ovation; many of those attending were beaming with tears running down their cheeks. Further appearances followed.

From 11 to 15, her appearances grew less frequent, as she entered the awkward teenager stage between adorable little girl and mature adult. When she was in sixth grade, the government, for reasons still unknown to her, suggested that her parents divorce. Less than three months later, her mother, with the full approval of the government, remarried. Harriet was placed under the care of her father. He moved them to the country, where they lived quietly and out of the public eye.

At age 16, she agreed to sing again. Her voice was richer, her form fuller, and the crowd fell in love with her a second time. Unexpectedly, the government insisted that she move to the capital to live with her mother's new family. Relations between her and her mother had chilled after the divorce, and they spent an uncomfortable year together before Harriet moved out at 17. She became progressively unhappy with her life, turning to songwriting to release her emotions. When she finally presented one to the government, they gave her a pat on the head and sent her away with a new, patriotic song to sing at the next festival. That was the straw that broke the camel's back.

Wanting to leave "Harriet" behind, she privately adopted the name "Taysee" (based on her middle name) and renounced the Community. For the past few months, she has been searching for a way to make contact with and join the Revolution -- no easy task, when her every move is watched by fans and the government alike.

For authorized personnel only. Property of Revolution and sephiry.
/~HUGEL TO RECRUIT

Mission 2

When she'd had this idea three weeks ago, she had sort of expected that things would magically fall into place.

If she listened hard enough, Tay thought, someone in the government would slip up and inadvertently let her know where to find them - after all, the government had inadvertently clued her in on their existence in the first place, in the this is a serious problem that needs to be exterminated kind of way. Or maybe she'd even thought that there would be a magical sign (or at least some kind of sign) only fellow conspirators could see on top of her head, saying "Hey! I'm one of you guys!", and eventually one of them would come looking for her.

When those hopes had failed her, she knew she needed to take a more active approach. What she'd actually done was the exact opposite - nothing. It wasn't that she had no idea where to look; even in the capital, there were districts and rundown streets notorious for drawing those who didn't quite fit the Community mold. But to even go there, never mind start poking around - it was completely, frustratingly impossible.

She was doing her routine shopping now, keeping up the life-or-death pretense that nothing had changed and she was just loyally living whatever life the Community set out for her. The busy commercial street she was walking down might as well as have been a tight wire - one wrong step, one wrong word, one wrong move, and her life would be over. Tay had the impulse to pretend she was actually walking on a wire, to step from heel to toe and heel to toe in a completely straight line, and promptly buried it. Even here, she could feel all the eyes around her glued to her. People always seemed to find excuses to come near her and exchange a Good day.

It amazed her how her simple response seemed to give them as much happiness as if she'd showered them with gold. They didn't even know her, not really, and they adored her.

Tay took a turn into a familiar sweet shop, spirits momentarily lightened by the sight of shelves and shelves of sweet temptations. She took a deep breath, as if the sweetness had mingled with the air and she could inhale it, and pretended not to notice all the high-class eyes turning toward her. Making her way over to her favorite raspberry truffles, she saw that there wasn't a single box left on the shelf.

One of the shop assistants had just finished restocking a nearby shelf. Tay absently noted that he was wearing a heavy red scarf, a little odd for such warm weather; she walked over to him and said politely, Excuse me.

He turned around with a smile on his face. In the second that his eyes fell on her, his brow pinched together, his smile grew rather pointed, and something forced its way into his eyes - dislike? contempt? hatred? It vanished the next second, leaving his face curiously blank, like a smiling doll's. How can I help you, ma'am? His tone was at best nonchalant, another jolt. It wasn't that she expected people to adore her; she was used to them forcing it on her.

It took her a second to gather her thoughts. Uh - do you have any of those raspberry truffles? I couldn't find them on the shelf, she said, trying a tentative, embarrassed smile.

He smiled back, a little too widely. I'll look in the back room, ma'am. Then he was gone.

She puzzled over that the whole time, while she waited for the assistant's return. He didn't even know her, and he hated her. She hadn't done anything to provoke him, that she could tell. How could he hate someone he had just met - well, that wasn't exactly true. Tay could be sure that he'd seen her image before, like everyone else. He'd seen all the patriotic singing at festivals and the propaganda-filled speeches the government had forced into her mouth.

