Chapter 16
[Rose's POV]
The waiting area buzzed with nervous energy—young hopefuls clutching sheet music, parents armed with professional cameras, and the occasional girl who looked like she'd stepped off a magazine cover.
I found a quiet spot by the floor-to-ceiling windows, where natural light would be best for reading between auditions. My canvas sneakers made no sound against the polished marble as I settled into position with my textbook.
"Excuse me." The voice carried the particular authority that comes from years of managing teenage ambitions. "That's Rachel's spot."
I looked up to find Sarah standing beside me, her perfectly styled blonde hair catching the morning sun. Behind her, Rachel emerged from what must have been a professional styling session—her audition outfit was a flowing coral dress that moved beautifully with each step, her makeup applied with magazine-worthy precision.
"I'm sorry?" I asked, though I understood perfectly.
"Rachel always sits by the windows for good lighting," Sarah explained with the patient tone of someone correcting a child's mistake. "It's important for her pre-audition preparation. You're just here to get a feel for the process, right? Rachel is the one who's been training for this seriously."
I marked my place in the textbook and stood without argument. Around us, I noticed other parents watching the exchange with interest. Sarah immediately brightened, her voice carrying easily across the waiting area.
"This is my daughter Rachel," she announced to a cluster of nearby families. "She's been working with a vocal coach for three years. Classical training with contemporary techniques—really prepares them for anything the judges might ask."
Rachel smiled graciously at the attention, her posture perfect as she settled into the prime window seat. I found myself a corner spot where I could observe without becoming part of the ongoing performance.
The morning passed in a haze of nervous chatter and last-minute vocal warm-ups. I watched parents coach their children through breathing exercises while contestants practiced their "surprised and grateful" expressions for when—not if—they received good news.
When they called my name, I walked into the audition room with the same measured calm I'd once brought to reviewing critical calculations. The panel of judges sat behind a curved desk, their expressions ranging from mildly curious to barely concealed boredom.
"Rose Evans," I said simply. "Eighteen, from Boston."
One judge glanced up from her notes, taking in my unadorned appearance with obvious surprise. They were clearly expecting something more... prepared. More manufactured.
"What will you be performing for us today?" the center judge asked.
"'You Are My Sunshine.' No accompaniment."
A few exchanged glances. In a competition full of power ballads and vocal gymnastics, my choice must have seemed almost childishly simple.
I closed my eyes for a moment, not to calm nerves but to find the memory.
When I opened my eyes and began to sing, the room transformed.
The melody was the same one every child knew, but something in my voice carried the weight of actual lived experience. The judges straightened in their chairs. The boredom vanished from their faces, replaced by something like recognition.
"You are my sunshine, my only sunshine..."
Each note held the memory of a mother's desperate love, the kind that transcended time and circumstance. I wasn't performing for judges or cameras. I was singing to my son, across eighty years and the impossible distance between us.
When the last note faded, silence stretched through the room like held breath.
The center judge leaned forward. "You're the iPhone girl," he said suddenly. "The video that went viral."
"I don't follow social media closely," I replied.
Four green lights blazed to life simultaneously. The judges' faces showed a mixture of satisfaction and surprise—satisfaction at discovering authentic talent, surprise at finding it packaged so simply.
"Welcome to the next round," the female judge said. "That was... unexpected."
I thanked them quietly and left the room, my heart steady and my mind already moving to practical considerations. The next round would mean additional time commitments, which I'd need to balance against my visits to James and my accelerated coursework.
In the hallway, I found Rachel surrounded by a cluster of young contestants, all eager to associate with someone who looked professional. Her dress photographed beautifully under the studio lights, and she was graciously offering advice about vocal techniques and stage presence.
Sarah appeared at my elbow as I passed. "Rose? Did you...?" Her expression shifted through several emotions in quick succession—surprise, confusion, and something that might have been dismay.
"I advanced," I confirmed.
"Oh." She paused, clearly recalibrating. "Well, how wonderful. I suppose they need all types."
Rachel broke away from her admirers, her smile bright but her eyes sharp. "Congratulations!" she exclaimed, though something in her tone suggested she found the outcome genuinely puzzling. "I can't believe... I mean, what song did you choose?"
"Something simple."
"We should celebrate," Sarah interjected quickly. "There' s a lovely bistro nearby. My treat."
"That's kind, but I have arrangements," I said. "Someone I visit is expecting me at Magnolia Estate."
Sarah's eyebrows rose slightly.
"Of course," she said carefully. "Another time, perhaps."
As I walked toward the exit, I heard Rachel's voice behind me, no longer performing for an audience.
"Mom, I don't understand. She's never had proper training. She doesn't even use makeup or stage clothes."
"Perhaps she has connections we don't know about," Sarah replied, her voice thoughtful. "Your father does have colleagues in various circles."
"Do you think she cheated somehow? Got inside information?"
"Not cheated, exactly. But influence comes in many forms, sweetheart. Don't worry—natural talent only gets you so far. Real competition requires experience, training, stage presence. Things you actually possess."
Their conversation faded as I pushed through the glass doors and into the bright morning air.
Monday arrived with its familiar rhythm of adolescent social hierarchies. Rachel appeared in the main hallway surrounded by classmates, their voices bright with envy and admiration.
"So amazing that you made it through!"
"Are you nervous about the next round?"
"I heard they're really selective after this point."
Rachel basked in the attention with practiced grace, one hand resting lightly on Ethan's arm as he stood proudly beside her. They made a photogenic couple—the promising singer and the student council president, both destined for the kind of success that looked good in alumni magazines.
I passed through the edges of their gathering, my mind occupied with quantum tunneling probability calculations I'd been working through over the weekend. The social dynamics of teenage fame felt as distant as the surface of Mars.
"Coffee delivery for our school's resident genius princess."
Alexander materialized beside my locker, holding a Starbucks cup with an expression of practiced charm. His hair caught the hallway's fluorescent lighting, and his smile had that particular quality of someone who'd spent considerable time perfecting it.
"I don't drink coffee," I said without looking up from my textbooks.
"It's hot chocolate then."
I finally met his eyes. "Why?"
The directness of the question seemed to throw him slightly. "Can't a guy do something nice?"
"In my experience, gestures like this usually serve specific purposes." I closed my locker with deliberate precision. "What's yours?"
His charming smile faltered for just a moment before snapping back into place. "Maybe I'm trying to make up for our rough start. We're practically family, after all."
"No," I said calmly. "We're not."