Unfiltered

by Payge Galvin

  She looks at something on her clipboard and leans over to speak to the man next to her. I can’t seem to swallow around the lump in my throat. “You right there. Thank you.”

  I look up and see her pointing directly at me. My vision blurs for a second, and I feel sweat breaking out on my forehead. That’s it. After all this time, that’s it. I thought I had what it took, but I was wrong. I take a couple of shaky steps toward the door when I hear her call me back.

  “Not you in the black shirt! You…yes, you in the red. Thank you.”

  I look at the people behind the table, and one of the guys motions me back to the dwindling group in front of him. I feel myself exhale. I’m not done yet. After a few more dismissals there are only two of us standing in front of them—me and a girl in a short, plaid skirt.

  “Thank you to you both. You did great. You’re going to follow this woman to the official green room where you’re going to wait for your turn at the next round of producers. If you get through that, you’re going to do an on-camera audition in front of the judges. Any questions?”

  All I can do is shake my head and say a quick “thank you” before we’re led out past the curtains and into an empty hallway. “Guys go here,” the assistant says, holding a door open for me.

  “Thanks,” I say, and walk into a room with about twenty or thirty other guys, some sprawled on the floor, some sitting in chairs, most with their eyes closed and headphones clamped to their ears. There’s some bottled water set up on a table in the corner so I go and grab one.

  “God I wish this was a beer,” a guy next to me says as he opens his bottle.

  “You’re not kidding,” I say, taking a drink. I’ve never been so thirsty in my life.

  “I’m Sam,” he says, holding out his hand. He’s about my height, maybe a year or two older with short blond hair. He kind of looks like he belongs on American Voice.

  “Dillon,” I say, taking it. I look around at the rest of the people in the room. “So, what happens next?”

  “Pretty much the same thing,” he says. “But in front of a new batch of producers. I got through to the second round last year in Kansas City before I was given the big ‘thank you.’”

  “Wow,” I say. “This is my first time.” I suddenly feel like such a newbie.

  “I’m going all the way this year,” he says.

  “That would be cool.” I don’t know what else to say.

  A woman walks through a door on the opposite side of the room and a stillness comes over the whole place as she starts calling out names. “That’s me,” Sam says, tossing his bottle into a trash can.

  “Good luck,” I say.

  “Thanks. You too,” he says, as he starts walking away. “Hey,” he says, turning around. “Don’t let them see that you’re nervous. They hate it when you’re nervous in front of the cameras.”

  “Okay,” I say as I watch him disappear out the door with a small group of guys.

  I sit in one of the chairs that’s scattered around the room and try to text Savannah but there’s no service wherever we are in the arena. I wonder how she’s doing, if she’s sitting in a room just like this one full of girls stressing about what she’s singing next. God, I hope she is.

  After an hour, it’s my turn, and I line up with four other guys as we’re led through the hallways somewhere in the middle of the arena. The assistant opens a door, and we file into a room with a table full of strangers at the head.

  “Good afternoon gentlemen,” a guy in a white shirt says to us. “You’re here because someone out there saw something in you that’s special. This is season five of American Voice. We’re looking for the one person who can make all of America forget that there were four other seasons of this show. The one who can capture the hearts of the entire world and go on to a career that is worthy of American Voice. Do you think you can be that singer?”

  “Yes, sir!” we say in unison.

  “Terrific,” he says in a slightly bored voice, tapping a stack of papers together. “First, we want to hear you sing as a group. Then we’ll do it individually. The first song is “I Believe I Can Fly.’”

  I exhale. Not my favorite song, but definitely in my range. The producers count off the beats, and we launch into the song. I watch them as I start to sing, but that’s making me more nervous, so I close my eyes and surrender myself to the music. They let us get through the whole song without stopping, which surprises me a little.

  “Great,” one of the guys says, nodding. He looks down at the clipboard in front of him. “Now Dillon Varga.”

  Holy crap. I have to go first. “Yes. That’s me.” I can’t believe my voice is as steady as it sounds.

