“I do hope each of you came prepared with two selections for your talent competitions,” Mrs. Fitzpatrick said. “You will be performing once this afternoon and once again on Friday night, and it’s important that those two performances be different. The judges want to see a variety of what you can do, not the same thing over again.”
She glanced around as though to make sure everyone understood her. “Now, we’ve done things in alphabetical order thus far, but we feel that it’s not fair to those first in the alphabet to be in charge of breaking the ice every time. For this afternoon, we’ll be going in reverse alphabetical order.”
London tried to smile. That put her going third.
Amanda Williams stood up and took a deep breath. “Here goes nothing,” she said as she left the room, and the other contestants gave half-hearted cheers. London shook her head—deep down inside, they were all probably hoping she’d sprain her ankle or something. She hadn’t noticed any outright sabotage, though, which was nice. And different.
She stepped out into the hall and paced up and down it a few times. She’d warmed up her voice after changing into her gown, and she was as ready as she was going to be. She just prayed it was enough to make it into the next round with a respectable score. Why weren’t the judges telling the girls how they were doing after each event? The interviews that morning had been scored, and she’d love to know her standing.
Or maybe it was better this way. Maybe she’d be more nervous now if she saw how she was stacking up.
“London Russell, you’re up,” one of the staff members said, sticking his head out of the auditorium door.
It was time to show everyone that she did believe in herself, just as she’d told them in her interview. She lifted her chin and strode through the door, the taffeta skirts of her red dress swishing as she came up the aisle. It was so much more fun to make an entrance than just to step out from the wings. She was glad it had been set up this way.
She climbed the steps to the stage, found her mark in the center, and folded her hands in front of her. She tried not to look down at the judges, but that was really hard, as they were practically at her feet. “I will be singing ‘Vissi d’arte’ from Tosca by Puccini.”
Mayor Morgan raised an eyebrow. She didn’t know if he was impressed or if he thought she’d bitten off more than she could chew. Sometimes she wondered that too.
She closed her eyes to center herself as the pre-recorded music she’d provided came over the sound system. She kept them closed throughout the introduction, opening them only when it was time to sing.
Her first couple of notes were softer than she would have liked, but she gained in power and control as she went, and as always happened when she sang, she felt herself being transported away to a different time and a different place. For those few moments, she was Floria Tosca, importuning the heavens for understanding, wondering why she had been so abandoned in her time of need. She almost felt as though her heart would break before she finished.
When the music came to an end, she allowed herself to look at the judges, and she was glad she did because she caught Elaine wiping her eyes. Tears were the highest compliment anyone could give her.
“I just have to ask, Miss Russell. Why aren’t you majoring in music?” Elaine asked. “Where are you training?”
“My mother was classically trained, and she’s been my instructor my whole life. My sister also sings, but her style is more Joni Mitchell.” London paused, her face heating up. “Um, can you forget I mentioned that? She’d kill me if she knew I told anyone that she sings.”
Elaine smiled. “If I ever do meet your sister, I’ll be the soul of discretion. But again, why are you not majoring in music?”
London looked down at her hands. “To be honest, I’ve asked myself that same question a million times. I think it’s a matter of going where my gut is leading me, and it took me a little while to discover what that was, but now that I’ve decided on the law, it feels exactly right. I’ll always have music, and fashion, and exploring these different facets of myself will take me on an interesting journey.” That was a little deeper than she’d meant to go—time for some levity. She held out the sides of her skirt. “Speaking of fashion, how do you like the dress?”
“Is that one of your designs, darlin’?” the mayor asked, leaning forward as if to get a better look.
“It is.” She gave a little curtsy.
“Well, it’s just stunning,” Elaine said. “I’ve been admiring it since you got up there.”
London glanced at Kade. He hadn’t said anything, not one word. What was he thinking? He was a judge—he was supposed to share his opinions. Then she smiled to herself. Was she actually eager to hear what he thought about anything? That was a first.
“Thank you for sharing your talent with us, Miss Russell. We’ll see you tomorrow at the first elimination. Get lots of rest.” With that, Elaine dismissed her, and London stepped off the stage. She all but ran up the aisle, so relieved that was over with, and so ready to get out of her dress. She’d designed it to be as comfortable as possible, but the corseting through the torso was still a lot to put up with.
