In A Song

August 3rd

so uh I was uhhhh 12 years old when I wrote this. and I was also deeply insecure. so I wrote a projection of what I wanted to be in a world where everyone loves her and she gets to date whatever blonde singer she likes

Note from 12/2/14 - why was my seventh grade self allowed near this website holy fuck. I apologize for this stupid thing.

I jump out of my mom's Rav 4 and sling the guitar over my shoulder. "Yes Mother I will call you when I get done. Byee!" I shut the door and set off towards the sleek glass doors of the old brick building in front of me

As I reach them, I pause and stare at my reflection. Only now do my nerves actually get to my head. I have two options. A: go in to these doors and face rejection or acceptance, I have a fifty-fifty chance of either. Or B: run screaming after my mother's car and face neither. Rejection or acceptance, or surrender. Rejection or acceptance, or surrender. My parents spent a lot of time securing me a audition spot here. It would be a shame to waste all that effort. On the other hand, I don't know if I can stomach the anxiety. Right now, little monsters inside me are ripping my stomach into small shreds. Or at least, that's what it feels like.

I decide to enter.

Pushing open the door, cold air envelopes me and leaves condensation on the doors, it's so hot outside. My ears are instantly greeted with the sounds of talent, singing, dancing, instruments and who knows what else. Around me are kids in groups or alone, practicing their talents that they hope gets them into this school.

A shiny gold plaque to the right of the door proclaims this massive, wooden-walled room as Tully Great Hall. Chandeliers dangle from the ceiling and look like there's real jewels on them. Paintings that look like genuine Picassos and Monets hang on the walls. The floor is shiny white marble. A huge stained glass window on the left wall is of a mermaid on a rock, an obvious reference to the ocean coast nearby. The ceilings are so high that I have to tilt my head back all the way to see the ornate paintings. I feel like a mouse in this gigantic place. Which is saying something, since I am only fifteen-almost-sixteen and five-five.

Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Westlake Performing Arts High School, the most prestigious performing arts school in all of Washington state, quite possibly the entire West Coast. Alumni have made it onto Oscar-winning movies and have recording contracts with large musical incorporations. The minimum audition age is fifteen. And I, Nichole Evans, am about to audition to attend.

I weave my way through the crowd, to a table with a sign in front that says SIGN IN TO AUDITION HERE. Two young women, one with a disagreeable expression and the other with a cheerful grin, are sitting. I make my way closer, but before I get too near, I mentally go over my appearance. Black jeans, stone grey button down, black vest, dark red sneakers and a dark green knit beanie stretched over my shiny black curls. My guitar is slung over my back, held by a plain black strap. The key was to look confident, like I knew what I was doing. I muster up a confident smile that doesn't match my anxiety and approach the table.