  “Great,” he says again with a smile. “How about ‘Harder to Breathe’ by Maroon 5?”

  Shit. Adam Levine has a much higher voice than I do, but I can’t say no. I’ll just have to try it in a lower key. I get as far as finishing the first chorus when he holds up one hand. “Thank you,” he says and they all scribble something on their clipboards. I can feel the panic rising inside—unless I come up with something amazing, I’m done.

  “Can I try something else?” I say, my heart pounding so loud I can barely hear myself talk. I know you’re not supposed to do this, but right now, I have nothing to lose.

  The woman glances at the others and then looks at me. “Sure. What did you have in mind?”

  I try to run through all of the songs in my head, the ones I’m good at, the ones I know will make an impression, but there’s only one I can think of right now. “How about ‘Beautiful Day’ by U2?”

  There’s a beat as she considers it, and I do my best not to look like I’m nervous. Like my whole life isn’t hanging on this one moment. “That sounds good. Whenever you’re ready.”

  I can feel the other contestants moving around me, but I block it all out as I hear the opening bars of the song in my head and open my mouth to sing the first notes. I can hear the silence that follows the first few bars and open my eyes to really sell the song to them, feeling like I’m soaring with the high notes and holding them for longer than I thought possible. The producers let me get all the way to the end and when I’m done, there’s silence in the room.

  “Thank you Dillon,” she says quietly, sharing a smile with the rest of the producers.

  “Thank you,” I say. I have no idea how I did, I can’t read a thing from their faces.

  “Can I give you some advice?” she says.

  “Yes ma’am.” The air is so thick in the room I can barely breathe.

  She leans slightly over the table in front of her and tilts her head at me. “That’s the song you should sing for the judges.”

  Chapter 5

  Savannah

  “Good to see you today,” Gavin Holloway says, glancing at the phone on the table in front of him. He looks back up at me. “What’s your name, dear?”

  I walk to the center of the room and stand on the blue tape just like they told me. There are three different cameras all around the audition room, but I do my best to ignore them.“Savannah. Savannah Miller.”

  Gavin scowls a little, but I remind myself not to take it personally. He scowls at everyone. Even the most amazing singers barely get a grunt of appreciation out of him on the show.

  “So, Savannah,” Natalie Greer says from her place at the table. “What makes you think you could be the next great American Voice?”

  “Up until this morning, I didn’t think I could. Until my friend Dillon forced me to audition,” I answer honestly.

  They all laugh a little, and I try not to focus on the fact that I’m face to face with some of the biggest talent in the industry. I have no idea what Gavin really does aside from being a snarky celebrity judge, but the last time I saw Natalie Greer on TV was at the Grammys a couple of months ago, singing her mega-platinum hit. Next to her is Jake Cutler who hits the top ten of the Billboard charts every time he opens his mouth, and then there’s Kurt Nelson, the winner of American Voice from the f
irst season. Not only did he score a number one album off the show, but I think he’s up for an Oscar for that film he did about gangsters in the 1930s. And now they’re all watching me, expecting me to say something that’s not completely stupid.

  “But now that I’m here, I think Dillon was right,” I say. “That all of us were put here to do something specific, something amazing. And this is my shot at doing that.”

  They nod, and Kurt focuses his megawatt smile on me. “So what are you going to sing for us today?”

  “I’m going to sing ‘Who Knew’ by Pink.” I had that song on repeat into my headphones the year it came out. The year I thought I’d never get over.

  Gavin sits back in his chair and chews on a pen. “Interesting choice.”

  Natalie shoots him a look and then turns back to me with a smile. “Whenever you’re ready.”

