starlust

one : cannonball

Auditions - Chicago

I'm sitting on a chair in a roomful of people. My ass turned numb hours ago from being on the hard plastic for so long, but I've run out of reasons to care. For every reason there is to get up and walk away, there's five more that tell me to stay. I've come way too far—literally—to give up and go home now.

All around me there's bustling and bright lights, and the room is teeming with people. For every one person who's here—upbeat, smiling, stars in their eyes—there's their entourage of three-or-so more, murmuring words of encouragement and reminders that they're the most talented person in the world.

If that's the truth, then this room has more talent than anywhere else, in any era of time.

I don't have an entourage. I'm here alone, but my mom sent me a text about five hours ago wishing me good luck, and telling me she's proud of me no matter what. And my best friend has called a couple times, so I guess my entourage is here with me in spirit.

There's a part of me that kind of wishes I did have somebody here to hold my hand because I've never been so stomach-twistingly anxious in all my life. Ever. But this is something I need to do alone.

A door bursts open, and the other starry-eyed crane their necks to see. A guy comes barging through, his hands clenched in fists held aloft, and he's jumping around like he has springs in his shoes.

"I got in!" he shouts, and his support crew rushes to engulf him. "I'm in!" One of the cameramen who has been hovering around that door all day swoops to aim the lens right at the jubilant boy. Even from here, I can see that he's got a specific camera-smile, and he turns it on, dazzling the lens with the full force of shining white teeth. "I'm through to the Stage Round!"

All around me, the starry-eyed sink back into their chairs, some of them muttering and groaning while their supports pat them on the back and make sympathetic faces. I try not to listen, but I can't help but overhear the conversation of the girl behind me and her family.

"I heard him warming up earlier," she says. "He doesn't even have a good voice."

"Yeah, but look at him," says her friend. "Perfect teeth. Blond hair. Tanned. Muscular arms. That smile." The girl snorts. "He's there for ratings. The girls are going to eat him up. And then they're going to buy all the shit the producers write for him...he's a publicist's dream."

I glance back over to where the guy is giving a dazzling grin to the camera, and the host is fist-bumping him like they're best friends, and I sigh. I guess it makes sense. I heard him earlier, too, and sure, his voice needs some work. He's going to end up with some serious nodules without some real training… not that I've had much in the way of training myself. But even my once a week choir rehearsals back home are enough to tell me that he's probably only ever sung in his bathroom. I stare angrily down at my sneaker-clad feet. He's probably only here on a dare… and he's in.

The woman with the headset, who's been appearing through the double doors all day with her clipboard, pops out again. She's sounding exhausted, and it's no wonder. More young hopefuls have departed today as trudging failures rather than bouncing success stories. Her ears are probably bleeding by now.

"Jessica Stanley," the clipboard-lady says blandly, looking up from her notes. Behind me, there's a squeal.

"Me! That's me!"

I don't turn around because I already know what she looks like—she was in a group of five with me earlier when we had an initial 30 seconds to prove ourselves… although some didn't even make it that far. Jessica is blonde, boobs, and I hate to admit it, she has a really good voice, although she's prone to a few Christina Aguilera-style vocal acrobatics which could either work for her or make her fall flat.

As the clipboard lady goes to yell her name again, Jessica totters over in too-high heels and too-tight jeans. Her people trail behind, carrying bags, and when I look over my shoulder, I notice they leave their trash all over the place. They strike me as the type of people to expect others to pick up after them.

I sink back into my chair, and lament the fact that my phone has almost died so I can't even listen to music to pass the time. As a last resort, I reach into my bag and pull out a dog-eared book. Maybe Ellis Bell can help me while the hours away.

I don't know much time passes, but my imagination has taken me to the moors of England, and the sound of my name sounds completely foreign. When I look up, I'm surprised to find myself sitting in a now almost empty room.

"What?" I say, my voice echoing.

Clipboard-lady looks past bored—she looks desperate to get home. "Isabella Swan?"

"Yes, that's me," I say, scrambling to my feet. "But you can call me—"

"Whatever." She cuts me off and turns her back, headed for the hallway. "This way."

