The stage lights hit Amara like a physical force, white hot, blinding, so bright she couldn't see past the first few rows of the audience, but she could hear them. The whisper of programs rustling, the shuffle of feet, a few scattered laughs that cut off quickly, nervously. She stood in the wings waiting for her queue, watching the contestant before her finish. A girl named Stephanie, eighteen, wearing a dress covered in sequins that caught the light like fish scales. She'd just belted out a Whitney Houston song, hitting every note with technical precision.
The audience applauded enthusiastically. Stephanie walked off stage, glowing, accepting congratulations from the other contestants, waiting backstage. She walked right past Amara without a glance. Philip Grayson appeared at Amara's elbow, clipboard in hand, that same smirk on his face. "You're up next, subway girl," he said quietly, just loud enough for her to hear.
"Try not to embarrass yourself too badly. Remember, you're here to make the real talent look good." Amara said nothing, just adjusted the guitar strap on her shoulder. A production assistant, not Chelsea. Someone else clipped a small microphone to the collar of her hoodie. "This is a lavalier mic," she said, her voice professionally cheerful.
"It'll pick up your voice, so you don't need to project too much. Just sing naturally." Amara almost laughed. The microphone wouldn't matter. She knew exactly what was about to happen. Daniel had warned her that he couldn't stop them without blowing the whole plan.
This part she had to handle alone. The host's artificially enthusiastic voice boomed over the speakers. "And now, ladies and gentlemen, we have a very special performance tonight. please welcome to the stage Amara Johnson." The applause was polite, thin, scattered, not hostile, just indifferent.
Amara walked onto the stage. The audience sat in tiered rows, maybe 500 people total. Their faces were reduced to shadows by the brutal stage lighting, but she could feel their eyes on her cataloging her faded jeans, her old sneakers with the hole near the toe, the guitar held together with silver duct tape. She could see the judge's panel off to the left. Three people—two men and a woman—all with expensive haircuts and practiced expressions of interest. She reached center stage, positioned herself in front of the microphone stand, took a breath.
The host, a man in his 40s with television-perfect hair and a smile that didn't reach his eyes, walked over to her. "Amara, thanks so much for being here tonight. This is exciting, isn't it?" "Yes, sir," she said into the microphone. "Why don't you tell our audience a little bit about yourself, where you're from, what brings you here tonight?" This was the moment. She could play it safe, give them what they expected, a sob story they could pity and forget, or she could do what her grandmother taught her.
She looked past the host, past the judges, out into the darkness where millions of people were watching. "My name is Amara Loretta Johnson," she said clearly. "I'm 17 years old. For the last 3 years, I've been living on the streets of New York City, performing in subway stations." A murmur ran through the audience. Uncomfortable.
She saw a few people shift in their seats. I want to dedicate this song to my grandmother, Loretta Hayes. She was one of the first black women to graduate from Juilliard's composition program. She taught me that music doesn't have a color, doesn't have a social class, doesn't have an address. It just is.
It belongs to everyone who needs it. The host's smile had frozen on his face. He clearly hadn't expected that. That's uh that's very He struggled for a word. Inspiring.