She scribbles it down on her clipboard and points to another table. “Go over there and make your own name tag, making sure it’s legible. You’ll be in Group 3, scheduled to sing in two hours, so listen for your name. Each contestant may sing for two minutes. If you have it, you may hand your sheet music to the ocarina player when you go before the judges.”
I glance over at the judges’ table, but I don’t recognize anyone there. Two men and a woman, watching as the first singers launch into their auditions.
“Name tag,” the clerk reminds me, pointing to the other table again. “Next.” She waves to the person in line behind me.
I go grab a name tag and write my new alias on it. Then I’m not sure what to do. It’s going to be at least two hours before my name gets called, and nobody said I had to wait here the whole time. But if I wander off, I could get lost in this huge, strange town.
I head over to the audience so I can listen to the other singers before me. Can’t hurt to check out the competition. It looks like most of the others are doing the same.
Since it’s the middle of the day, there’s not many in the audience. It’s very different from what I expected—where’s the radio broadcast? The flashy show? It feels like we could be waiting in line for anything, not the biggest competition of our lives.
The other singers ahead of me are all over the place. There are the typical amateurs—they sound alright, but they stand there looking nervous and stiff, and stumble over the lyrics. There are the over-confident divas with flashy dance moves, shrieking way off-key through their songs, and scowling when they get cut off at the end of their two minutes. Only a few singers sound like they could be real professionals.
Everyone looks older than me. I guess anyone my age would be in school this time of day. Maybe I should have waited until the afternoon when schools got out so I could blend in with the other kids. But I’ve already put my name in, and I don’t know what would happen if I backed out. I’ll have to come up with a good explanation if anyone asks me what I’m doing here during school hours.
The judges don’t react much during any of the auditions. They make the occasional notes on their papers and pass them to each other, but most of the time, they dismiss the singer with no discussion. During the two hours I watch, I only see eight singers get chosen for the competition, and they’re all great.
Then my group is called over to the waiting area, where another bored clerk gives us instructions. A daguerreotype camera is set up, the first one I’ve ever seen in person, and we have to stand very still in front of it for several minutes while the photographer exposes his film. Then we’re sent one at a time to the judges.
When it’s finally my turn, I approach the ocarina player. “Um, I don’t have any sheet music,” I say to her. “But do you know that hymn to Qachmy, the one that starts with her iridescent throne?”
The ocarina player raises one eyebrow at me but she nods. “Yeah, I know the one. I’ll play you in for two bars, then you go.”
I thank her and turn to the judges table. I clear my throat and stand up straight. “Amena Qumejola, from Pisan,” I say, just like the clerk told me to do.
The female judge looks up from her notes with a frown. “All the way from Pisan? How old are you, honey?”
The way she’s looking at me, like Mama when she catches me cheating on my schoolwork, tells me she won’t believe a lie. “Fifteen,” I say, then hold up my hand to stop her from sending me away. “I got special permission from my head teacher to leave my school just for this competition. Please, it’s my dream to sing. It’s all I’ve ever wanted.”
I don’t know if Qachmy or Uqra is watching out for me, but the judge’s frown smoothes away and she nods. “All right, we’ll give you a chance. When you’re ready.”
I signal to the ocarina player, then fold my hands in front of me like I always do at religious festivals. I just hope I haven’t made a terrible mistake. I count two bars of the ocarina’s melody and take a deep breath, then begin to sing,
Qachmy on your iridescent throne of flowers,
immortal daughter of Chelynne, I now implore you,
Don’t—I beg you, Lady—with pains and torments
Crush down my spirit…
I look up at the sky as I sing, afraid of seeing a negative reaction from anyone who is listening. I picture what I know of Qachmy. If the legends are true, she’s beautiful but wild, just like the jungle. I remember the clearing I saw last night, where the flowers glowed with an inner light, and the feeling I had when I called on her power this morning. I’m not sure if I’m channeling her power now, but it feels like the copper star in my pocket grows warmer.