Hating her image, that was almost like hating the Community.

Suddenly, she was flooded with excitement. Was it possible? She mentally went over what she knew. The Revolution identified with red - he was wearing a red scarf. If Tay took a step away from herself she'd realize that she was a walking symbol for blind obedience and conformity - and he detested that, just as she did. The pieces fit perfectly - but then there were plenty of other explanations.

Tay deflated just as the assistant returned with her raspberry truffles, and her smile back at him was just as fake as his smile at her. Here you go, ma'am. She accepted the chocolates with another polite smile and a thank you, thoughts whirling a hundred miles above sweets. She turned away to pretend to continue browsing; he was immediately called away to help another customer.

It was a shaky foundation to put her life on, but it could be her only chance. If she could bring up the Revolution in a conversation, she could see how he'd react, but that left her no way out. No, she needed a way to contact him without him knowing that it was from her. Even that had her stumped for five or ten seconds, in increasing agitation; when she finally hit on the answer, Tay wanted to slap herself. A note!

She ducked behind a shelf of licorice - did anyone really eat that stuff? - and took a notepad and pen from her purse. What was that phrase they used again? Viva la Revolution, she scribbled on the paper. Tay tore off the sheet, saw her own handwriting staring back at her, and ripped it into shreds, stuffing the pieces in her pocket. She carefully scrawled the same words with her left hand, tore off the sheet, and folded it into a neat rectangle. Where could she leave it that he would be sure to find it, and soon?

With her hand and the note in her pocket, she took another stroll through the shop. Tay eyed the empty shelf of raspberry truffles - he'd have to restock it soon - but that was too obviously connected to her. Her gaze wandered beyond it to the empty crate he'd been restocking from when she had first seen him. He hadn't taken it back to the back room yet; perfect. Pretending to be seriously considering buying something from the shelf in front of it, she let the note fall. It landed noiselessly on the bottom of the wooden crate.

Tay retreated a safe distance to watch, trying to stay calm; somehow that was harder, now that she had nothing to do but wait. She couldn't even see the assistant with the red scarf, so he had to be in the back room, unless he'd left already or the guards had nabbed him in the space of thirty seconds and he was never coming back - okay, so he was in the back room.

Tay could tell the exact moment that he saw her note. His brow furrowed, and he put down the crate he was holding to pick up the little slip of paper and unfold it. For an instant, nothing - and then his eyes flared wide and he shot glances to his left and right, presumably searching for the one who'd left the note. There was plenty of shock in that look, maybe even fear, Tay decided, but no confusion. Then he carefully refolded the note and slipped it into his pocket, the smallest of smiles on his face.

Tay picked up another box of sweets at random and went to pay for her purchases. She was satisfied. But how to convince him that she was sincere?

***
The words and melodies were running through her head, jumbled up and thrown together. Seven days she'd thought this over, but as she crossed the threshold into the familiar sweet shop now, no doubts preyed upon her mind. Tay didn't even bother to check for the raspberry truffles, though she made a mental note never to buy those disgusting taffies again.

There he was; he was wearing the same red scarf, and she caught a glimpse of his face before he disappeared into the back room. That was perfect, Tay decided, leisurely making her way over to the door he'd just closed behind him. She took a quick glance around - no one was watching, for once, if only because those shelves blocked her from their view - and slipped in after him.

The musty smell of dust assailed her nose. There were shelves back here, too, arranged in columns and stacked with crates. She could hear his movements a few shelves to her left. Her senses tingled, knowing that she could be caught at any moment. Tay locked the heavy door behind her. She walked past each aisle until she spotted him, just as he was turning away from the shelf.

There it was again. Surprise, a flash of dislike, and annoyance ran through his eyes. Sorry, ma'am, but you can't be back here. His words flew in one ear and out the other.

I want to join the Revolution, Tay said, keeping her voice low. The words didn't sound quite right; she thought now that she should've said I need to join the Revolution instead.

