HER BLACK PATENT DRESS shoes clicked on the wooden stage floor that was nearly as black as her shoes, except for the scuffed-up spots where Shea could only imagine instrument boxes had been dragged or where shoes had danced.
She knew she should have been looking up instead of studying that floor, but today the butterflies she normally got felt more like bees. Nerves droned in her ears and swarmed in her belly.
She just wanted to make her momma proud.
Coming to a stop at the front of the stage where a piece of tape made a line at the microphone, Shea forced herself to finally look up.
She could do this. She’d had enough lessons and enough auditions to know what was expected of her.
A spotlight blinded her from above. She squinted and tried to make out the few faces in the front row of the almost-empty music theater. It was impossible, but she knew they were there.
At the ready to critique, judge, and assess.
She was used to it by now.
Well.
Almost.
She wasn’t so sure she’d ever get used to some of the mean things people would say.
The rejection.
But it was the disappointment on her momma’s face that always bothered her most.
And this one was important.
During the entire car ride from Savannah to Memphis they’d made just for this audition, her momma had drilled it into her. It’s big, baby. You land this and we’re set. You have to be at your best and nothing less.
Her momma had purchased a brand new dress for this audition, the lacy material tight at her neck and wrists. It landed below her knees.
Her momma said it was modest and pretty. Just what they were looking for.
Shea scratched at the itchy material when those bees buzzed, and she shifted on her feet, feeling she might be sick while she waited for instruction.
A deep voice rolled through the milky fog. “Can you tell us your name, please?”
“Shea Bentley,” she drawled quietly into the microphone, having to hike up onto her tippy-toes to reach.
“Okay, Shea Bentley, you can begin.”
From where she sat at the piano, Shea’s momma looked at her from over her shoulder and played a single chord. A cue that went along with her stern look.
Focus.
And Shea did.
Just as her momma dove into the music, Shea dove deep and found that place inside where she felt it. Where she felt it right in the center of her heart.
Just like her grandma had told her to do.
Even though she sometimes didn’t feel quite right—and so many times felt like crying instead of smiling because she always seemed to mess everything up—standing there, singing this song?
Shea felt right.
She gave it everything she had. She allowed herself to rise above this place and imagined she was standing beside her grandma in church. Her grandma was holding her hand, squeezing it in quiet encouragement.
And Shea sang. Opened up her lungs the same as she opened her mouth.
It felt beautiful and important.
Significant.
The piano blinked out at the end of the song. Shea carried the tune on her voice, not needing the accompaniment to hit the highest note.
When she finished, Shea had to reorient herself, having forgotten where she was. Awkwardness filled her as she stared unseeing at the hidden faces in the front as the light continued to blare down on her.
“That was beautiful. Simply beautiful,” the same man’s voice said from behind the shimmering fog.
Her momma was suddenly at her side, pushing her forward, offering her like a prize.
But his voice changed when he said the next, “Unfortunately, we’re looking for someone who is just a little older. A little more mature. I have no doubt this young lady has a bright future ahead of her.”
At her side, Shea’s momma went rigid, and Shea got that sour feeling in the pit of her stomach.
“Thank you for your time,” her momma said gruffly, before she was hauling Shea by the arm off the side of the stage. She shoved Shea’s things into a bag, and Shea struggled to keep up when she again grabbed her by the arm. Her momma flung open the side door. Shea blinked off the blinding light and tried to adjust herself, this time because the afternoon sun blazed from above.
It seemed as if Shea could never keep up.
The hand on her forearm squeezed, the words grated as her momma stormed through the parking lot. “Can’t you do anything right? You manage to fuck up everything, don’t you? Every single time. Just like your deadbeat dad. Worthless. Do you know how much I’ve invested in you, Shea? The money? The time?”
Shea flinched when she felt the sting of nails digging into her skin. Tears pricked at her eyes, and she struggled to hold them back.
“I tried, Momma.” The quieted words wobbled from her aching throat.
Her momma flung the bag into the backseat of her old car while Shea eased into the front seat and buckled up, wishing she had someplace to hide.
Her momma started the car and jerked it out of the parking spot, peeling from the lot.
Embarrassment and shame had Shea’s head tipped down, face turned so she could see the blur of buildings as her momma turned her anger to the street.
The tears she’d been trying to hold finally fell. They made her throat feel full and her eyes burn, and all she wanted was to go home. To go to her grandma’s house where it was safe.
She tried so hard to hold it back, but a sob heaved free, and she felt a shudder shake her shoulders as she tried to sink into the door and disappear.
Her momma released a muted curse, before she started talking quick. “I’m sorry, baby. It was that damned dress. You looked like a little girl. Should’ve gotten you something more mature.”
She felt the same fingers that had been digging into her arm softly touch her shoulder. “We’ll find something better for the next one…do your hair up real nice and make you look as pretty as you are. I bet you could pass for fifteen. How’s that sound?”
Hesitating, Shea turned to face her. Wiping her tears with the scratchy sleeve of the dress, she nodded in hope. “Okay, Momma.”
Her momma smiled. Her momma was so pretty when she smiled.
“That’s my shining star.”