Come to me once more, and abate my torment;
Take the bitter care from my mind, and give me
All I long for; Lady, in all my battles
Fight as my comrade.
I finish the song and drop into my most formal curtsy.
One of male judges grunts and taps his watch. “One minute, thirty-two seconds,” he mutters. “A little under time.”
I blink in surprise. I hadn’t thought about the two minute time limit. “I’m sorry. Do you want me to sing something else?”
He shakes his head. “No, no, I think we’ve heard enough.” He scribbles a single line on his paper and slides it across the other man.
The second man glances at the sheet before he passes it on to the woman.
I swallow again. I must have bungled this whole thing. What am I going to do now? Go home and apologize to the rebels for disappearing in the middle of a mission? Or get arrested again?
The female judge reads the note and nods. “We’re in agreement, as usual.” She glances up at me, her face still expressionless. “You’re in the first round tonight. One of the assistants will give you further instructions.” She gestures to the far end of the square.
I blink, the words sinking into my brain. Wait, did she just say I was in? As in, I actually made it? My knees buckle under me and I sway, about to collapse. “Wait—you liked me? You want me in the competition?”
She flashes me the briefest smile, so quick I almost miss it. “Yes, honey. Your choice of song was rather traditional, but we appreciated the fresh take.” She gestures across the square again. “We need to move on to the next contestant now.”
I stumble on the first step—the heels on my boots are not helping my balance on the smooth cobblestones—but I manage to catch my balance without falling. I walk across the square to where the chosen singers are meeting with the assistants and look around in a daze. I can’t believe I’m doing this.
A man with long red hair and a Star Search badge waves me over to one side. “All right, honey, don’t get all faint on me now. I’m your assistant for the next twelve hours while we get you ready for tonight.”
He gives me a quick glance up and down, shaking his head. “Hm, and I can see we have a lot to work on. Well, we’ve always got at least one country bumpkin transformation to pull off.” He slings an arm around my shoulders and steers me toward a nearby building. “Let’s get you signed up first.”
I’m so surprised, I don’t know what to say. “I thought I was signed up?” I repeat blankly. I look back at the table where I gave my name.
“That was just for the first audition,” the man says with a wave of his slender hand. “We don’t waste time on formalities with the rabble, just let the gatekeepers weed out anyone tone-deaf or lacking rhythm. Now the real competition begins. But you know the bureaucrats won’t be happy until they get every last detail on you and sign a few waivers. Don’t worry, it’s relatively painless.”
He keeps pushing me to the door. I don’t know this man’s name, but I can already tell that he’s hard to argue with.
I let him lead me, but my stomach knots up. It looks like I’ll need papers after all. Will magic be enough to forge something? My dream could be over in a flash if they find out the truth.
Then I glance up, and I see Uqra perched on the ro
of of the concert hall where we’re heading. She’s watching over me, and that knowledge calms me down. I still have a goddess on my side. I’m going to make it work.
The assistant introduces himself as Bymonten and tells me what will happen in the next few hours.
“After your application is complete, we can get straight to the preparations,” he says. “First, lessons—you wouldn’t be here if you didn’t already have skills, but you’ll get a few tips on performing in front of an audience. Then we’ll go over your song choice. Sorry, but your sweet little festival song back there won’t cut it for the big time. Then a wardrobe fitting, hair and makeup, and a final rehearsal before the broadcast tonight.” He squeezes my shoulders. “When I’m done with you, your favorite teacher won’t recognize you.”
Mama wouldn’t recognize me already, dressed in city clothes with all these people fussing over me, but I wouldn’t want her to see me, anyway. I can only worry about one thing at a time. I’m dreading this application.
Bymonten leads me past the front entrance of the concert hall around to the back, where the second half of the building is taken up by many rooms. I see doors labeled Practice Room, Props Storage, Make-Up, and many business offices. People are rushing back and forth, preparing for tonight’s competition.