His head jerked around to face her fully as his face froze. His mouth was still hanging open, almost comically, but he didn't seem to notice. Tay took the opportunity to start down the aisle. His eyes returned to life first; they darted around the room, looking for an escape. She had almost reached him when he recovered enough to speak. I have no idea what you're talking about. Ma'am.

It was no less than she'd expected. Just give me a minute, please, she pleaded. When no protest came, Tay took a deep breath and began to sing softly.

Standing in a world of black and gray
Where did the color go?
Lost in a crowd of dolls and puppets
I don't belong, I'm wrong, a misfit
Or maybe I'm too real
She watched for his reaction closely as she continued singing. It wasn't only to judge the success of her plan - the singer in her had had a hundred audiences, but for the songwriter, it was the first. He wasn't smiling, he didn't even look friendly, but his face had softened and his eyes were a little distant. When the song was over, he simply said, The Community didn't write that.

It seemed to be a question, and she answered readily. I wrote it. There was no sense in holding anything back now.

How do I know you're not lying? he demanded, quick as reflex.

She didn't know what to say to that; she almost wanted to laugh instead. The notion that one of the Community songwriters could have written the song even if they wanted to - it was absurd. With a leap of insight, she realized that that was part of the problem. He looked a little sheepish now, and he gave her a conciliatory, though not particularly trustful smile. He was probably thinking the same thing.

I have to talk to our leaders, he said after a few seconds, I can't let you in. His tone was final. Tay smiled, sincerely, and said, Thank you. It was no less than she could have hoped for.

With a nod, he walked past her and started toward the door. He hadn't taken more than three steps when his stride hitched and he paused, as if something had just struck him. That note -

Viva la Revolution, she whispered fiercely. It was a pledge.

nav; intro | profile | story | art & toybox

introduction

Listen, this is getting seriously creepy.

The voice comes from to your left. You turn your head in surprise, and see only the eight-foot-tall brick fence that stretches on and on parallel to the sidewalk. For a moment you feel annoyed with the fence for keeping you from the object of your curiosity, and with the city for being too lazy to tear it down after so-and-so government facility relocated, but you hear strange things all the time in a big city like this. With a shrug of your shoulders, you keep walking.

I told them I wasn't going to talk to them, you know -- or let them in my house, heaven forbid. I asked them to leave me alone.

This time the words are half-spoken, half-muttered angrily. Still, it's a nice voice, female, with a rich, full tone. You realize that the woman and whoever she's talking to must be walking the same way you are, on the other side of the fence. Your curiosity has been piqued, and this thought makes you slightly happier. With half your mind, you wait for the response.

You only hear a low growl.

What... was that?

Of course not. I'm so sick of being watched all the time -- and do you have any idea how scary that is? One of them's a real piece of work. I wouldn't put it past him to have videocameras in my house.

The words are followed by another inarticulate sound, but this one is clearly recognizable as a bark.

You breathe a sigh of relief, and mentally scold yourself for being silly. Of course it's just a woman walking her dog while probably talking on a cell phone, and there's nothing strange about that. But what she was saying, no, hissing into the cell phone... the mere thought of it is a dash of cold water in the face of your relief.

Is this woman... being stalked?

Sorry, sorry. I know it's not your fault. I'm just so frustrated. You know what happened yesterday? I was walking down to that great Thai place for dinner, and I turn a corner off the boulevard, and suddenly they're in my face, blocking my way and babbling things at me. I practically jumped out of my skin. This was at, like, 8 o'clock at night, all dark, in some tiny little street -- I thought I was being jumped or something.

Now that she's talking in a relatively normal tone of voice, or at least trying to, you can tell that the woman is taking care to keep her voice low. If you hadn't been keeping pace with her right on the other side of the fence, her words would have been an unintelligible murmur.

You glance around to see if anyone else is listening in on the conversation, but it can't be any later than 7 AM. The sky is still tinged with a rosy hue, and the few people out so early on a Saturday are marching resolutely toward their destinations, with no eyes for you or each other and no ears for anything but (for some) the music on their iPods. You're the only one walking with eyes wide and mouth hanging slightly open, shaking your head as if to say it can't be.

After all, you might know that stalkers exist "out there", but they don't belong in your world. You wonder why this woman hasn't gone to the police. Surely they would take care of it.

