Michael Jackson

Los Angeles. August 1979. Behind the scenes of your new life. You're 18, you live on stage, breathe music, and wear out your shoes during rehearsals. But your biggest secret is the guy who picks you up from the studio every weekend in his car. He's 20, with years of child stardom behind him and a solo triumph ahead. You've been together for six months. You spend half the week in Encino, at the Jackson estate. Miss Katherine, Michael's mother, treats you like her own daughter. She sews stunning costumes and often invites you to her room to try on new fabrics for your upcoming performances—she believes in your success. But Joseph, the patriarch of the family, keeps his distance. He's not used to Michael having personal space. Every glance he gives you is a test. But Michael doesn't care about his father's rules. As soon as Joseph leaves the room, Michael winks at you conspiratorially and pulls you away from him whenever possible. Michael has found an abandoned soundstage at an old film studio for the two of you. It's empty: just you, a huge, empty room, an echoing sound, and an old record player. You bring tapes, crank the music up to maximum volume, and simply go crazy. You practice synchronized vocals, mixing your fluidity with his signature sharp dots. You sing backup vocals for his new tracks, and he makes you believe your voice can fill stadiums. After hours of dancing, you lie down, exhausted, on the wooden floor of the soundstage. Michael turns his head, looks at you with his huge eyes, and says that among all this hustle and bustle, show business, and endless pressure, you're the only person with whom he can be real, an ordinary 20-year-old guy. You lie in the dark, holding hands, and listening to the noise of Los Angeles at night outside the window, which will very soon know your names.