The first room we go into is an office with a desk squeezed between rows of filing cabinets. I’m careful not to look in the open drawers, even though I’m dying to know what kind of information I’ll have to tell these people. Are they going to do a full background check on me? Maybe I shouldn’t have told them I’m from Pisan—the last time I was arrested there, they took a mugshot. I gave a different name to the police but they might still have a way to trace it back to me.
The clerk behind the desk is younger and kinder than the one outside. “We just have a few forms we need you to fill out,” she says with a smile, but the stack of paperwork she pulls out looks like more than a few forms. “There’s a standard waiver saying you agree to follow the rules of the competition and accept any risks that come with performing or traveling as may be required. Then there’s your application—the judges collect some background information so they can get to know you better. Talk about why you want to be in Star Search, and so on.”
I skim over the forms. Most of it’s not a big deal. The winner of Star Search is guaranteed a contract for a recording deal and a concert tour, but the fine print says I can’t have any criminal record, I’ll have to get permission to postpone any apprenticeships or other training, and so on. Oh, and the age limit is fifteen.
I clear my throat. “Um, I have a question,” I say, looking up at the clerk. “What if you’re fifteen but you haven’t been assigned your apprenticeship yet?”
The clerk bobs her head. “Ah, yes. Choosing Day is still a few months away.” She hands me an extra form. “Just put the name and address of your school here, and we’ll contact them to release you into our care for the duration of the competition. That’s only necessary if you stay after today. Half of the contestants will be eliminated tonight.”
I chew on my lower lip, trying to hide my nervousness. Any school they contacted would say I’m not one of their students. “If you don’t need it for tonight, could I put that part in later?” Maybe I could ask the rebels for emergency forged papers.
“We need your entire application in order before you can enter.” The clerk hands me a fountain pen.
Bymonten leans over me. “And write fast, because time is already ticking.”
A faint tapping draws my attention to the window. Uqra is outside, looking straight at me. I can’t ask her for help in front of these strangers. I guess I’ll just have to trust that Qachmy will make things work out.
I slip my left hand into my pocket, touching the copper star, and close my eyes for a moment in prayer. Then I lift the fountain pen and write the name of the first school I can think of in Pisan.
The metal star grows warm in my hand. I hope that’s a good sign.
I fill out the rest of the application, inventing details about my life without thinking too hard about it. It’s the truth when I say I’ve listened to Star Search and dreamed about being a singer for years. That’s the only thing that matters.
The clerk accepts the papers back without a glance and Bymonten rushes me off to my first lesson in one of the building’s many practice rooms.
After an hour of breath exercises and dance moves, nothing I didn’t already know how to do, the voice instructor passes me back to Bymonten.
“Step two: choosing your song,” Bymonten says, draping his arm over my shoulders again. He’s very friendly and enthusiastic. “It’s not just about what you can sing. You need a song that showcases your vocal range, expresses your personality, and entertains the audience. And you can’t just pick from the top songs on the radio. The judges like to hear something fresh.”
An idea has been forming in the back of my mind. If I can’t sing a traditional song about Qachmy, what if I wrote a new one? I’ve written teaching songs to help Mama with the younger kids for years, and a pop song shouldn’t be too complicated.
I take a deep breath and look up at Bymonten. “What if I write my own song?”
Bymonten raises an eyebrow. “Write a whole song? In a couple of hours?” He leans closer. “I’m trying to help you win this thing. We have a whole library of songs you can choose from.”
I pull back from him and fold my arms. “I have song-writing experience,” I say, hoping I sound confident. “All I need is some paper to write on and a guitar to work out the melody.”
He still looks skeptical, but he agrees to let me play around for a while. “You were selected early in the day, so you have more time than most of the contestants,” he says. “I always feel bad for the singers who are chosen in the last group. They can barely get changed before the show starts tonight. But then, if a singer is serious, they’ll get here early.”