An abrupt, choked laugh reaches your ears. Thanks. Too bad that wouldn't work, huh? But seriously, this is freaking me out, and not just because of the whole cornered-in-a-dark- alley thing. I mean, how the heck did they know I was going to be there, to wait there? It's not like I gave them a heads up or something. D'they know what I'm doing every minute of the day? If they really know everything about me -- that's just scary.

The words are tumbling out of her mouth now, sounding more and more agitated. You're struck by the possibility that this woman might be paranoid, or even schizophrenic, but to even consider that feels like adding insult to injury, so you toss the idea. Instead, you find yourself slipping into her shoes, trying to imagine what it would be like to have someone you don't trust -- an enemy, perhaps, or some shadowy stranger -- know everything about you.

Your secrets. Your not-so-virtuous acts. The really embarrassing moments. And the everyday things, too, you realize -- like your favorite color, your hobbies, what makes you laugh. You can't even wrap your mind around it, but you feel a rush of pity for the unlucky woman. Just as you're losing yourself completely in the conversation and your thoughts, you spot the familiar street sign ahead and come crashing back to earth.

You feel like you've been caught up in a movie and, like a movie, the whole bizarre experience now seems too exciting to be real. The paranoia/schizophrenia or even outright-lying explanation is suddenly much more attractive. You shrug helplessly and turn your attention to the crosswalk light, which has just changed to the "walk" symbol. Just as your thoughts are turning to a relaxing, piping hot cappuccino, you notice that the fence comes to an abrupt end about a quarter of a block past the T intersection.

You make a token effort to be on your way, but your feet have already come to a dead stop; with the chance to satisfy your curiosity so close, you wait. She's started talking again, but you can't make out the words, so you occupy yourself with trying to imagine what she'll look like. A thirty-year-old woman, maybe, with a Puppyblew? For a brief moment, you flirt with the idea of catching up with her, striking up a conversation, really getting to know her as a person -- That's definitely no Puppyblew.

Emerging head, body and tail from behind the fence is, quite possibly, the largest, most intimidating Werhond you have ever seen, all blood-red fur and toned muscles and spikes. He seems to be behaving well enough on his leash, but even from this distance you can see the glint of the protruding lower canines that give his face that perpetual glower. You jump in surprise and more than a pinch of alarm, then think that whatever the mysterious woman looks like, it can't possibly be more of a shock.

You're dead wrong. For a second you don't trust your eyes, but one glance at the striking teal blue hair falling down her back in thick waves, even slightly frazzled as it is now, and you know that you're seeing the celebrity singer -- Taysee -- in person.

Funny enough, you don't feel like asking for an autograph -- and you certainly don't need to approach her and strike up a conversation, you realize with a sinking, uncomfortable feeling.

You already know everything about her.

back to top

celebrity profile!

T A Y S E E

AKA Tay
Species: Kyrii
Color: Royalgirl
Born as: Harriet Casey Jones
on: June 23, 1992 (18 years young)

Occupation: Singer-songwriter, actress
Genres: Pop and teen pop
Claim to fame: Won 2nd place at the 2004 Wetherley Music Festival with hit single "Sky Blue"
Relationship: None yet, but we're waiting!

Height: 5' 3"
Hair color: Teal blue (we love it!)
Eye color: Cyan
Sign: Cancer [the Wave]

She likes...
Always looking fabulous!
Making and listening to music of all types.
She hates...
Being called "Harriet".
Blazing hot weather. (No wonder she lives in MA!)

Did you know?
Taysee's favorite color is purple.
She loves dogs, though she doesn't own one.

_ ___ ____ ___________________________________
from People magazine

interlude: an interview

[8:30 PM at Shoal Stadium. A boisterous crowd is gathered in the background, and multi-colored stadium lights are sweeping the area. ABC's Andrea Heath is talking to 15-year-old Shawna Eames.]

AH: 30 minutes left until the concert kicks off, and it looks like this crowd is getting pumped! We have with us Shawna, who flew in all the way from Massachusetts to see her childhood friend's concert. Shawna, how long have you known Taysee?

SE: Oh, it feels like forever. [laughs] Actually, we've known each other since kindergarten, and right way I could tell that we had so much in common. Like we were both totally obsessed with music.

