Mom’s head pops up, eyes narrow. “Oh, really now?”
Torn between coming clean and pressing on, I dive deeper.
“Please! It’ll be real quick. It’s only fifteen minutes from here.”
“Oh, and how would you know that?”
“I, uh, googled it on the way. I thought maybe if we finished up early, we could stop by. Not that I expected to, just, you know, being . . . proactive. Like you always tell me, right? Looks good for college recommendations.”
Mom blows out some air. “Chanty, we talked about this. School, then activities, then homework, then housework, and then singing. That’s what’s going to get you into college!”
She’s been beating this horse to death for years.
“I know! And we did, see? School, check. Activities, check. I did my homework during lunch. Shea has us covered at home, so . . .”
Mom shakes her head. “Oh, all right. You got one hour.”
I smile. That’s all I need.
A roar of applause bursts from inside the auditorium, bombarding the hectic lobby of the Beacon Theatre.
“I thought you said this was a small competition,” Mom exclaims behind me, gaping at the massive MUSIC LIVE: AUDITIONS banner.
“Um, yeah, I thought so too,” I mutter, noting the LIVE taping sign and camera lights.
“Wait, Chanty . . . is this Music LIVE? The one on BET?”
I pretend not to hear her as we make our way to the registration table with minutes to spare.
“Hi. Enchanted Jones,” I say out of breath. “I’m here for the auditions.”
“You’re lucky. We were just about to shut it down. Are you registered?”
“Yes, I . . . uh, did it online.”
Mom grunts behind me as the lady slides her finger down the chart.
“Got you! OK. Here’s your number. You have your track ready?”
“Yup, right here,” I say, waving my iPhone.
“Cool. Now, when they call your name, hand your ballot to the judges and take the stage. Go ahead. Good luck!”
“Thanks,” I say, turning to Mom, her arms crossed. I know I’m busted, but I ignore her eye daggers. At the end of the night, it’ll all be worth it; I know it.
Inside, the theater is jammed with people. The purple and white stage lights swim across a wave of faces. Music beats through my chest. I grab Mom’s hand, surveying the scene and finding two empty red velvet seats in the back.
Onstage, a girl with long extensions is singing—really, slaughtering—Destiny’s Child’s “Cater 2 U,” the crowd booing her. A camera projects her face on massive screens as she struggles to maintain a brave smile.
Music LIVE is BET’s version of American Idol. A three-round singing competition. The grand prize: ten thousand dollars. If I win, it’ll be enough to pay for real studio time to record my album. Even if I don’t win, it’s an opportunity to be noticed by record labels, managers, and A&R reps. All a big if, but better than nothing.
What I didn’t know was that the auditions were open to the public. Gab left out that crucial detail.
Everyone, including other contestants, is dressed in an array of party clothes and heels. I gulp.
“Be right back,” I say to Mom, running off before she can ask questions.
In the bathroom, I struggle with Gab’s mascara and eyeliner, thread her gold bamboo hoop earrings, add a touch of pink to my lips, and glide a shaky hand down my scalp. I take a quick selfie and send it to Gab.
This pink looks horrible on me.
It’s camera-ready pink! You cute!
Back at my seat, Mom looks me over.
“Um, did they call me yet?”
“No,” Mom says, tone clipped, and I try not to wish Grandma was here instead.
I recognize the profile of Richie Price at the table facing the stage. He’s a big-time music producer–turned–TV director, or something. I read his bio on the website. Beside him, Melissa Short, a music executive from RCA. Beside her, Don Michael, singer.
“OK. Next up, Amber B. Come on down, Amber!”
The crowd cheers as a girl who looks about my age makes her way to the stage. She waves at the judges and struts center stage.
“Hi, sweetheart,” Richie says.
“Hi!” she chirps, lush golden curls bouncing around her heart-shaped face.
“What are you singing for us tonight?”
“Beyoncé’s ‘Halo.’”
“OK, ma, let’s hear it!”
Amber nods at the soundman, and the beat thumps into the speakers. The crowd claps along. Amber grabs the mic, closing her eyes.
“Remember those walls I built
Well, baby, they tumbling down . . .”
Her voice is . . . majestic. A blend of sweet with sharp edges. A voice made for the stage. I slump lower in my seat, nerves firing into my stomach.
“Mom,” I squeak. “Mom, we should go.”
But Mom can’t hear me, too hypnotized by Amber’s skin sparkling like moondust under the stage lights. I’m never going to sound as good as her. Or look as good as her. I slip on my hoodie and grab my book bag. If I leave now, Mom can just meet me at the car.
I rise to my feet as chaos erupts by the door. A cloud of burly linemen dressed in black piles in, surrounding something . . . or someone. The person, dressed in a white hooded sweat suit, stops in the middle of the aisle.
As the stranger pulls back his hoodie, a shriek erupts from the crowd. “Oh my GOD! Korey Fields!”
Korey Fields’s megawatt smile lights up the room. He walks with a slight bop in his step down to the judges’ table. He gives Richie a pound, and they exchange a few words, oblivious to the excitement that has taken over the theater. Onstage, Amber finishes her song but stands shell-shocked.
“Wow, Chanty,” Mom shouts, clapping. “Korey Fields!”
I’m speechless. This was supposed to be a simple audition. First the crowd, now Korey Freaking Fields . . . all here to see me make a fool out of myself.
“Mom, let’s go before . . .”
“Next up . . . Enchanted Jones!”
Chapter 4
Heart Song
My name booms over the loudspeaker. Too loud to ignore.
“OK, Chanty, you’re up! Good luck, baby!”
Mom kisses my cheek and pats me on the butt. The entire theater turns in my direction. I swallow and head for the stage.
Korey sits behind Richie, surrounded by his entourage, at least a dozen people, while the audience elbows over each other to grab pictures. They don’t even notice me take the stage. I’m invisible—how I always feel.
“Hi, sweetheart,” Richie says.
“Hello,” I croak out, and the mic delivers feedback. “Um. I’m . . . uh, my name is Enchanted.”
“Yes, we already know your name. What are you singing for us today?”
“Oh! Um, ‘If I Were Your Woman’ by Gladys Knight.”
Korey’s eyes lock on me. He’s like a large moon in a starless sky.
Richie frowns. “Hmm?” The judges look at one another, unsure, then shrug. “OK, let’s see what you got!”
I nod at the soundman.
The chords ring in, the crowd silent. I start to sing, keeping a running checklist of all the performance notes I learned on YouTube: