My mind races and I try to remind myself of what Lee said.Don’t attach yourself to the outcome.
“I’m just grateful to be here at the Grammys, to be honest. It’s an honor to be picking up my first nominations after ten years in this business.”
“Thank you,” Connie says, and then quickly ushers me on to the next reporter.
By the time we make our way to the end of the red carpet, I feel exhausted. My family leaves me once we get a group picture to make their way to their seats on the lower tier. They show me their row and seat numbers so I can keep an eye out for them.
“You okay?” Christopher asks, dusting something off my blazer.
His suit is the same one he wore the day of his sister’s wedding.
Rob hovers behind us, protecting us from the people passing who try to get my attention.
“Yeah, just a little faint. That’s all.”
I wipe the sweat from my forehead as Christopher hands over his Red Bull.
“Here take this. I can’t have my sugar daddy lose all his sugar now can I?”
Christopher laughs and I hug him.
“What would I do without you?”
“Five minutes until the show commences,” a voice over a speaker above us announces. People start to flood the door and onto the floor of the arena.
“Are you sure you don’t want to sit next to me? John doesn’t mind swapping.”
Christopher takes my hand in his.
“This is your night. Maybe next year.” He quickly pulls his hand away as Rob turns, and slides it into his trousers to retrieve something. “I nearly forgot. I got this for you tonight for good luck.”
He hands over a black guitar pic.
The wordsBetty x Sk8er Boiare written in white on both sides.
“You’re gonna make me cry.”
I look up to stop the tears from coming out. I don’t want my makeup to run just before the broadcast starts. No one needs to see me as a hot blubbering mess.
“Go knock ’em dead,” Christopher says, and gives me one last hug before heading off to join my family.
I don’t know if it’s the Red Bull, the three cups of coffee I’ve had, or my nerves, but the palpitations in my chest right now make me feel like I’m about to keel over. The cameraman is locked onto a shot of me, giving me no space to hide.
Of the four nominations, I know this category is the best shot I have of winning a Grammy. The other three, for album, song, and record of the year, are all pretty much guaranteed to go to one of the other nominations. But this category feels like I could get my hands on the golden gramophone.
“And the winner for best pop solo performance goes to…” Mariah Carey slowly opens up the envelope onstage. “Alexander Morgan,My Anchor.”
John grabs my arms and shakes me, then pulls me in for a hug.
My mind goes blank as I stand up. The room bursts into applause. Other artists and industry people hug and pat me on the back as I make my way up to the stage, eager to get my hands on the award I’ve dreamed of for nearly twenty years, from the hands of an artist I’ve admired from even before then.
“I don’t even know what to say,” I start as the audience starts to settle down.
I instantly forget all my ideas from ten minutes ago. I look up to see Christopher standing next to my parents, who wave vigorously. Harrison is filming away on his phone.
“I want to thank Avril Lavigne for this award. I’m just a skater boy who got lucky. Who had a dream and pursued it, despite all the odds. Despite all the obstacles I’ve faced over the years. And let me tell you, there’s been a few this past year.”
The crowd thankfully laughs with me, and not at me, like in my nightmares.
