Page 43 of Stolen Omega

I’m about to go on, and I know from experience that wolfing something down last minute will only make me feel worse. A fluttery stomach and a light-head doesn’t ruin a performance, but a bad case of indigestion can absolutely destroy it. That was a nightmare. I was lucky someone had antacids I could take during the mid-show break, because I only made it through the first half thanks to the audience sing-along through major chunks of my earliest hits. I’m still surprised I got away with that without an influx of awful reviews after the show.

“The stage is ready,” Anna tells me, after getting the okay from the security guard nearest stage right.

She checks me over and nods, which tells me my outfit and makeup don’t need any last-second adjustments. I move toward the stage, passing security as I go.

The curtain is down on stage, and there’s no lighting, but the set-up is always the same, so I know exactly how many steps to take to get to my spot in the middle. I pass some of my backup dancers and singers who’ve already taken their spots, and I can feel their nerves as well as their excitement.

Their emotions hit me a little harder than usual, which I’m blaming on my missed meal.

Thankfully, in general, they’re all way more jazzed than anxious, so their moods boost mine up.

I pick my microphone off the stand. Everything’s already been sound tested. It’s all ready to go.

Just as soon as the curtain rises, and the spotlight falls on the stage.

I close my eyes and start a few quick breathing exercises to get ready.

When I open them, I can hear the roaring sound of the audience as the curtain begins to rise.

The vibe from the crowd is overwhelmingly enthusiastic and it supercharges me, boosting my mood even higher. The first bars of my debut single ring out, and the spotlight hits me as I start to sing.

That’s when I tune out the noise from the crowd. I hyper-focus on the melody of the music and I let myself get lost in the song, hitting my marks on the stage by muscle memory.

The dance routine for me is basic, because I need it to be loose enough to make my voice the priority. My backup dancers make up for the skills I lack with their high energy routine, and the singers make the chorus soar up over the voices of the crowd.

When I turn around at the end of the song and whip the break-away gold dress off with a single tug at the middle, passing it to a stagehand who’s hidden in the shadows behind the set dressings, the roar of applause is deafening before I even spin back around in the clingy, black, strapless catsuit.

The second song begins, and I find myself gazing toward stage left before I can lose myself in the music. It feels like someone’s watching me, but it’s too bright where I am, and too dark where they are, to let me see them.

I just make the opening line of the song and hit my mark with a jump-step-turn before I cause a collision with the dancer on my left. The second line is shaky as I refocus, not allowing myself to take another glimpse to the left.

I get through the song by letting the audience roar the chorus at the stage.

My next costume change is a stage right exit and re-entry.

Anna’s frowning at me when I reach her, but she doesn’t say a word.

I might have faltered a little, but I made a quick recovery.

She has nothing to chew me out for.

Besides, she has less than two minutes to help me out of the catsuit and get me into the glitterball dress I’ll be wearing for the next two songs. It has sequins that flip at the touch of a switch, so it’s going to look like it changed color. It’s another ‘Wow’ moment for the audience.

The glitterball heels stay silver, but they’re definitely comfier than the gold ones.

We make the change as quick as ever, and I only waste two seconds trying to catch a glimpse over at the left side of the stage. It’s pointless. Whoever it is, they’re too far away to see.

Chances are it’s just one of the warm-up band members or a security guy who’s on a break.

I get through to the mid-point break without another hiccup, but I can still feel someone watching me over there, and now I actually have the time to find out who it is.

I step out of my heels and stalk over to the stage left exit, leaving my backup to exit right.

The closer I get to the left, the more my stomach fills up with butterflies.

“Zelena!” Anna calls out.

I don’t look back. I’m too determined to find out who’s been watching me.

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