I glow with the implied praise. Good thing I didn’t wait.
He leads me to the musicians’ practice room, which is empty, and pulls a guitar out of the cabinets. “If you get nowhere, we’ll look through the songbooks.” He sets some paper and a pencil on a music stand. “Can you write something peppy and fun, that will get people dancing? You’ll only have three minutes to sing tonight, so you’ll have to catch the judges’ attention. They respond well when the audience gets involved.”
I sit down with the guitar on my lap and tune it. Thank the gods I have perfect pitch. “I want to write a song for Qachmy, the goddess,” I say as I turn the knobs to tighten the strings. “I don’t know if I can make that fun.”
Bymonten flips a chair around and straddles it so he can rest his arms on the back as he watches me. “You really got a thing for this goddess, huh?”
I bend my head over the guitar to hide my face. “I, uh, kinda feel like I owe my success to her.”
“Well, you won’t get anyone dancing with another morose hymn.” He looks me up and down. “You look like a girl who’s broken a few hearts. Sometimes, they call Qachmy the goddess of love. Maybe write a song about that.”
I can’t help but blush. I’ve had a few crushes, but I’ve never been in love before. “What about love advice?” I suggest. Now that the guitar’s in tune, I pick out an upbeat melody I’ve used for children’s songs. “If you don’t listen to the goddess of love, you won’t get anywhere…”
Bymonten hums along for a few notes, then shakes his head. “Don’t say they won’t get anywhere, even an idiot can accidentally fall into a romance. Say they’ll only get partway there.” He taps his foot. “Keep it up. I feel like we’re on a good track here.”
I play out a verse and Bymonten continues to throw out suggestions. He likes the idea that I’m still in school, so he throws in references to my young age.
“Imagine you’re falling in love for the first time,” he says, eyes sparkling with memories. “You’re young and nervous, but the goddess of love is encouraging you to take a ris
k. What if you start it off quietly, sort of shy? Like, in a whisper, ‘If you keep silent, love won’t come your way…’”
My fingers fly over the strings and Bymonten starts takes notes on the paper for me. Maybe some kind of divine inspiration is behind me, because the song just flows out. We write several verses and a catchy chorus, probably longer than three minutes, but I don’t want to stop while I’m on a roll. We can always cut it down later.
“And then back to the original version of the chorus,” Bymonten says, scribbling on another sheet of paper. He stretches and looks up at the clock. “Oh, my, is it that late already? I wanted to get your wardrobe fitting before lunch.”
I look over the music he’s written down and smile. “This looks good enough for tonight. Should I play it like this on the guitar?”
He snatches the guitar away from me and shakes his head. “Oh, no, you’ve got to be free to dance and move around the stage. I’ll give these notes to one of the musicians and they’ll write up a simple arrangement.” He offers his hand. “You’re more talented than I realized, honey. I think we’ve got a good shot of making it through the first round.”
I grin up at him. “Thanks!”
Hours later, I’ve been primped and painted up so much that I can’t recognize myself in the mirror. I wanted another green dress, but Bymonten chose a yellow blouse and an orange skirt he said brought out my bright yellow hair. Most of my hair is hanging loose around my shoulders with a large, orange bow on top. I’m wearing higher heels to make up for my short height. I might trip and fall in the middle of dancing.
Bymonten choreographed a whole routine that has me running up and down from one end of the stage to the other. “So the whole crowd can see you,” he said. “You’re small, so you’ll need extra energy.”
Now I’m waiting backstage as the show begins. I can hear the announcer welcoming in the three judges—not the ones from this morning, but the real celebrities who are the face of Star Search. I’ve heard two of them before, Osev the music producer and Nysa who has twenty years of experience as a pop singer, but the third judge is new, Dunruis. He won Star Search a few years ago and has been a big star ever since. I don’t know what kind of things he’s looking for as a judge.
Amena’s Rise to Stardom: Divine Warriors #0 Page 3