AH: So you knew her before her big breakthrough with "Sky Blue"?

SE: Yeah, definitely.

AH: Tell us about what Taysee was like before she became famous.

SE: Well, she was... [pause] She was always nice to everyone, and she had this great smile for everyone, and it would just make you feel happier and brighten your day. But she wasn't really loud, and outgoing, you know, because she was always pretty focused on her music. And it made me feel that much luckier to be her friend. [smiles]

AH: Did she change at all, after she became famous?

SE: No, not really. I mean, I thought, I was scared that she'd get a little stuck up about it, but Taysee totally wasn't that kind of girl. She was still so sweet to everyone, and we were working on our music together still, and she was really surprised, actually, about how successful "Sky Blue" was and how much everyone loved it. But...

AH: [leans in] But?

SE: [pause] Well, after she became famous, everyone else at school wanted to be her [air quotes] "friend" all of a sudden, you know? And I stuck by her the whole time, of course, but Taysee was so sweet, and trusting, and I think it really hurt her when she found out about it. It's so sad. I can't believe they'd do that to her. I think it's made her kind of suspicious of people, now. [frowns]

AH: My goodness. That's terrible. I guess fame isn't all roses, huh? [Shawna nods, moment of silence] So, Shawna, why did you decide to come to the concert tonight? Does Taysee know you're here?

SE: Oh, I came to support Tay, of course. And I'm a singer, too -- you can check out the videos at my channel, StarringShawna -- so I have a lot to learn from her. I'm hoping we can be neighbors in Beverly Hills, someday! [giggles] But she doesn't know I'm here yet, I want it to be a surprise. [grins]

AH: [grins] Oh, we won't tell -- if you tell us what you're going to say to Taysee, Shawna, when you see her?

SE: That I miss her so, so much and I wish she didn't have to move away, but I'm so proud of her for getting here and I always knew she could do it.

AH: All right! Thanks Shawna, and this is Andrea Heath for ABC, at the Shoal Stadium.

_ ___ _____ _______________________________________
Seen on ABC News.

she tells all

There's a baby tape that everyone who comes over to our house has to watch. When my mom's herded everyone into the living room, she'll put the tape in our old VCR player (I think she keeps it just for that) and, well, I usually hide my face in my hands as soon as the 'oohing' and 'aahing' starts. There, on the 62-inch plasma screen, is little, eight-month-old me being rocked in my mom's lap. And my mom, who has a really sweet, melodic voice, is singing an old English lullaby.

When we get to the second verse, my mom always turns around and goes "shhh!", and everyone quiets down for a while. Sometimes I peek through my fingers, even though I must've seen it a bajillion times -- all of a sudden, baby-me starts humming. My dad was the one holding the videocamera, and you hear his voice say, "Would you look at that! Mary, I think she's copying you."

My mom keeps singing, but she gets this really wide smile on her face. Then the humming gets louder, and you can tell I'm not trying to sing the lullaby. It's pretty much just a random jumble of notes, but I guess if you squint, it kind of sounds like a harmony. You hear this sharp intake of breath -- that's my dad -- and then usually people start talking and clapping, and the rest pretty much descends into chaos.

My mom likes to say that I was composing songs before I could talk. (I bet when she reads this, she won't be able to believe that I'm actually telling all of you about The Baby Tape.) Personally, I think that's stretching it, but I can't remember a time when I wasn't drawn to music like a fish to water.

When I was little and growing up, I was actually a quiet girl. I had a smile for everyone, but I never really knew what to say after a "hi". During recess, I spent most of the time drawing pictures on the blacktop instead of playing with the other kids on the slides and the monkey bars. If that sounds like someone you know, just give them a chance. Try talking to them, but be patient, and wait for them to open up a little -- underneath that shell, there might be someone bursting with things to say.

Luckily, I had music. From my earliest memories, our house was filled with it, like the walls themselves were singing. Either the radio was on, or my mom or dad would start carrying a tune out of the blue -- and when they sang, they sang like no one was listening. I got that from them, so I was never scared to sing like I was to talk to people. When I was singing, I'd feel light and free, like I could finally stretch my wings and express myself.