Stuffing my book back into my bag and rushing after her, I catch the swinging door before it closes, and follow clipboard-lady down the hallway. I mentally curse myself for dropping the ball—there's so much riding on today… and it feels like my only chance. Turning up to some mass audition for a TV show, of all things, is already way out of character for me, but this is it. I'm small-town, and I drove fourteen hours away from that small town so that if I fall on my face, there's only a slim chance of anybody recognizing me and knowing how badly I screwed up. Unless, of course, I screw up so badly I end up in the blooper reel, embarrassing myself in front of my friends, my family, and the whole damn country… not to mention the millions of other viewers online.

No, I had to be here. I have to be here. And I can't screw it up. I won't let myself screw it up.

I sing. This is what I do. It's all I've done my whole life, and I've never wanted to do anything else.

This competition is my big chance.

There's three seats, two of them taken. Clipboard-lady indicates to the vacant one. "Sit there. They'll call for you when they're ready. Leave your bag here when you go in—one of those guys will watch it."

I sit down beside a dark-haired girl. She must barely make the age cutoff because she can't be much older than sixteen.

"They're auditioning us in threes now," says the girl chirpily. I peek at her, and she gives me a big smile in return. Unlike most of the smiles I've seen today, hers actually looks genuine. "I think they all want to get home. Somebody said they underestimated how many would be at Chicago. I guess they figured the others would be bigger… I think we surprised them."

"Yeah," I say, and my voice sounds husky. I cringe—that's not going to be good. I'm still foggy-headed from losing myself in a book all afternoon-slash-evening-slash-however long I've been here, and apparently I've aged thirty years and turned into a smoker. Great.

"Here," says the small girl, holding out a bottle of water. I pause, and she wiggles it. "It's okay," she says. "I took an extra when they were handing them out earlier. I figured it'd come in handy." She grins brightly. "Turns out I was right."

"Just take the water." The occupant of the other chair speaks up. His voice is smooth, with a bit of an edge. It's deep but more like a baritone than a true bass. I lean forward a little to check out its owner. The guy, probably about my age—although I never really was good at guessing ages—is slouching in his chair, one long jeans-clad leg stretched out, the other knee bouncing. A hood is pulled over his head, obscuring most of his face.

I can feel the surprise showing on my face—I didn't expect expect the owner of the voice to look quite so… bad.

"Um, thanks," I say, taking the water. I notice a small, white rabbit tattooed on the inside of the girl's wrist.

I'm feeling completely rattled because even with my lack of Big Deal Audition experience, I know that's a really bad thing.

"I'm Alice from Mississippi," says the girl, and I smile, grateful for small miracles. Her tattoo should make it easy to remember her name.

"Bella," I say, and then I grin. "You're further from home than I am." A thought strikes me. "Although you don't sound..."

"I know, I know." Alice grins impishly. "Took a whole lot of voice training to get rid of that accent." She leans towards me, and her voice slips right into that of a true Southern Belle. "It works though. And I think it makes me more versatile, y'know?"

I can feel the hint of a smile as my lips barely touch the bottle. "Definitely."

"So what's your audition piece?" asks Alice, and before I can answer, "Wait! Don't tell me! I want to be surprised."

Letting my gaze fall to the ground, I try to ignore the ever-present, hovering cameras. I've been trying not to overthink my audition piece. It's a song I've performed for my nearest and dearest time and time again. I'd been tempted to pick something from choir, but Angela had insisted I pick something a little more modern. I smile at the thought of my best friend, especially when I think of how much she'd tease me for losing myself in a book leading up to the biggest audition of my life. And the same book I go to, over and over.

"Wuthering Heights," I find myself saying, hearing the echo of Ange's voice in my head.

"Kate Bush. This should be good," says a voice that most definitely isn't my best friend's. I feel panic sit in my stomach as I look into the face of some kind of stage-manager man. He, too, has a clipboard and speaks into his headset as he peers at my chest. "25943. Wuthering Heights by Kate Bush." He takes a little longer than I'd like to switch his attention to my face, and gives me a smarmy look. "You three. You're up."

