“Sit on the stool,” Mr. Marcus’s voice cuts through the speakers, and I comply as I ease onto the chair. “For the background vocals, I want something soft and enchanting. It needs to feel real and have a breathy quality. Can you do that?”
My mouth moves, but no sound comes out. I’m being puton the spot, and I’ve never done this before.
“Focus, Rose.” Mr. Marcus instructs. “While you’re doing this, I need you to visualize something for me.”
“Okay,” I mumble.
“I want you to close your eyes and imagine something that makes you feel. It could be anything you’re passionate about, or a safe space. Anything that makes you feel something profound. Don’t focus on anything else but that place, and I want you to sing what feels natural.”
I close my eyes, a flurry of memories switching in the darkness. Everything makes me feel something, but I don’t think that’s what Mr. Marcus is searching for.
But it’s all I have.
A song, something heavy with a purring male voice, fills the booth, and I instantly pinpoint where there’s just something missing.
It doesn’t sound complete, and as my brain forces me into that dark space, the vocals flow from me, soft and raw. The anxiety of performing in front of someone melts away, and I settle into a space that I never knew existed.
A place where I have control.
With every soft note, the sound around me is heightened into perfection. It causes that dead weight in my limbs to lift as I pour my heart out in the booth. Flashes of every horrid thing ever said to me, every reminder of who I look like, every fucking fist pounded into my skin and hand that gripped my throat bleed into my melodic lift.
It’s a siren’s call—transforming this song into something spellbinding. It takes me away, turning the pain into something beautiful and haunting.
“That’s perfect, Rose!” Mr. Marcus praises over the speaker. “For this next part, I need you to draw the harmony out. Really get into it.”
“Dad!” Charlie’s voice cuts through, but I don’t stop as I follow through.
“Louder!” Mr. Marcus commands.
I hit a perfect high note, my voice flowing like a captivating symphony that draws attention to the background while still giving the main voice what it needs to shine. My distant harmony rises behind the male vocals—a ghostly choir that’s all mine.
As the song fades and my pitch quiets, there’s the sound of a fist slamming on the mixing board before the speaker crackles to life in the booth. “That’s what the fuck I’m talking about!” Mr. Marcus praises passionately. “You’re a natural, kid!”
I slowly open my eyes, the atmosphere surreal around me as I come back to the present. It’s disorienting, but I can’t help as a small smile tugs at the corners of my mouth.
My best friend looks stunned as she blinks at me. “Holy shit, Rose…”
Mr. Marcus has his hands tucked behind his head as he paces with a grin. “That was phenomenal! I haven’t heard vocals like that since…ever! You have the true makings of a god damned musician, Rose!”
I shift uncomfortably at the compliments that spill over the speaker, unsure of what to think of it all. I’ve been so scared to share this part of my life, and I just recorded background vocals for a song. That’s a major leap for someone with my level of performance anxiety.
And it was addictive.
The rush, the energy, the power.
I’ve never felt anything like it, and I wantmore.
I felt alive—like essence was breathed into my very lungs as I poured my heart out.
“Rose,” Mr. Marcus calls over the speaker, gaining my attention as he places his hands on the mixing board and stares at me with so much energy and fire that it makes my heart slam. “Listen to me, kid. You have a gift. Don’t waste it. If you don’t submit a portfolio to Juilliard, I’m doing it for you.”
“Dad!” Charlie hisses.
The music producer doesn’t listen to his daughter as he peers through me with a spark in his eyes. “Kid, you can eitherlet this life grab you by the fucking throat, or you can make it your bitch. Don’t let anything stand in your way, because I know you’re gonna go far.” He slaps a hand over the mixing board before turning on his heel. “I need to get this piece submitted, but I want to see that portfolio before the end of the week.”
Charlie’s lips thin as her father leaves. “Don’t listen to him. If you don’t want to—”
“I do,” I blurt, looking down at my intertwined fingers. Taking a leap is difficult when the odds are stacked against me at every turn, but I don’t want to spend the rest of my life wondering about the what-ifs. I don’t want to end up like my dad…“I really want to do this.”