She was nearly to the elevators when one of the staff members hurried up to her. “Miss Russell! I have a note for you.”
She took it, thanked the young man, and didn’t open it until she was alone on the elevator. It was a hastily scribbled message on a torn piece of lined paper.
London, can I see you tomorrow morning? Busy here until late tonight. Text my cell. Kade
She almost couldn’t make out the last digit of his cell number, but by the time the elevator reached her floor, she decided it was a three. Now the question was, should she see him or not? And why did he want to spend time with her?
By the time she’d taken off her dress and hung it back up, she’d decided not to go. All he did was annoy her, and it was silly to take time out of her busy schedule to go be annoyed on purpose. But by the time she’d changed into a T-shirt and sweats and flopped down on her bed, she’d decided that she would go. She didn’t have anything going on tomorrow until five o’clock when the judges would announce the final twelve contestants, and the only way to find out what he wanted was to ask him, and that was a conversation better held face-to-face anyway.
Before she could change her mind yet again, she grabbed her cell phone and the note and sent a text.
When and where?
She knew he was busy judging talents, so she didn’t expect him to reply for a bit, but he did almost immediately. Lobby at nine?
Okay.
She stared at that single word for a long time before she hit send. She didn’t really think he was setting her up to squirt her with a fire extinguisher or pour Kool-Aid over her head or anything like that, did she? No, he was an adult now—and that meant his pranks would be more adult too. Hmm. What if he’d talked about her all during his date with Chelsea so she’d report back to London that he was interested, and then what if he used that somehow to humiliate her? Oh, he was sneaky. He was very sneaky.
Well, she could play his game. She clicked the send button, a grin on her face. She didn’t know what he was up to, but she’d be on her toes, and that was half the battle right there.
***
This day was never going to end.
Mrs. Fitzpatrick had forgotten to tell Kade that he was signing up for hour after hour of the most exquisite torture he had ever endured. Girls who thought they could dance—and couldn’t. Girls who thought they could play an instrument—and couldn’t. Girls who thought they could sing—and sounded like sick cats in the alley. Through it all, he kept a polite smile on his face. That was his job.
He did need to give credit where it was due, though. A few of the girls had stood out from the others, and he’d circled their names on his list. And then there was London.
Holy cow.
He’d known she sang—she’d performed in different school things and whatnot, but he’d never paid attention to what she was actually doing. He was having too much fun goofing around with his friends at the back of the auditorium or other dumb stuff like that. Today, she’d blown him absolutely out of the water. He wasn’t an opera expert by any means, but he could appreciate art, and she was a true artist. He’d circled her name and put three stars by it.
Finally, when he was just about to die from both hunger and a headache, the last contestant finished her baton-twirling routine—he didn’t know anyone still did that—and it was time for them to close up shop for the night.
“Don’t forget, we meet here at two o’clock tomorrow to discuss our choices for elimination,” Elaine said, studying the judges’ schedule. “Will you be able to be here on time for that, Kade?”
“Hey, I’ve been trying,” he said, but then he caught the smirk on her face and chuckled. “Yes, I’ll be here. And I was thinking, why don’t we each come with our thoughts prepared so we can compare notes and be on our way? I can’t think of anything worse than sitting here for three hours hashing everything out.”
“I can. It’s sitting here all afternoon and evening listening to people plunk away on a piano,” Mayor Morgan said, and Kade clapped him on the shoulder.
“You’re a good man, Mayor. I’ll see you all tomorrow.”
The hotel catering staff had brought in sandwiches midway through the afternoon, but Kade was starving again. He’d been cooped up inside all day and wanted to get out for a while, so he stepped through the doors, pulled up a list of restaurants on his GPS, and started walking. The night air, although a little muggy, felt good after the stale atmosphere of the hotel.
He grinned when he looked at London’s text again. Tomorrow morning at nine. It would be a little hard to sleep that night—he’d been that way as a kid waiting for Christmas morning, too.
“Hey!”
He ignored the shout and kept walking. Probably best at this time of night on the city streets.
“Hey! Are you Kade Smith?”