"Wait," I say. "I'm not—"

"Oooh," says Alice, her eyes wide and twinkling. "So not what I was expecting."

"Me neither," I mutter in reply as I stand up. As Alice all but skips away, I immediately start to feel lightheaded as a thousand thoughts power through my mind. What have I done? I mean, my range is good, but there's no way I can—

"Unpredictable," says the guy who makes up our trio. Under his hood, I catch deep green eyes. "But I guess it works."

I clear my throat. "Um, yeah." As he follows Alice, I wonder if I see his shoulders shaking just a little, and I think, it figures. I'm about to embarrass myself in front of national TV—if they broadcast my audition, that is. And with how hard I'm about to fail, they're sure to broadcast it.

I feel sick.

The others walk into one of the hotel's large meeting rooms. There are bright lights trained on three stools, and, on the other side of the room, a table. The four judges, whom I've seen on TV a hundred times, look different in real life—from here I can see that the female judge seated in the middle is wearing a ton of makeup. Say what you like, though, Rosalie Hale still hits the Most Beautiful People list every year.

The guy to her left is Royce, the show's producer. I've heard that his and Rosalie's relationship is on the rocks. At least, that's what a Google search earlier told me. I try to keep my expression neutral, but something about him makes me want to run a mile. He's leaning back in his chair, lazily tapping a pen on the desk and scanning the room.

On Rosalie's right is the woman I would kill to work with: Esme Platt, star of screen and stage, and one of the best voices in the business. She's got an old Hollywood look to her, and she embodies grace as she sits serenely behind the desk. As one of the many makeup artists bustling around comes close to her, Esme gives her a smile and holds up her hand gracefully. I can guess why—even for her age, Esme doesn't need touching up.

When we're seated on the stools, I find myself in the middle of Alice and the guy. Alice tilts her head down, slightly facing me, and sucks in a breath.

"Oh, my God," she gasps quietly. Her cheeks are pink, and her eyes have opened impossibly wider. "He looks even better in real life."

I follow her gaze. I suppose she's right—Jasper Whitlock is nice to look at. I know Ange has secretly had a crush on him for a really long time… and she may have even begged me ask him for an autograph or a selfie that she promised she'd photoshop me out of later.

Sneaking a glance at the guy beside me, I find him leaning back in his chair. He sits confidently, with no hints to suggest he feels uncomfortable. He looks like he could be waiting for a pizza. But I'm caught as he turns to look at me—really look at me—and the way he stares at me pins me to my seat. His eyes are green—really green—and it feels like he can see beneath the makeup I've retouched all day, beneath the way I've curled my hair, and beneath the fake "cool" I'm trying to exude.

This guy just stripped me bare, and nervousness wraps itself around me, crushing my chest and stealing my breath.

Royce's voice calls out through the room. "Edward? Man, you're up."

Edward—his name is Edward—gives me a confident smirk and drops his hoodie as he stands up before moving fluidly to the taped mark on the floor.

Standing before the judges, he's nothing like the boy in the hall, hidden beneath a hoodie with one leg jiggling. No, this guy is confident without seeming arrogant, relaxed without seeming like he doesn't care. He's completely put together.

"My name's Edward Masen, I'm twenty-one, and I'm from Chicago, Illinois."

"Hello, Edward," says Royce. "What do you do?"

Edward's answer is confident. "I've just finished college, majoring in music composition, and I teach piano to kids and play gigs around Chicago."

I watch from the wing as Edward answers more of Royce's questions, charms Esme, jokes with Jasper, and is professional and totally respectful to Rosalie. He talks to them all like he's their equal, like they don't hold his future in their hands.

But it's next, when he opens his mouth and sings one of my favorite songs, acapella with perfect pitch and perfect tone, that I really I know I'm done for.

A/N: Thanks and love to Hadley, TwiSNfan, and thimbles. Thank you to Frozen Soldier for the most beautiful banner ever. Thanks, Nic, for asking me to preview on The Lemonade Stand way back when. Better late than never, right?

Life's super crazy, so updates as I get the chance. Love to hear what you think :)

Mags xx