He leaned back in his chair, done with his critique. The audience cheered and clapped, happily shredding my apparent singing method of not practicing and then expecting things to be handed to me.

On the TV show, sometimes people yelled out angry retorts before they walked off the stage. Other times they thanked the judges for their time. I’d told myself that if I got Xed, I’d be gracious. Instead I stood there aching to tell him I practiced all the time, I usually sang better, and this was the first time I’d done my nails in a year.

If the judges would only give me a second chance . . .

I knew they wouldn’t, though. My dream was over. And worse, if my audition made it on the show, every catty girl at Greenfield High would tell me how badly I’d sucked.

The lights felt painfully bright, and a wave of nausea washed through me. I opened my mouth to thank the judges. That’s when things got worse. My wave of nausea went tidal. I stood in the middle of the stage—too far away from the wings to run for cover. I couldn’t do anything to stop this. My stomach lurched uncontrollably, and I threw up on the floor.

Chapter 2

Mom met me backstage took Kleenex from her purse, and helped me wipe off my now not-so-beautiful red heels. I was numb with embarrassment. It was all I could do to fight the tears burning at the back of my eyes. I’d already embarrassed myself enough. I didn’t need to make it worse by crying in front of everyone.

“It will be okay,” Mom said with forced cheerfulness. “I’m sure they’ll edit that part of your performance out of the show.”

Rudger, who stood nearby waving his hand and yelling at a group of stagehands to go sanitize the stage, didn’t confirm or deny this theory.

“My shoes are fine,” I told Mom. “Let’s get out of here.”

That’s when Rudger sliced a glare at me. “You shouldn’t have come here if you were sick. That’s why we specifically ask on the release form if you’re healthy enough to perform.” He mumbled something to a passing stagehand, then added, “The last thing this show needs is a flu outbreak.”

Mom straightened, clutching her wad of Kleenex in irritation. “She’s not sick. She’s upset, which isn’t surprising after the way you treat your contestants.” Then Mom launched into an angry treatise on the flaws of the music business, starting with the fact the people in it were egotistical, soulless, money-grubbing drug users. “And what sort of example are you setting for girls?” she asked. “Most women rock stars dress like hookers. What message does that send?”

The message the producer sent my mother, in an increasingly clipped tone, was that she needed to leave immediately, and neither of us were to come within in a five-hundred foot radius of the show’s staff again. Although, I don’t think you can really issue restraining orders without some sort of paperwork, so that was probably an empty threat.

I didn’t say much to Mom during the car ride back to the hotel. I was too busy reliving every horrible moment of my song. The audience’s laughter. Jason rolling his eyes. The way a bunch of people shrieked after I threw up. It made me feel sick all over again.

As we neared the hotel, Mom finally calmed down, no longer gripping the steering wheel like she was trying to strangle it.“This is for the best,” she said. “Now you’ve learned what a singer’s life is really like—the complete jerks you have to deal with. You don’t want that. You’re a smart girl. In honors classes,” she added to prove her point. “You’ll go to college, get a good job, and then people will treat you with the respect you deserve.”

I couldn’t bring myself to argue with her, but even now when I felt horrible, I still wanted to sing. I just didn’t want to ever do it in front of people again.

I slumped in my seat and didn’t answer.

Our hotel came into view, squatting on the street with the other buildings. It seemed rundown and plain. A shrine to averageness.

“I don’t think we should even watch the show when it airs,” Mom said. “There’s no point.”

“I have to watch it.” That way when everyone at school slammed my performance, I’d know whether they were exaggerating or not.

Mom drove into the parking lot. Instead of pulling into a space, she looked at me tentatively. “Are you hungry? Do you want to get something to eat?”

I shook my head.

Mom sent me an encouraging smile. “I bet I could find a place with chocolate ice cream.”

I shook my head again. This was not the type of problem ice cream could solve. “I smell gross. I want to take a shower.”

Mom handed me a key card for our room. “All right. You go clean up, and I’ll get some food.”

I climbed out of the car and headed to the hotel, the dull ache of resignation settling in my chest.

It wouldn’t matter what I said to my mother about needing to follow my dreams now. This audition was proof I couldn’t succeed. Some people were born for greatness and others were cursed with mediocrity. Time to admit it to myself: the mediocrity troll had settled under my bridge.

Tears filled my eyes. This time I didn’t stop them from coming, couldn’t. By the time I reached our room, I was sobbing and hoped people wouldn’t open their doors to see what was wrong.

Keeping my head down, I slid the key into the slot, then pushed the door open. Why did things always turn out badly for me? Why couldn’t—just once—something go my way? I walked inside, slammed the door shut, and kicked off my heels so hard they flew across the room.

A voice across the room said, “I don’t think you fully understand the problem.”

My gaze shot in that direction. A teenage girl with long pink hair lounged on the far bed, talking on a cell phone. She wore a jean miniskirt, a bright purple shirt, and matching purple flats. She had an air of effortless confidence, the sort of attitude beautiful people always have. She glanced at me and then went back to her phone, more concerned with her conversation than with my arrival. “Did anyone even read my last report?”

Oh crap. I was in the wrong room. This sort of thing was bound to happen since the front desk used programmable plastic cards instead of actual keys. They’d messed up and programmed one that worked on the wrong room. What must this girl think of me? I’d barged in here crying, slammed the door, and then kicked my heels across the room. “I’m so sorry,” I stammered. “I thought this was my room.”

She held up a hand in an I’ll-be-with-you-in-a minute sort of way. “How is an assistant actually assisting if he tries to sabotage the mission?”

I hurried across the room to grab my shoes. “I didn’t check the door number before I came in and . . .” As I reached down to pick up my second shoe, I noticed my suitcase sitting by the bathroom door—a turquoise one Mom bought on a shopping spree.

Wait, this was my room after all, and some strange pink-haired girl was sitting on my bed. Had she not noticed our stuff around the room when she checked in? I straightened and took a step toward her. “Excuse me—actually, this is my room.”

She gave me the I’m-busy hand again and spoke into her phone tersely. “You might as well assign an ogre to help me. At least an ogre would be up front about trying to kill people instead of pretending the whole thing was my fault.”

I took a step back. “Uh . . . are you talking to the front desk?” Another step back. “Maybe you should speak with them in person.”

“She’s griping to the FGA,” a small male voice said in an Irish accent. I spun around to see who’d spoken. I didn’t see anyone. No one else stood in the room. This was getting decidedly weird.

“As though,” the man continued, “anyone at the fine and fancy Fairy Godmother Affairs cares a trot for what either of us has to say.”

Godmother Affairs? Weirder still. I peered around the room, trying to figure out where the disembodied voice came from. “Where are you?”