I nodded at Rudger. I was as ready as I could be. I’d practiced my song so much, I could belt it out in any key, any tempo, with half my vocal chords tied behind my back. And right now I even managed to look the rock star part.

Before Mom and I came to St. Louis, we’d stopped at an upscale mall. I tried on twenty outfits, all outrageously priced, before I found one that looked glam enough—black leather pants, red heels, and a loose black mesh top over a tight red shirt. Putting on the clothes had been like putting on a new identity. I could be someone else. Someone better.

I’d styled my long black hair into loose curls. Even though I used half a bottle of hairspray to keep them curled, I knew they would fall out in approximately fifteen minutes. But it would be long enough.

Rudger didn’t notice my nod of agreement. He was staring out at the stage. “Five,” he told me.

Crap. I only had five seconds left. Five seconds of safety. If I tripped on the way out, the girls at my school would never let me live it down.

“Three.”

Three? What happened to four?

“Two.”

Why had I done this to myself? More importantly, how could I want to do this for a living when even walking out on a stage seemed excruciatingly painful?

“One.” He waved me on my way.

I took a deep breath and made my legs carry me forward past the curtains, out onto the stage. Unbidden, a memory of yesterday’s lunch period flashed into my mind. While I’d stood in the lunch line, I’d heard my name. Not called, just spoken about in one of the conversations behind me. Macy and Brooklyn, girls from drama, were talking loud enough that they probably meant me to hear.

“I don’t know why she’s trying out,” Macy said. “What does she expect to happen? Like, does she think she’s going to be discovered just because she played the lead in a few school musicals?”

I didn’t want to listen, but what else could I do? Leave the line? I did what I always did—pretended I was invisible and deaf.

“Her voice isn’t that good,” Brooklyn agreed. “Mr. DiCicco only chose her because he felt sorry for her.”

“He knows she doesn’t have a social life, so she has lots of time to devote to rehearsals.”

Then they both laughed.

I tugged myself away from the memory and concentrated on walking across the stage. “I’m good enough,” I told myself. “I can do this. I just need a chance to prove it.”

The auditorium was cavernous. The seating went on and on, layering the audience in balconies. I usually sang for a small group of parents in the school theater. Could my voice fill this place even with a microphone?

I strode, legs trembling, toward center stage. The lights’ glare made it impossible to see the closest audience seats. The cameramen had completely disappeared in the haze, leaving only the gaping lenses of the cameras visible. They seemed like black holes capable of sucking people away.

I smiled anyway and hoped I looked natural and not horrified. I’d never had trouble smiling before but my lips quivered, unable to hold the weight of the moment.

I caught sight of the judges’ table. A large unlit X sat in front of each judge. If none or only one of the Xs lit up, I would move on to the next round of performances. Two Xs meant I was out. Three meant I was laughably bad and would likely show up on the TV show. At least, that was what everyone told me while I waited to do the preliminary auditions. The really good, the quirky, and the pathetic acts got advanced so the TV viewers could watch them.

The problem was, I wasn’t positive which category I fit into.

Before the taping, Rudger told the contestants a guest judge would be sitting in. I’d assumed it would be someone like the rest of the judges—a star who hadn’t produced a hit in the last decade. Someone who had time to do this show because he wasn’t touring.

Instead, Jason Prescott, sat at the judges’ table. My poster crush was here, live. Suddenly, breathing became hard. Jason—Jason—was looking at me.

I managed to tell the judges my name, age, and hometown. I refrained from offering Jason my number. I couldn’t decide if cracking a joke would make me seem likeable or just really desperate. Besides, if I said something like that and it aired on the TV show, Macy and Brooklyn would never let me live it down.

The first notes of my accompaniment came over the speakers. I’d written this song with Jason in mind, a lilting melody about unrequited love. And now he was sitting here listening to me sing it. That was a good omen, a sign this was meant to be. Maybe Jason would like me so much, he’d talk to me after the audition. I didn’t hope for more than that. Jason only dated supermodels, actresses, and rock stars—people whose fame clung to them like perfume.

Usually when I sang, I focused on people’s foreheads. It looked like I was making eye contact, but it wasn’t nearly as nerve wracking. This time I gazed into Jason’s eyes. I wanted him to feel a connection, to know this song was for him.

The intro ended, and I sang the first line. “Your smile is easy, but you never see just what that smile is doing to me.”

Jason watched me lazily, bored almost. He picked up a cup from the table and took a drink.

“Love at first sight is real, so they say . . .” My voice wavered as I went into the next line. That wasn’t supposed to happen. Couldn’t happen. Why was it happening now, when I needed everything to go perfectly?

“But you’ve never even glanced my way.” I sang louder to make sure my voice stayed steady. Unfortunately, performing louder made me run out of breath sooner. I quickly took a gulp of air to sing the next line. “Tell me what I’m supposed to do.” It sounded like a gasp. Unprofessional. Jason’s eyes weren’t encouraging, or understanding, or any of the things I saw when I sang to his posters. He looked like he was on the verge of an eye roll.

“When I’m the one who’s staring for two.” I was grabbing at the notes, wrestling them into the melody. I noticed how low-budget my music sounded blaring across the auditorium. Since I wrote the song myself, I had to do my own minus track—me, playing the piano. Suddenly it seemed so “school talent show.” Not much better than the tap dancing grandmas and bowling pig.

My voice wavered again. I couldn’t stop it. My vocal chords had decided to abandon me. Jason glanced at the ceiling in exasperation.

I sang louder to stop my notes from sliding. If Jason would just look at me encouragingly, everything would turn around and my voice would flow out to the audience the way it was supposed to.

Maybe it was the stress, or the strain of singing louder, but when I went for the highest note, my voice cracked. A horrible yodeling sound flung from my mouth.

A rumble of laughter went through the audience. I felt dizzy, clammy. My stomach clenched like it had folded in half. I kept singing, because that’s what you do during a performance.

Jason reached over and hit his X button. As soon as he did, the other judges followed suit. They did it cheerfully, like this was all a joke and they were having a great time.

The music abruptly stopped, allowing me to hear scattered applause and calls from the audience. Were they clapping for me or clapping because they were glad I’d been Xed?

The worst part about this show, I now realized, was that they made the contestants stand there and listen while the judges told everyone why they thought you were a no-talent hack.

The other judges gestured to Jason, deferring to him as the guest judge.

He leaned forward, his eyes finally connecting with mine. “Listen, you’re a pretty girl—”

A few people in the audience hooted at that. I felt my cheeks burn with embarrassment.

Jason held up a hand to stem the interruption. “But the problem with pretty girls is they’re used to getting a pass in life. They’re handed things so often, they come here and think the same thing will happen. In the music business, you can’t get by on looks. You need actual talent and you need to practice. My advice is to spend less time doing your nails, and more time doing your scales.”