My parents must have seen how much I loved it, because they found me a vocal coach, Ms. Fischer, when I was seven. Until then, I never thought about whether I was actually any good. When I met her for the first time, I was clinging to my mom's dress, but Ms. Fischer just smiled and said, "Well, let's hear you sing." So I sang the last song I heard on the radio. It was mid-December, and I still remember that the song was "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer".

When I finished, she stared at me for two or three seconds, like she didn't know what to say. And I thought, "Oh, no. I must be terrible." Then she started clapping. "Brava, brava!" she said, and she was grinning, and my parents were beaming, and then I smiled so hard that my cheeks hurt.

My parents split up when I was nine. My mom and dad both agreed that they weren't meant to be together. They stayed on good terms and did everything they could to make it easier on me, but it was still a painful and confusing time. Sometimes it seemed like my world had fallen to pieces. I don't blame them at all now, but after the divorce, I spent ages feeling mad at both of them -- and I was mad at myself, for not being to stop it from happening somehow. That was when I started writing my own songs. I had so much pent up emotion that I needed to get out onto paper, into the air before it started slicing me up.

I kept waiting for a miracle to glue the pieces of my world back together -- to bring my parents back together -- but the miracle never came. So, day by day, I adjusted and even started to keep going. I poured myself into my music, and it was what really pulled me through.

I don't know if I can thank my middle school chorus director, Mr. Matthews, enough. He was that one teacher who was so much more than a teacher to me. From the first class in sixth grade, I could tell that teaching wasn't just a job to him. He really cared about all of his students -- and not just how we sang, but who we were. I felt more relaxed around him than any other teacher, but at the same time I respected him more.

Mr. Matthews had this gift for being able to pick out every single voice that made up the chorus. No one could get away with being too shy to sing their heart out in his class. On the second day, he called me over for a few moments at the end of class. I must have gotten a nervous look on my face, because he laughed and said, "Don't worry, you're not in trouble." When I got to the podium, Mr. Matthews looked in me the eye and told me, "You're going to be a star." Then he asked me if I was taking singing lessons, and I said I was, so he asked to get in touch with Ms. Fischer.

I was already singing at churches and local events, but working together, they got me the chance to sing at bigger events and music festivals. I was becoming pretty well-known in my town. People would stop me in the streets to tell me how much they loved my music, which always made me feel embarrassed, but thrilled that they were listening and liked it. As my schedule got busier, I really felt thankful for my mom, who made sure that everything went without a hitch and who's always been such a huge help with my music, and now my career.

Then, in the middle of seventh grade, Ms. Fischer told me that I was going to sing at the Wetherley Music Festival. I was shocked speechless. In the music world, the Wetherley festival, which takes place every two years, is the biggest deal in our area. Even though she didn't say it, I knew there'd be representatives from big labels there. Then, as if I wasn't already blown away, she told me that I was going to be singing a song I'd written, "Sky Blue".

The next few months were pretty crazy. I had to juggle music, school -- the semester exams were a nightmare -- and everything else. My friends joked that I disappeared off the face of the earth as soon as the dismissal bell rang. Trying to squeeze in everything almost drove me crazy. I was on the phone with my dad every other day, because I knew I could always count on him to keep me grounded and to remind me to go out and enjoy the sunshine now and then.

The day of the festival came, and for the first time, I was actually nervous about singing. I knew how much was riding on this one performance, and having an almost two-hour-long drive to freak out about it really didn't help with the jitters.

But when I think about that performance, it's almost hard to believe that it really happened. Somehow, when I actually got on that stage, held the microphone in my hand, and found the familiar faces in the audience -- I started singing just to them, and like magic, the notes came out even better than they'd sounded in my head.

When I stepped back from the mic and heard the applause, I was on the top of the world. Then I had another two hours to listen to the rest of the acts, and every single one was absolutely amazing. I started to feel nervous again. Sure, I thought I'd sung well, but did I stand out at all?

It was sunset when the performances were all over and I went to find the people who'd brought me there and supported me the whole way. Making my way through the crowd, I saw the most welcome sight ever -- Ms. Fischer and Mr. Matthews, grinning from ear to ear, were having a conversation with two men in formal suits and ties. I laughed, because they looked so official and serious, and I knew it was all okay.

