Polaroids and Postcards | ✔️

Chapter 7: Pre-Show Jitters

"Stop worrying about the potholes in the road and celebrate the journey."

•••

Do you know that nagging queasiness that you get in the very pit of your stomach right before you do something stupid? Like every fiber of your being is screaming for you to stop, but something unexplainable keeps pushing you further? That was what I felt when the flier was thrust into my hands and Della's airy voice rambled on, blurring as I retreated into my innermost thoughts.

Don't get me wrong, I loved performing. It was one of the only things that relaxed me and made me feel like I was in the right place at the right time. But the idea of this performance made my stomach turn somersaults. There was a pressure that I'd never felt before. If I didn't win the prize money, I wasn't going anywhere any time soon. I couldn't let that happen. Not after working so hard for so long. But then again... what if I did fail?

"Della, would you just slow down for a second?"

"What?" Della stopped mid-sentence, her hands in the air as she was excitedly explaining something.

"I doubt this is our golden ticket to LA," I deadpanned, tossing her the crumbled paper. "This is dated for tonight. These kinds of things have a sign-up process weeks in advance. They don't just offer a thousand dollars to some random guy off the street."

"But it clearly says it's an open mic night."

"Yeah?"

"Aren't those normally just walk-in?"

I ran my fingers through my hair, trying to seem calm and collected and definitely not tense at all. Why am I so tense? "Not when it's a contest like this. You normally have to do a sign-up and—"

"Don't worry, we'll fix that when we get there!" she shrugged unconcernedly. "Get in the Beetle, Lovett. I'll get us some gas now, but you're paying for the next fill-up."

"Della, are you even listening to me? It wouldn't do us any good to go."

"Music does everyone good, Jason."

"That's not what I mean and you know it."

Her eyes cut suddenly through me like a knife. "You're nervous, aren't you?"

I spluttered, setting my mouth in a firm line. "Excuse me?"

She shrugged. "You're nervous about your performance. It's normal, but you shouldn't run from it, Jason. After all, once you're a professional performer, there won't be any time for nerves."

"I'm not nervous."

"Denial... Another symptom of pre-show jitters."

"I'm not in denial."

Della shot me a smug look, raising an eyebrow and spinning away from me to take care of the fuel. I opened my mouth to argue, but she was obviously not even listening to me. She was too busy with the gas pump to hear anything else I had to say.

How dare she know what I'm feeling before I do? That's not even fair.

I huffed, flung open the passenger door, and plopped down into my seat. As irritation at my situation welled up inside me, I glared at the pink lei dangling from the rearview mirror. If by some miracle we managed to get into the contest tonight, what song would I even sing? I still hadn't chosen a song for my big gig, how was I supposed to come up with one on the fly like this? I needed time to think this through & perfect my art. Most think artists just 'go with the flow', but not me—I orchestrated everything through careful plotting and experimenting.