Oh—a football fan and not a mugger. Unless it was a mugger who liked football. He paused and turned. “Yeah.”
The man who approached him didn’t look like a mugger, if there was a certain way a mugger was supposed to look. This guy was wearing a plaid button-down shirt which barely covered his beer belly before descending into the straining belt of his khaki pants. “I can’t believe you’re Kade Smith. It’s an honor, a real honor.” He stuck out his hand, and Kade shook it.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir. What’s your name?”
“Martin. Martin Lebowitz. Do … do you mind . . .?” He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. “Just a selfie with me, if that’s okay?”
Kade really hated this kind of thing, but it was important for him to create good relationships with his fans. “Sure.”
“Oh, that’s awesome. That’s super awesome.” Martin stepped closer to Kade and held the camera out at arm’s length. “That’ll be one of my prized possessions.”
“I can take a picture, if you like.” A young man had stopped on the sidewalk to watch them.
“That would be great.” Martin handed over his phone. As soon as he did, though, the young man took off, sprinting down the sidewalk as fast as he could go.
“Hey!” Martin yelled after him, but of course, the thief wasn’t going to stop just because he was asked to.
Kade took off after him. The guy was fast—really fast. He had almost reached the intersection, and Kade knew he couldn’t catch up. So he yanked off his shoe and threw it, still running.
It spiraled the remaining distance and clipped the guy on the back of his head. It wasn’t a very effective weapon—it was a shoe, after all—but it gave Kade the break he needed. The thief paused and felt the back of his head, and that slight reprieve was enough for Kade to close the gap and tackle the guy.
“Get off me!”
“I don’t think so.” Kade looked around to see that a crowd of people had gathered, some taking pictures on their cells. “Do any of you want to use your phones to call the police?”
“Oh! I will,” one man called out, and Kade shook his head. He had no doubt this would be all over social media within the hour, but he’d sure appreciate it if the guy was in police custody by then and not sitting pinned under Kade’s knee. And that’s kind of what cell phones were for, anyway.
When the police came, they asked for a statement, and then they asked for autographs—for their kids, of course—and finally Kade was allowed to leave. Martin stepped into his path before he could make his escape and shook his hand again.
“Thanks, man,” he said. “I mean, it wasn’t an expensive phone, but I’ve got pictures and stuff on there, and plus, it’s the principle of the thing, you know?”
“I do know,” Kade said. He patted Martin on the shoulder and then walked away, hoping to leave the camera-toting crowd behind him.
He made it to the restaurant without incident, but as soon as he was seated, people at the surrounding tables began to nudge each other and whisper. He tried to keep his head down, but it didn’t really work, and before he’d even had a chance to decide what to eat, he’d signed four more autographs.
He just wanted his dinner.
A few minutes later, his cell phone buzzed with a text. He grinned, thinking it was from London, but then he saw that it was Dillon. Oh, great—not something else with the house, he hoped.
You’re making quite a splash tonight. Just saw you on the news.
What? He texted back. Don’t know what you’re talking about.
They’re interviewing the guy whose phone you saved. He’s calling you Superman.
Kade shook his head. Save me.
Ha ha ha You staying at the hotel or at home?
Home.
You might want to get a room for the night. The reporter just showed a shot of the outside of your apartment building. Said they want to interview you.
Argh.
Kade’s fixer-upper wouldn’t be ready for a long time, so he’d taken a small apartment close to the stadium. How did the media know where he lived? He thought he’d kept a pretty low profile coming and going, but then again, he couldn’t even walk down the street to get dinner without causing an uproar.
Thanks for the warning.
No prob.
He slipped his phone back into his pocket, ordered a steak done medium rare, and ate it quickly, trying to avoid even more stares. He almost wished he’d taken it to go, but he liked his food hot, and by the time he got back to the hotel, it would be a congealed slab of flesh instead of a nicely cooked Porterhouse, so he just put up with the attention for as long as it took.
When he got back to the hotel, he asked for a room, then stretched out on the bed and flicked on the TV. Sure enough, the local news channel was replaying the whole story, complete with cameras on his apartment building and a statement from Martin that Kade Smith was America’s next superhero.
All because he threw a shoe.
Crazy.