Grown(5)

My name booms over the loudspeaker. Too loud to ignore.

“OK, Chanty, you’re up! Good luck, baby!”

Mom kisses my cheek and pats me on the butt. The entire theater turns in my direction. I swallow and head for the stage.

Korey sits behind Richie, surrounded by his entourage, at least a dozen people, while the audience elbows over each other to grab pictures. They don’t even notice me take the stage. I’m invisible—how I always feel.

“Hi, sweetheart,” Richie says.

“Hello,” I croak out, and the mic delivers feedback. “Um. I’m . . . uh, my name is Enchanted.”

“Yes, we already know your name. What are you singing for us today?”

“Oh! Um, ‘If I Were Your Woman’ by Gladys Knight.”

Korey’s eyes lock on me. He’s like a large moon in a starless sky.

Richie frowns. “Hmm?” The judges look at one another, unsure, then shrug. “OK, let’s see what you got!”

I nod at the soundman.

The chords ring in, the crowd silent. I start to sing, keeping a running checklist of all the performance notes I learned on YouTube: Chin up.

Hold the mic firm.

Eye contact with the audience.

But the only person I seem to see is Korey, who hasn’t taken his eyes off me.

“You’re a part of me

Korey leans forward in his chair. And somehow, seeing him, the one person I can make out in a room full of nameless faces, soothes my nerves. So I sing to him, just him. The way I used to sing to Grandma during my living room concerts when I was a kid.

And you don’t even know it

I’m what you need

But I’m too afraid to show it . . .

When I’m done, the room bursts into applause. Korey’s mouth hangs open, staring up in awe.

Judge #1-Melissa: “You have a great voice. But a little shaky. Need a few more rounds of singing lessons.”

Judge #2-Don: “Eh, I don’t like the song. Too old-school. Not something of today.”

Judge #3-Richie: “You two are crazy. You hear all that untamed talent? But I’m outnumbered here. Better luck next year, sweetheart. I’m sure we’ll see you again. Soon.”





Chapter 5


Bright Eyes




Backstage is dark enough to mask the oncoming tears. The perfect place to hide when you need a moment or two. Or ten. Or fifteen.

I need a few before rejoining Mom, before spending the forty-five-minute drive home in awkward silence. I tricked her into taking me to this audition, all for nothing. I don’t understand. I know I nailed that song. Did way better than others. But maybe it wasn’t the song choice. Maybe it was the whole package that turned them away. My skin, my clothes, my crooked smile, my nonexistent hair . . .

“Nice song.”

His breath touches the back of my neck, and I whip around.

Korey Fields.

My tongue plays dead in my mouth, lips parting. When did he come back here? And how . . . wait, I’m talking to Korey Fields. Well, no, I’m not talking. He’s talking to me. Say something, dummy!

“Um . . . thanks.”

His smile lights up the dark space. Up close, he smells rich, like honey and musky tanning oil. His outfit is crisp, not a speck of dirt on him. Not even on his kicks.

“Interesting pick,” he says, nodding as if impressed.

“Interesting?” I repeat.

“I’m just surprised someone your age would choose such a . . . classic.”

I don’t know how to take that, so I shrug and offer honesty.

“It was one of my grandma’s favorites.”

He pauses, a stunned look in his eyes before chuckling. “Yeah, mine too.”

We stand in silence, staring at each other. The next contestant is already onstage, singing Beyoncé. Guess I missed the memo that I should’ve gone with any song from her catalog.

Korey seems much taller in his music videos, towering over every girl he dances on. But in person, he’s regular. Not that he’s short or nothing, just not the LeBron James I thought he’d be. More Steph Curry.

“You have a voice,” he says. “You take lessons?”

“Kinda.” I don’t think YouTube counts. “But I practice all the time! And write my own songs.”

“Hm. Well, you should take some. Professional ones.”

I blink. “Ouch. Was I that bad?”

“Oh, nah. Not like that!” He chuckles. “But even naturals need some coaching. Like sports. You get better the more you train. You feel me?”

I think of Coach Wilson and smile. “Yeah, I think I know exactly what you mean.”

Korey searches my face.

“Here, let me show you something real quick.”

I gasp as he steps toward me, laying one hand flat on my stomach, then the other on the middle of my back. I tense up, frantically searching the room.

Does ANYONE see this? Korey Fields . . . is touching ME!

But there’s only bodyguards. And they all seem to be standing away from us, backs turned, pretending they’re invisible.

“Relax, ma, it’s OK. You’re safe with me,” he says with a wink, voice raspy. “See, you gotta breathe from your diaphragm. Do it with me, ready?”