Page 95 of Hold Still

Sighing, I force myself to look forward and not to glance to my right wherehe’ssitting. Finally, the President takes the podium. “Hello, my name is Peggy Laswell and I’m the President of the Artist Avenue Adventure Project. I want to thank you all for coming here today to see the three wonderful presentations we have for you. You’re definitely in for a treat, I can tell you that.”

I join in the applause, although not really caring what she’s saying.

“So, without further ado, we’re going to run the three programs for you, back-to-back. Each feature well-known Las Vegas musical artists, and showcase some wonderful graphics by really talented local people.”

The highlight reels begin to run. The first is well done, if not a bit traditional. The second one has a unique take on the music. Mine runs third. While the other two receive polite applause, the ovation for mine is longer than the others combined. Please let this be a good sign.

The lights come back up and the applause lasts for another full minute. When it quiets, Peggy says, “I’d like to introduce you to the three graphic designers behind these wonderful presentations. Please stand when I announce your names— Penelope Miller, Stefan Leonard and McKenna James!”

Forcing a smile, I stand. Two other people in the audience join me.

The President continues, “Let’s give all three of the designers another round of applause!”

Shifting from foot to foot, I endure the spotlight. Can Ozzy see me? Is he even looking? As soon as the applause dies down, I slink into my seat.

From the podium, Peggy says, “Well, I have one final bit of housekeeping before this part of the program concludes—the announcement of the finalist who will go on to represent the Artist Adventure Avenue Project in the Youth-Art Consortium’s national competition.”

This is it. What I’ve been working toward for this past year. The exposure alone should keep Mom in nursing care twenty-four-seven, even if I don’t win. I need to be the finalist. I cross my fingers and Felicia puts her hand over them.

The President holds up an envelope and rips it open. “The person going on to represent the Project in the national competition is …”

I try to quell my rapid breathing, but my chest rises and falls in unmeasured beats.

The President looks around. “McKenna James.”

I sag as my name is called, my eyes now filled with tears. I made the cut. Felicia shakes me and I smile. I’m one step closer to keeping Mom at home, and honoring my vow to my father.

On their own volition, my eyes skim over heads and land on Ozzy’s curly one. Two blonde ones surround it. I wring my hands.

The President clears her throat. “Congratulations, McKenna. Remember, the winner of the national competition will be announced next month in Los Angeles. Now, everyone, thank you all for coming and please enjoy the rest of the party!”

Felicia hugs me. “I wanted to tell you that you made the finals before, but I was sworn to secrecy. I’m so happy for you!”

I force my leaden arms to wrap around her. “Thanks. I truly can’t tell you how excited I am.”

She laughs as we stand. “I’ll email you your plane ticket and information for the event in LA. I’m rooting for you.”

“Thanks.”

Ozzy’s laughter floats into my ears, which forces me to walk in the opposite direction. He made it perfectly clear I’m no longer a part of his life. And judging from his behavior, I’m well rid of him.

Keep telling yourself that, McKenna.

I’m swarmed by a bunch of people offering their congratulations. I spend the next hour or so meeting and thanking them, all the while trying to track Ozzy’s movements. I know the exact moment when he leaves, his hands full of his blonde companions.

“Please add my congratulations to the pile you received today.” An attractive guy about my age, although somewhat scrawny, holds out his hand. When I shake it, his piercing hazel eyes capture mine. “I’m Jeremy Davis, and I write for theRecord News. The Project asked me to write a profile about you.”

“Oh. I didn’t know about the publicity.”

He smiles, his longish blond hair brushing against his shoulders. “I think Greta set it up.”

“That makes sense.”

“So, can I interview you tomorrow? I’m on a tight deadline.” He glances toward the projector. “I really enjoyed your work.”

I laugh. “You don’t have to butter me up, you already got the interview.”

He shrugs. “Simply telling you the truth.” We set up a time to meet tomorrow morning at a local coffeeshop.

Back in my car, my whole body deflates from the effort of the ruse I just put on. I need to tell Mom the good news—if she even understands.

And cry myself to sleep.

---