Page 6 of Grown

A roar of applause bursts from inside the auditorium, bombarding the hectic lobby of the Beacon Theatre.

“I thought you said this was a small competition,” Mom exclaims behind me, gaping at the massiveMUSIC LIVE: AUDITIONSbanner.

“Um, yeah, I thought so too,” I mutter, noting theLIVEtaping sign and camera lights.

“Wait, Chanty... is thisMusic LIVE? The one on BET?”

I pretend not to hear her as we make our way to the registration table with minutes to spare.

“Hi. Enchanted Jones,” I say out of breath. “I’m here for the auditions.”

“You’re lucky. We were just about to shut it down. Are you registered?”

“Yes, I... uh, did it online.”

Mom grunts behind me as the lady slides her finger down the chart.

“Got you! OK. Here’s your number. You have your track ready?”

“Yup, right here,” I say, waving my iPhone.

“Cool. Now, when they call your name, hand your ballot to the judges and take the stage. Go ahead. Good luck!”

“Thanks,” I say, turning to Mom, her arms crossed. I know I’m busted, but I ignore her eye daggers. At the end of the night, it’ll all be worth it; I know it.

Inside, the theater is jammed with people. The purple and white stage lights swim across a wave of faces. Music beats through my chest. I grab Mom’s hand, surveying the scene and finding two empty red velvet seats in the back.

Onstage, a girl with long extensions is singing—really, slaughtering—Destiny’s Child’s “Cater 2 U,” the crowd booing her. A camera projects her face on massive screens as she struggles to maintain a brave smile.

Music LIVEis BET’s version ofAmerican Idol. A three-round singing competition. The grand prize: ten thousand dollars. If I win, it’ll be enough to pay for real studio time to record my album. Even if I don’t win, it’s an opportunity to benoticed by record labels, managers, and A&R reps. All a bigif, but better than nothing.

What I didn’t know was that the auditions were open to the public. Gab left out that crucial detail.

Everyone, including other contestants, is dressed in an array of party clothes and heels. I gulp.

“Be right back,” I say to Mom, running off before she can ask questions.

In the bathroom, I struggle with Gab’s mascara and eyeliner, thread her gold bamboo hoop earrings, add a touch of pink to my lips, and glide a shaky hand down my scalp. I take a quick selfie and send it to Gab.

This pink looks horrible on me.

It’s camera-ready pink! You cute!

Back at my seat, Mom looks me over.

“Um, did they call me yet?”

“No,” Mom says, tone clipped, and I try not to wish Grandma was here instead.

I recognize the profile of Richie Price at the table facing the stage. He’s a big-time music producer–turned–TV director, or something. I read his bio on the website. Beside him, Melissa Short, a music executive from RCA. Beside her, Don Michael, singer.

“OK. Next up, Amber B. Come on down, Amber!”

The crowd cheers as a girl who looks about my age makes her way to the stage. She waves at the judges and struts center stage.

“Hi, sweetheart,” Richie says.

“Hi!” she chirps, lush golden curls bouncing around her heart-shaped face.