  I clear my head and try not to think about the judges, or the cameras, or what’s going to happen in the next few minutes. I try to focus only on Ty and how I felt that horrible year. He was deep into it our last year of high school, I knew that, but I never thought that it would take him away forever. Just like in the song, I thought we’d stay together. As I count the beats in my head and start singing, I think about the last time we were together at that party in the apartment complex, the one that had the pool all lit up right in the middle of it. About how he held my hand and kissed my neck and told me he loved me. And that if anyone had told me that night that it would be our last one together, I’d have said they were crazy. This was forever. We both agreed. But heroin doesn’t care what your plans are. It doesn’t care about who you love. It only cares about who loves the dope and how they can be destroyed by the sharp stab of a needle into a vein.

  I don’t even realize that there are tears in my eyes until I’m done and blinking them back in front of the judges. I expected any second that I was going to be interrupted, that Gavin was going to yawn and wave his hand in the air in that bored, annoying way he has. But he didn’t.

  “That was good,” Kurt says, nodding.

  “I get the feeling that there’s more behind the song than what we’re hearing,” Natalie says, her eyes kind on me. “That kind of passion, that kind of depth is exactly what we’re looking for.”

  “I loved it,” Jake says. I’d almost forgotten that he has a British accent, making those three words sound extra special. I try not to get my hopes up. I saw all of those people out there today. How am I better than any of them?

  All three of them turn to Gavin. Anyone who’s watched even one episode knows that if he doesn’t agree, you don’t get through. “Well,” he says, tapping the pen on the table. “It wasn’t the worst thing I’ve heard today.”

  Natalie rolls her eyes and looks back at me. “I vote yes.”

  My heart skips a beat. Yes. She said yes.

  “Me too,” Jake says.

  “It’s a yes from me,” Kurt agrees.

  This is unbelievable. It feels as if all the air has been sucked out of the room as Gavin keeps his head bent, typing something into his phone. He suddenly notices the silence and glances around at our expectant faces. “Oh, right.” He waves a hand in dismissal. “Why not? Welcome to Las Vegas.”

  My hands fly to my mouth as I realize what just happened. I got on the show. I got on American Voice!

  “Thank you,” I manage, as the assistant comes to lead me out. “Thank you so much.”

  The guy greets me with a big smile. “Congratulations!” he says, holding the door open. “There’s going to be a camera crew in the lobby to get a reaction shot and a short interview.” He hands me a shiny piece of paper. “This is your ticket to the show. It’s just symbolic, but it’s an American Voice tradition. You should keep that—there weren’t many of those given out today.”

  Not many. “Did Dillon get in? Did you see a guy named Dillon come through here—tall, brown hair?”

  The guy shrugs. “I don’t know.”

  We walk a few steps down a carpeted hallway, but all I can think of is Dillon. He has to make it. I’m not doing this without him. The assistant swings an unmarked door open, and I’m faced with a camera and a glaring light.

  “So how does it feel to make it on the show?” the guy asks.

  “It’s great,” I say, but I’m totally distracted, scanning the people in the lobby for Dillon. I start to panic and put a hand on the phone in my pocket, wondering if I have service yet. I have to talk to him. The interviewer is saying something, but I can’t focus on anything right now. I have to know.

  And then I see him. Standing off to the side against the wall, his dark eyes on me. He doesn’t say anything, just grins in that way he has and slowly raises his hand. In it is a shiny ticket just like the one I’m holding.

  “You got in?!?” I shout, blowing by the cameraman and into Dillon’s arms. I hit him so hard that he stumbles backward, and we both crash to the floor, laughing with relief.

  “We got in!” he shouts, flat on his back on the carpeted floor, holding the ticket above his head. “Whoo!”

  Dillon folds his arms around me and holds me tight, and I know we must look ridiculous wrapped up in each other on the floor in the middle of the lobby, but I don’t care.

  It takes a minute to realize the light is on us.

  “Um, if we could interrupt,” the interviewer says, but there’s a smile on his face. “We’d like to get a few words on how you both feel right now?”

  ***

  “Ugh,” I say, picking the little black balls off my toast. “How can people like this stuff?”

  “It’s caviar,” Dillon says, scooping some more onto the little white spoon. “People like it because it costs an assload of money.”

  “Well you can have mine.” I grab my glass of wine to rinse the fishy taste out of my mouth.

