You've got the look. He continued gesturing vaguely at her. The whole street thing. It's great for TV. Very authentic.
He said that last word like it tasted funny in his mouth. The viewers eat this stuff up. They'll watch you. They'll feel something. And then they'll watch the real singers and appreciate them even more.
You're the setup. Get it. Amara's fingers tightened on the guitar strap. "If I sing well," she said, forcing herself to keep her voice steady, "will you give me a real meal tonight?" Philip blinked. Then he laughed.
A big loud laugh that echoed off the walls. Oh, that's perfect. He turned to his assistant, a young woman with a tablet. Did you hear that? Write that down.
We can use that. He looked back at Amara, still grinning. "You're funny, kid." I like you. "I'm not joking," Amara said. His smile faded a little.
Look, sweetheart. We're not running a charity here. You'll get your 15 minutes. After that, you go back to wherever you came from. But hey, he shrugged.
There's craft services in the main hall. Maybe somebody leaves something behind. You never know. The assistant shifted uncomfortably beside him. Amara felt something hot rise in her chest.
Not anger. Not yet. Something sharper. She'd felt this before 3 years ago, standing outside a hospital while a nurse told her they couldn't do anything more without insurance. That same tightness in her throat. that same realization that to some people she was just a problem to be managed.
But this time was different. This time cameras were everywhere. "Okay," she said quietly. Philip raised an eyebrow. "Okay, that's it." "Yeah." Amara adjusted the guitar on her shoulder.
"I understand." He studied her for a moment longer, then shrugged. "Good. We go live in 2 hours. Don't be late." He walked past her, already forgetting she existed. The assistant lingered for half a second, her mouth opening like she wanted to say something.