I look over at Gavin and he looks at me. His face says We got this but I’m not sure. We both turn back to the stage.
The woman with the wedding-cake hair takes over the microphone. “We were shocked by the amount of entries that came in. We had a really difficult time narrowing it down to just ten, but we did our best and here we are. In the front row are our ten finalists. Let’s hear it for them.”
I’m ready to take a bow, but no one else is standing up, so I stay in my seat.
“Each of our finalists will receive a prize pack from our generous sponsors that includes gift certificates, music distribution, and a magazine subscription. So that kicks ass.”
I didn’t realize there’d be prizes for the losers. That does kick ass.
“And our first-place winner will get his or her song featured on our blog and it will also stream on some of our partner sites. Plus, he or she will get a check for five thousand dollars, thanks to Zeem Music.”
It’s too late to use the prize money to save Dad’s studio but I wonder if five thousand dollars is enough to take a trip to Los Angeles because Gavin said it’s the capital of entertainment and that sounds like the perfect kind of place for me.
Annie bends the mike back to her. “I know we’re here to find out who will take home the grand prize. But before we get to that, we have a few things to get out of the way first.”
A pointy man in a suit walks onstage and he thanks a long list of people and then Annie comes back. She invites someone else onto the stage, someone she calls a great artist who’s been “featured a ton” on their website, but this guy does not look great to me. He’s bald and he’s got a big belly that pushes his acoustic guitar far away from his body. He has to reach his arms out to play it and his voice sounds like a sick bird. I’m not impressed. This is not a rock star.
The worst part is that I don’t know his song. If he’s so great and his music was on the contest website, then I should know it and everyone else should too.
The man finally finishes his boring song and Annie helps him off the stage. I’m not sure why he can’t get down on his own.
“Let’s hear it one more time for the great Bisk Weatherby.”
I’m clapping, which scares me because I don’t mean to be clapping. I’m just trying to be nice. What if that’s all clapping is? A big lie to be nice? Gavin is clapping too.
Annie calls another musician to the stage and this guy looks much cooler. He’s a singer-songwriter that everyone seems to know, but I barely hear him because there’s already too much happening in my brain and also my body. I really have to pee.
The singer-songwriter finishes his song and the women come back to the microphone. “So we’re going to move things along now,” Annie says. “When I announce our third-place winner and runner-up, please stand up and take a bow.”
So we are bowing. That’s more like it. I just hope my legs work.
Annie looks down at an index card and I grab Gavin’s hand.
“Without further ado,” Annie says. “Third place goes to Olsen T. DeLawrence for his song ‘Quiver.’”
Olsen is a goofy guy with glasses and when he stands up he almost hits his head on the low ceiling. My heart is pecking like a woodpecker. I tell Gavin, “I really have to pee.”
“I think it’s a little late for that.”
“I have to go.”
“You’re going to miss it,” Gavin says.
“I don’t care.”
“Just hold it.”
“I can’t.”
“You can.”
And then Annie calls out the second-place winner. She says two names.
“Gibson and Ren,” Annie says. “They wrote a heartbreaking song called ‘Third Chance’ that I swear I cannot listen to without bursting into tears. I’ve tried. It’s impossible.”
A crying song. I told Gavin we needed a crying song but he wouldn’t listen to me. He told me to forget about the crying song, which was bad advice because crying is all about remembering and that’s what girls like to do and sometimes dads too, like when they’re driving home from seeing their moms.
But it’s not over yet. We’re so close. Just one more winner left. It can happen. It can really happen. Come on, Annie, just say my name.
Annie clears her throat and I drop my head down to my knees. “And now, the moment we’ve all been waiting for.”
Dad holds my hand past the hostess and past the people talking loudly at tables and past the waiters balancing trays, all the way to a glass door that I can’t see through because of the white curtain.
“I’m not hungry,” I say.
“You don’t have to eat,” Dad says.
“Where is everybody?”
For the first time in my life, I don’t remember a single thing that happened. Actually, I remember exactly two things, and the first thing is the name of the girl who won because a name like Victory is so strange and unfair. The second thing I remember is that Annie and the wedding-cake-hair woman took a picture with all the finalists and then everybody wanted to take separate pictures with just Gavin and they couldn’t believe he was a part of their stupid contest. I can’t remember if Victory was pretty or ugly but she was probably very pretty, and I can’t remember if the check for five thousand dollars was one of those giant checks or the kind that fits into your pocket, and I can’t remember what Gavin said into my ear when we lost, and I can’t remember how we walked out of that back room, or how we got outside, or what Dad was trying to tell me as he carried me down the street and into this crappy restaurant. So this is what it’s like to have a normal brain. I think I hate it.
“You’ll see,” Dad says.
I’ll see what? I don’t even remember what we were just talking about.
The door opens and there’s Mom and Grandpa and my uncle and my two aunts and Gavin. I don’t know the rest of the people: an older woman with short boy hair and big hoop earrings, a serious-looking man with a button-down shirt and sweater, and a lady with blond hair and a nice tan.
Gavin grabs a big plastic bag that’s leaning against the wall. He reaches for me with his other hand and tells the group, “We’ll be right back.”
We walk outside into the busy night and stand against the building.
“What place do you think we came in?” I ask.
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Yes, it does. There’s a big difference between tenth and fourth.”
“It’s just an opinion.”
“But tenth is last place,” I say.
“Who cares?” Gavin says. “Think about the thousands of people who entered. Look how far you got.”
The city people walk around us with smelly cigarettes in their hands and interesting clothes on their bodies and wires sticking out of their ears.
“I only got here because you helped me,” I say.
“So what? Everyone gets help somehow.”
“It doesn’t matter, does it? No one cares. No one even remembers his name.”
“Whose name?” Gavin says.