Just like that, I was plunged into this fairytale world.

Excerpted from her autobiography.

The first thing Mr. Williams and Mr. Torres did was change my name. When he saw me coming over, he smiled brightly and said Harriet!, at which point he had to hide a wince. They both shook my hand and introduced themselves by name, then said that they were from WMG. I was excited, even though Mr. Williams is obviously not known for his tact.

Mr. Torres politely asked me what my full name was. Harriet Casey Jones, I told him. They looked at each other, smiled, and then they moved on to talk about my music. We talked for about half an hour before the loudspeakers announced that the awards were going to be presented.

I hoped but didn't really expect to win anything, so I was thrilled to get second place. I half-walked, half-ran up to the stage, walked across, shook hands and took the trophy, turned to smile, and was blinded by the flashes of more than a dozen cameras.

When my mom showed me my picture in the papers, I saw that my eyes were almost closed and my mouth was open way too wide. Luckily, I was twelve years old, so it looked cute, and not stupid. On the same day, Mr. Williams and Mr. Torres came to our house, and during their visit, they asked me how I felt about the name Taysee. It was a play on my middle name, they told me.

No one calls me Casey, I said. I was only pointing it out, but Mr. Williams blinked twice and looked to Mr. Torres for help. Think of it as a nickname, Mr. Torres suggested. I took it at that. I was way too overwhelmed by my sudden fame to think of arguing with the representatives from WMG.

A video of me performing at the festival quickly went viral, and "Sky Blue" became a huge hit. Practically overnight, everyone in the country had heard of Taysee, and everyone at school wanted to be my "friend". It was sickening, but also pretty funny -- in elementary school, I'd been the girl who was so quiet that no one even noticed me, never mind wanted to be friends. After that painful experience, I started middle school determined to act and dress and talk just like the popular kids. And suddenly they were all copying me.

I didn't think it was so funny when it started to hurt. Some part of me was still hoping that this or that person actually saw me for me, and not just some famous singer, but sooner or later they'd all say or do something that made it obvious that no, they really didn't. So I was mostly relieved when my mom decided to move us to the big city where, as she said, Stuff happens. You have to get out there to be seen and heard.

It wasn't Hollywood or NYC -- not that I had any basis for comparison then -- but to me it seemed to be all towering skyscrapers and big and jam-packed full of people. The biggest perk was that I was spending so much time at the studio that my mom decided to have me homeschooled. Within months, my first album Taysee was out, with songs I'd already written over the years. The critics liked it, my growing number of fans loved it, and it made a lot of money. The next year, I went on a short tour, started working on my second album and released some singles, and even landed a spot on a Broadway musical.

I'm not denying it. I loved being a child star. The shine of the celebrity world definitely hadn't worn off, and usually when the media turned its spotlight on me, it was to gush about how adorable I looked or how angelic my voice sounded. Everywhere I went, I was treated like a princess. Sure it went to my head a little, but there'd always been a part of me that resented the people around me for first considering me beneath their notice, and then putting me above them on a pedestal after "Sky Blue" took off. If you can't join them, beat them.

But then there came moments when I didn't have the baby-cuteness to protect me. I'll never forget the first time it happened. I was fourteen years old and going to the grocery store with my mom to buy cookie mix, tailed by paparazzi (but I didn't mind then). We were at the checkout counter, where they displayed all the tabloids, when one leapt out at me proclaiming, "WORST DRESSED OF THE WEEK: Taysee", accompanied by a photo where I looked undeniably awkward and ugly.

I immediately burst into tears -- in front of all the cameras -- and then tried to bury my face in my mom's sweater. Luckily, most of the magazines decided it'd look bad to print that.

As I grew older, the not-so-cute moments became more frequent, and so did the negative attention. When I was fifteen, the star of the Broadway musical I'd appeared in, about a year and a half a year older than me, was caught on camera sipping a drink at a party and then getting behind the wheel. It turned out that she'd only had a few sips, but the media's knee-jerk feeding frenzy had already shredded her image to itty little bits and the companies she was endorsing dropped her like a hot potato. Most of the people close to me felt sorry for her, but didn't think too much of it.