  “Do I get your lobster too?” he asks, his fork hovering above my plate.

  “Um…no,” I say, smacking his hand.

  Dillon turns around in his chair to take in the view of the big windows behind him. We’re in a restaurant on about the millionth floor of one of the hotels, and the lights of the strip are like diamonds in the distance. “Can you fucking believe this day?” he says, taking another swig of champagne.

  “It’s insane,” I agree.

  “There aren’t many moments in life where your dreams actually come true,” he says, running a hand through his hair. He’s been nothing but energy since we got out of the arena.

  My phone buzzes, and I check the call. It’s my sister again. Ever since I called my parents, the phone has been ringing off the hook with relatives and friends wanting to know all the details. I look down at Dillon’s phone on the table. It hasn’t rung once.

  “More congratulations?” he asks, and pours more for us both from the bottle. I’m a little buzzed, but it looks like Dillon is halfway to drunk. Not that I blame him.

  “Yeah,” I say, putting the phone away. “It’ll keep.”

  “You know it’s going to get crazier, right? The producers are going to keep track of who you call, what you say, who you’re hanging out with.”

  “Really? I didn’t realize you’d signed me up for Miss Hildebrande’s Summer Camp for Girls.”

  “Didn’t you read any of the paperwork you signed?”

  I shrug. “Some of it. When are we supposed to move?”

  “Sometime in the next few days. They’ll put us up in another hotel—take up the whole floor. Boys on one side, girls on the other. All very chaste and supervised.” Dillon downs the rest of his champagne and signals the waiter for another bottle. “We’re going to be so busy that there won’t be time for much else. Rehearsals from early in the morning until after dinner. No driving. No outings unless they’re pre-approved.”

  “What the heck have you gotten me into?”

  Dillon approves the bottle that the waiter brings. “Only the best fucking ride of your life,” he says, clinking our glasses.

  By the time we stumble out of the
restaurant it’s after midnight, and Dillon is seriously drunk.

  “Where are we supposed to be?” he asks, turning around on the sidewalk, the reflection of millions of neon lights in his eyes.

  “I think we should go back to our hotel,” I tell him.

  He puts one arm around my shoulder. “But we’re in Vegas! Bright lights! Gambling! Let’s go blow some money on craps.”

  I laugh at him. “Do you even know how to play craps?”

  “No. But I know how to lose money. How hard can it be?”

  “We’ve been up since two a.m.,” I say, hailing a cab with my free hand. “Let’s lose money tomorrow after a good night sleep.” I shove him into the open car door and pile in after him, giving the cabbie the name of our hotel.

  Dillon leans forward in the cab until his mouth is right by the cabbie’s ear. “Do you know who you have in this cab?” he asks. “Savannah Miller, that’s who. This gorgeous woman just got a spot on American Voice.” He sits back hard against the seat as the cabbie makes a U-turn. “And she’s going to win it too. Mark my words.”

  I see the cabbie’s eyes on me in the rearview mirror. “Is that true?”

  I smile, already embarrassed. “The getting on the show part. Not necessarily the winning part.” I nod to Dillon. “He did too.”

  “Savannah, you have to believe,” Dillon says, his eyes serious, but his words slurring in his mouth. “You have to get up there and know that you belong.” He grabs my hand and we watch the lights race by the windows. Well, he watches the lights. I’m too focused on where our hands our touching.

  “Here we are,” the cabbie says, pulling into the circular driveway. Dillon grabs a crumpled bill out of his pocket and tries to smooth it out before handing it over. The cabbie sticks his head out of the window as we stumble out of the car. “Hey—good luck!”

  “Thanks,” I call back, trying to steer Dillon through the revolving doors.

  He tries for a second go-round, but I guide him firmly toward the elevators. There’s a crowd in the elevator as I pull out my room key and press our floor. Dillon doesn’t say anything, just stands in the middle of the car swaying slightly and humming the theme song from American Voice quietly under his breath. He glances up and grins at me, and I can’t help but laugh.