Page 117 of Loaded

I don’t squeal. I’m proud of that.

I do, however, drop my phone.

Luckily, the screen doesn’t even crack. The rest of the night is a complete wash, though. I can’t think about the wedding, not anymore. All I can think about is going up on that stage in front of who knows how many, being live-streamed to many more, and playing my own song,with lyrics I wrote, in the hopes of getting an album of my own.

Things in my life have been going so well, this is sure to nosedive.

I start trying to brace for it.

23

BEA

There are sixteen days between the wedding and the finals performance.

Each and every day is an agony.

“Do you feel ready?” Easton’s face is bright and happy in the lights from the stage. I know he’s here to support me. I know he’s trying to be helpful.

I might punch him on the nose.

“Is that the wrong thing to ask?” He cringes. “Sorry. This is the first time my girlfriend has ever been preparing to perform in the hopes of winning a record deal.”

Octavia laughs.

I scowl at her. “How are you not more nervous?”

She shrugs. “I’ve been on stage a lot, and also, I’m not harboring any of the false hope you are.”

“It’s not false hope,” Easton says. “Your song isamazing.”

“And you’re not biased at all.” Octavia rolls her eyes.

“I’m not,” Easton says, insistent in his delusion.

“I’m ready,” I say. “Or at least, as ready as I’m going to be.”

“You’ve had it memorized since, well. All along,” Octavia says. “It would help if you’d stop changing things, though.”

“It’s just a tweak,” I say. “Because that one spot where the C goes into?—”

“Has always bugged you,” Octavia says. “You said.”

I sigh. “I’m being annoying. I know.”

“I just don’t want to sing the wrong note,” she says. “When you look like me, you don’t need to give them any excuse to vote against you.”

I step closer. I run my hand over the shoulder of her dress. Like the first time I ever saw her, she’s wearing an asymmetrical dress that covers her left shoulder. She has shown her shoulder to me, and I understand her desire. The seams of the grafts are. . .unsettling. “You look absolutely gorgeous.” And it’s true. Her dress is a pale blue chiffon, and it exactly matches her eyes. Her hair’s a rich, faceted brown that makes her eyes pop even more.

She wanted to wear a mask over the left side of her face, but I have consistently refused.

“I still think,” she says, “that the mask would be a good idea. I could take it off at the end if you insist, but then the song would be the focus.”

I shake my head. “You should be the focus. Your voice is what makes the song. I haven’t met another single person who could sing those notes—no, not sing them.Nail them. This song was literally written for you. So go out there as you, all of you, and own it. You’re spectacular, Octavia.”

As if there’s someone directing this for us, they call our number. “Number eight, you’re on deck.”

Unlike the jingle contest, with its two hundred entries, this had literally thousands of hopefuls. They’venarrowed it down to a top forty, but the competition is fierce.

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