Chapter 4 The Morning of The Storm

I should have known the day would betray me.

Sleep had been a stranger, slipping away every time I closed my eyes. Instead of rest, I got hours of tossing, turning, and staring at the ceiling while imagining every possible way tomorrow could go wrong. By the time dawn cracked, I'd convinced myself I'd lost my voice, forgotten the lyrics, or fainted onstage.

So, of course, when I finally drifted into a shallow, restless sleep, I overslept.

My alarm blared at nine. The audition was at eleven.

I shot out of bed like a rocket. "No, no, nooo!" My voice sounding cracked and weak, making my heart jolt. Perfect. Just what I needed: the fear that my voice had already betrayed me.

The shower was next. I sprinted in, cranked the water, and stepped under...., how befitting!.... straight into ice. I yelped so loudly the neighbors probably thought I was being mugged. Apparently, my building's water heater had chosen this morning, of all mornings, to die, to fail me!

"Great," I muttered through chattering teeth, scrubbing shampoo like my life depended on it.

By the time I stepped out, shivering and dripping, my nerves were shot. And then came disaster number two.

The navy-blue dress Naomi had picked out, the one dress that made me feel like I could stand on a stage without hiding, yes I repeat, the very one had a massive, glaring stain on the front. Coffee. From yesterday. I hadn't noticed when I shoved it into the bag after my shift. How are these things so in sync??

"No, no, no, no, no, no!" I groaned again, frantically scrubbing with a wet towel. It only smeared the stain into a darker, more tragic shape.

"Plan B, plan B," I whispered to myself, yanking through my closet. My closet, of course, was ninety percent oversized shirts and faded jeans. None of them screamed "future star."

Finally, I pulled out a simple black skirt and a soft cream blouse I hadn't worn in ages. It would have to do. Not navy blue magic, but at least it was clean.

What next? Yikes! Makeup came next, and makeup has never been my friend. Naomi had given me a crash course, but Naomi wasn't here now. I poked myself in the eye with mascara. My eyeliner went crooked. I wiped, redid, wiped again. By the time I settled on "barely-there but at least not scary," the clock was ticking dangerously close to ten-thirty.

The bus stop was two blocks away. I ran, skirt swishing, hair half-dry, praying for a miracle.

That's when disaster number three hit, hold on a sec, am I counting it right, cause it seems like different disastrous events have colluded to drain me this morning.

Rain.

Of course. A sudden, mocking drizzle that quickly turned into sheets of water. I had no umbrella. My blouse clung to me, transparent in patches. My hair flattened. People rushed past, umbrellas blooming like smug little shields while I splashed through puddles like a drowned cat.

By the time I reached the bus, I looked like I'd been dunked in a fountain.

"Please, please still be running," I begged as I scrambled on board, dropping coins into the slot. My heart sank when I checked the time. Ten forty-five.

Traffic crawled. Horns blared. My foot tapped uncontrollably against the floor, every red light a knife in my chest.

"Relax," Naomi texted when I told her I was late. "You've got this. Breathe. They won't start exactly on time."

But of course they would. They always did when you were late.

I jumped off the bus three blocks from the hall and sprinted the rest of the way, lungs burning, rain dripping into my eyes. My shoes squelched with every step. By the time I stumbled into the lobby, I looked less like an aspiring star and more like a soggy extra in a tragedy.

"Name?" the woman at the registration desk asked, barely glancing up.

"Vera Kingsley," I panted.

She checked her list. "You're cutting it close. Group B is about to start." She handed me a sticker with my number-twenty-three-and a sympathetic smile that didn't make me feel any better.

In the waiting room, I found Naomi bouncing in her seat. "Finally!" she hissed. "I thought you chickened out."

"Almost did," I admitted, collapsing beside her.

She gave me a once-over, grimaced. "Yikes. Rain really did a number on you."

"Thanks for the pep talk," I muttered.

"Don't worry. The important part isn't your hair. It's your voice." She squeezed my hand. "Breathe. Against all the odds, you've made it. That's the hardest part."

She was wrong, of course. The hardest part was still ahead: walking onto that stage.

But as I sat there, dripping and shaking, I realized something important. If the universe had thrown this much chaos at me this morning and I was still here, still breathing, still waiting for my number to be called... maybe that meant I was supposed to be here.

Maybe this was my fight to win.

The stage doors opened. A man with a clipboard called out, "Number twenty-three?"

My heart slammed against my ribs.

That was me.

It was time.