But my eyes were suddenly opened to how harsh the glare of the cameras could be. I had three simultaneous realizations. The first was that they wanted to know absolutely everything about me, no holds barred. The second was that there was absolutely no escaping them. And the third was that if they found something the public didn't like, they would jump all over me. If that happened, I wouldn't even be able to become a nobody, which was sounding quite appealing -- my name would be mud everywhere I went. The thought of that terrified me.

Together, they consumed me. My first priority became to never, ever do something the public wouldn't like. I was constantly thinking about what this or that would do for my image. It got to the point where I wasn't just trying to censor what I did, I was censoring what I thought. Some celebrities had a camera-ready personality, but I wasn't one, so I always had to watch my attitude. I even said I hated my real name, even though I'm perfectly fine with it, because Harriet just didn't fit with the hip new self I was trying to create when I had no baby-cuteness to shield me no matter what I did.

And I still had albums to make. I'd developed something like an anxiety disorder and depression at a point when my third album was about half-done. I still had three songs to finish and two to write, but I just couldn't write them. Oh, I was writing songs all right, but they weren't exactly suitable for a pop album. I only showed a few to my dad -- he never wanted me to be famous at all, so I knew he wouldn't leak them. Still, he was worried. I thought, good thing I didn't show him the others.

Even without me saying anything, others eventually realized that something was wrong. The studio executives progressed from annoyance to a near-panic attack, and my mom was tearing her hair out over my career. They hired songwriters at the last moment, but I just didn't feel the songs, and you could tell when you heard my singing. The album went out anyway, and got mixed reviews. Then another year rolled by, and I was slowly adjusting and growing up -- they made me see a psychologist, too -- but not on the same schedule as my career. A fourth album had to come out, and this time even some of my loyal fans had to admit that it was terrible.

I think I pulled myself together just before my seventeenth birthday, or at least recovered to the point that it wasn't a mental illness. It helped that I'd come up with ways of dealing with the paparazzi. I had to be creative, because everyone recognized me by my long, thick, teal blue hair, and there was way too much of it to just hide in a hat. I found that people tend to be leery of swarming on you, at least, when you're walking a Werhond. Of course, it wouldn't do for me for own a large, vicious-looking dog, but lucky Abby's owner was happy to let me walk her once in a while. When I'm asked about her, I reach down and scratch her neck -- it always makes her get the most adorable expresson, for a Werhond -- and say "I'm doing a favor for a friend. Abby's really a sweetie." That much was true, and it made me sound generous and fearless. They like that.

There had already been a certain amount of damage done to my image, though. I was getting less and less attention as a singer, and the execs managed to convince me just one good album wouldn't be enough. No one expected much of my albums after that disaster -- no, what I needed was some well-timed hype from an autobiography I'd be writing.

You're crazy. I can't even write. Those were my exact words. But Mr. Torres laughed and said that wouldn't be a problem. They hired an experienced writer, Ms. Vasquez, to "help". Off the record, they told me whatever I wrote, she would make it sound great. And if I didn't even feel like writing, I could just talk to her, and she would take care of it. I liked her, actually, she was always nice. In eight months, the book was done, and as they promised, it sounded like I'd written it if I could actually write really well and had put a solid eight months of work into it.

The book was a success, and the album was a success. The previous failures actually helped -- I got as much hype for the comeback as the book and album. Suddenly, I was one of the most praised celebrities out there.

It's not going to last, though. No one even knows who Harriet Jones is -- they only know the personality that I've created to show to the world, because I had to. I want no part of being famous anymore. Sometimes, somewhat seriously, I think about slicing off a foot of my hair, dyeing the rest, and disappearing to some place in the middle of nowhere. But that would mean giving up music, too, and am I really ready to do that?

photo shoots & paparazzi shots

credit

Taysee's character was inspired by the character creation event at Divinity. :D (She won 2nd place!)

Prompt:

Traits- Suspicious : Cautious. Known by a nickname.
Motto- Try to watch your attitude.

Coding and writing was done by me, Auro.
A huge thank you to angiesukai for the gorgeous header art!