Rival (20 page)

THERE IS SOMETHING ABOUT A
moment like this, the breath just before a decision is announced, that makes every possibility real. In that moment, all options are open; you can choose whichever one you want, and it is yours.

Until you're told that it isn't.

That is where we stand now: ten singers from around the U.S., each one waiting for the possibilities to narrow until time starts moving forward again.

Brooke stands at one end of the stage and I stand at the other. An old man steps out, followed by three college girls carrying bouquets. He holds five checks in his hand, each of which is folded into a business-sized envelope. I focus on the checks, thinking about the diamond-filled casket in “The Jewel Song” that tempts a young girl into envisioning an easier, more glamorous life.

I don't want glamour, I don't want riches. All I want is help, and the man now addressing the audience holds enough in his hands to ease my troubles, if not erase them altogether.

He talks about the new recital hall, about the fiftieth anniversary, about maddening, meaningless things so that I start to tune him out. And then, cruelly quick, he starts to announce the winners.

Fifth place goes to a baritone from Kentucky. Fourth to a soprano from Oregon. I pray not to hear my own name, but in doing so I fear I've harnessed a possibility—one I didn't want.

“Third place: From Lake Champion, Minnesota—Miss Kathryn Pease.”

A bouquet is thrust into my arms, along with an envelope. I look down to see
$5,000
written across it in blue ballpoint ink just as I hear my father shout from the audience, “Brava!”

Tears of disappointment spring into my eyes and my face burns with the sting of failure. I'm surprised, though, to find another emotion underneath: relief, and beyond that, something I never expected—a whole new set of possibilities stretching out before me. There will be no box of jewels, no twenty-five-thousand-dollar check to make it all easier; I will have to explore each possibility myself, then make happen the ones that I
choose instead of waiting for someone—or something—to do it for me.

Cradling my flowers, I hold back the tears and look for Brooke. She stands at the end of the row with her eyes closed, and for the first time since I've known her I see fear on her face. A different energy emanates from her now: a want so raw that I am embarrassed to have noticed it.

Suddenly another possibility comes to me: What if Brooke doesn't place at all? What if my little win turns out to be a victory over her?

The second-place winner is announced; Brooke winces. A few months ago I would have enjoyed the idea of hurting her but now, with the prospect so close, I find no satisfaction in it. All I really wanted was the money, and if I can't have that, then I don't care who wins.

Actually, that's not true; in this moment, I care very much.

I find myself sending out an energy of my own, focusing on the last envelope in the old man's hand as if I can affect what is written there. There are six singers left—six possibilities remaining. If prayer can pluck out one and crystallize it, then I am determined to make that happen.

“First place: The winner of the Fiftieth Annual Blackmore Young Artists' Festival…”

Let it be…
, I think, concentrating with everything I have.
Let it be her….

“…Miss Brooke Lynne Dempsey.”

Brooke opens her eyes slowly, nodding as if to absorb the weight of what this means, as the giant first-place bouquet is placed in her arms. I join the applause, but not before wiping tears from my cheeks.

I watch as, arms filled with lilies, Brooke begins to make her way along the line of other competitors. She truly is beautiful, in a way that high school guys could never appreciate; but someday, somebody will see her for what she really is—an incredible and incredibly talented girl—and then she'll never go dateless again.

When she reaches me, she stops. I raise my arms because I'm not sure what else to do, and she leans in for the hug.

“Hey,” she says into my ear. “I'm sorry.”

“No, I'm really happy for you.” I let her go and try to show with my eyes that I really mean it. “You deserve this.”

One of the college students comes over and puts her arm behind Brooke, trying to nudge her faster down the line and toward a group of important-looking people waiting in the wings.

“I don't know what we're doing after this,” she tells me, trying to hang back. “Maybe dinner at the coffee
shop. I'm starving. See you there?”

“Sure,” I say, and then she's moved on. As I watch her turn and bow to the audience, I know that the long story isn't about the two of us anymore.

That story is over. It's time to start a new one—a story all my own.

It's amazing how many people it takes to see one little book to publication. I am eternally grateful to:

 

My agent, Holly Root, for believing in me and refusing to give up.

My editor, Erica Sussman, for taking my story under her wing and giving it the chance to succeed. Her spot-on revision notes didn't hurt, either!

All of my awesome friends, both online and in real life, including my buddies at LiveJournal, the members of the teenlitauthors group, The Tenners, The Elevensies, and my fellow debuts at 2K11.

The many, many talented writers who read
Rival
and helped make it better. I was honored to get feedback and encouragement from Sara Zarr, Lauren Barnholdt, Mandy Hubbard, L. K. Madigan, April Henry, Melodye Shore, Lisa Donnelly, Dorothy Crane Imm, and DeAnn
Marie O'Toole. Special thanks to Mary Pleiss and Darcy Vance, who really “got” this story and gave it a little extra love along the way.

Jody Feldman, for giving my music competition a prettier name.

Teresa Buchholz and James Bagwell, for helping me get the music references just right.

My dad, who always made me feel taken care of, my mom the English teacher, who had me reading Shakespeare and watching
Masterpiece Theatre
in grade school, and my sister, who dragged me away from the computer once a month to go “fashion bashin'” at the ballet.

 

Most important, thank you, thank you, thank you to my wonderful husband, who gave me the time, space, and support to write, and who never once referred to my book as “a hobby.” I love you with all my heart.

SARA BENNETT WEALER
grew up in Manhattan, Kansas (the “Little Apple”), where she sang with the show choir and wrote for her high school newspaper. She majored in voice at the University of Kansas before deciding she had no business trying to become an opera singer.

Sara now lives in Cincinnati with her husband and two daughters, and she still sings when her schedule allows. You can visit Sara online at www.sarabennettwealer.com.

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Jacket art © 2011 by Winifred Wu

Jacket design by Torborg Davern