Damn! I hope this whole trip goes up in blue flames! My phone? Smashed to bits!
"Sorry, Grace, no chance to call when I land!"Barely made it onto the plane! And then some fat guy dumped his Americano all over my white hoodie—couldn't squeeze past him in the aisle!
Thank God it wasn't boiling water, otherwise I would have skipped the drying stage and gone straight from the airport to the emergency room with a third degree burn on my chest.
Damn!
Damn, damn, damn!
I dropped my bag to the floor, gently leaned my Gibson against the wall, put my hands on my hips, and took a deep breath.
"Well, hello, Hollywood."
Los Angeles greeted me with sunshine. A digital scoreboard above one of the airport's exits showed a pleasant temperature of fifteen degrees Celsius.
But it was snowing in New York yesterday.… I love the cold. The heat? Not so much.
I shrugged off my jacket and stuffed it into my bag. Didn't bring much clothes with me anyway, and if I want to change out of my coffee-ruined hoodie, I'll have to waste time hunting down a bathroom. And time is tight. It's just past one in the afternoon. The first round of auditions lasts two days, starts at three, and if I don't make it today, I'll have to figure out where to spend the night.
No, I have to do it today. There are no other options.
Anyone who receives a "ticket" to the next round of the competition will receive a place in the hostel. I can only imagine what a crowd will gather!
I pulled out my battered old wallet. Not that I'm too cheap to buy a new one—it's just, Derek Wilby's autograph is worth more than any new wallet in the world! I'm hanging on to this thing until I die.
Counted my cash—not much, but it'll have to cover a cab.
Fished a crumpled printout from my back pocket:
"Victory Records, an independent California record label, together with South Korea's R.Q. Entertainment, announces open auditions for a brand-new international rock group!
Anyone aged 18 and over can apply!
Are you talented, original, ambitious, and confident? Come prove it to us!"
...Blah blah blah...
"Dear friends! Victory Records has always been famous for its unique approach to the music industry! We don't do 'manufactured stars'—we have only real talent! Thanks to our friends in Seoul, we're breaking boundaries, because music knows no borders!
Our plans are huge, and we're sure that with YOUR help, one more star will rise to the top!
The search for the new band will be held as part of the reality show 'Rock Without Borders'!
ANYONE CAN FIGHT FOR A SPOT!
STAGES:
12/09 – First round. Starts at 3:00 PM
12/10 – Second round. Starts at 2:00 PM
Location: Warner Grand Theater
San Pedro, Los Angeles, CA, USA."
I'd heard plenty about Victory Records, but South Korea? Not a clue, except that those guys are conservative as hell.
How did these two even end up working together?
I shoved the printout back into my bag. Time to move.
I slung my guitar over my shoulder and, just as I was about to head out, my eyes landed on a billboard right above me—and I froze.
Why do these faces with guitars seem so familiar to me?
Wait... Isn't that the macho-mannered jerk in the middle who smashed my phone earlier? Oh, hell, yes. It's him. She's... Shi... Shane!
And he, as I thought, is not dark-haired - his hair is dyed a light ash color. His sides and temples are shaved short, and his long hair is combed back. And that smug, divine look.... His eyes are as dark as the devil's.
I couldn't help but grimace.
And what the hell is this band—Fallen Bliss? If these guys play rock, how come I've never heard of them? And they've already got an army of fangirls here in New York… Where did they even come from? How did all the cool stuff in the music world pass me by? Or maybe… it's not that cool after all?
And here's the guy who helped me up from the floor. The profile of this brunette, his hair was in perfect disarray... Well, they're damn good.
Nose with a slight bump. Tense jaw. Strong cheekbones. Slender neck with black tattoos... oh...
I finally managed to tear my eyes away.
Just as expected, the streets in front of the Warner Grand Theater were packed. The cab had to stop at the next building over to keep from blocking traffic.
I paid the driver and hopped out into the sunshine, the warmth spreading over my skin. A cool breeze tossed my hair up toward the cloudless sky, a timely reminder that I needed to find a mirror and pull myself together before the audition. My long hair had always been impossible, but I hated tying it back—or worse, braiding it.
I was nervous.
I've never been here before, but Mom said that's where Dad went when he left us. I was almost three years old at the time.
I had never been to Los Angeles before, but my mom said that this was the city my father went to when he left us; I was almost three years old at the time.
No one's heard from my dad since.
Monica—my mom—had me when she was seventeen and became the end of my dad's so-called talent (if there ever was any).
Dad's parents insisted on the wedding. On Mom's side... well, she grew up in an orphanage and there was no one to object.
I know Dad pushed for her to end the pregnancy—he was barely nineteen himself—but Monica flat-out refused, threatening to take him to court if he bailed. So… things between them never really worked out from the start.
Dad's dream to be famous always came first. And Mom? Maybe she loved him too much, or thought she did, or maybe she was just scared of being left alone with a kid. Whatever the reason, she put up with all his crap… She never really told me the details.
How did I find out about all this? From her diary—the one I got along with a stack of old records, a vintage red cell phone, a few pieces of jewelry, and a modest bank account. That box of memories was handed to me by my dad's parents right before they sent me off to a temporary shelter. That's how I ended up in the U.S. foster system, shuffled around while they figured out what to do with "kids like me."
The first twelve months are kind of like a trial period, when some agency decides if you can adapt to your new world—a prep stage before adoption.
Apparently, I failed. Or maybe nobody wanted a ten-year-old girl who used to steal green permanent markers from the art room and dye her hair to the sound of AC/DC blasting from the speakers.
Good thing there are religious organizations with real, permanent homes for kids. That's where I grew up. And there, nobody stopped me from becoming who I am now.
And here I am, about to walk into the first real audition of my life. I mean, I've played enough gigs—clubs, parties, street corners—but an official audition, something this big? Never.
I guess believing in my own talent is the only thing I actually got from my old man. And I'm not even mad about that. As long as I'm not the only one who thinks I'm any good.
The scene outside the theater looked like a full-blown street show. I swear, half these people had to be buskers.
There were folks in Santa hats strumming guitars, pounding on drums, singing over each other, some dancing… Someone even brought spoons and was tapping out rhythms on the metal railings. Skateboards with Christmas lights rattled across the pavement, bikes popped up on their back wheels like they had springs for shocks. Camera crews set up their tripods.
An MTV van, decked out with a Santa in sunglasses and an electric guitar slung over his shoulder, was parked nearby.
Trying not to smile? Pointless.
This is California, baby!
A familiar punk rock tune was blasting from the speakers at the theater entrance. I hurried over.
First step: snag a round sticker with my number on it, just like everyone else, and find a bathroom so I could make myself look halfway decent.
Waiting in line for registration took nearly twenty minutes. When they handed me the big "322" sticker, it was pretty clear my audition wouldn't start for at least seven hours—if not tomorrow. Probably tomorrow. With this many people, I bet they'll have to add a third day to round one.
Great. What time did all these people get here?
Should've flown in yesterday, spent the night at the airport, and sprinted to the theater at sunrise to be one of the first in line.
I shifted my guitar more comfortably on my back and let out a loud breath, watching contestant number 49 give an interview. Judging by the big camera with a "Rock Without Borders" sticker on the side, that film crew definitely wasn't from any music channel. Looks like the reality show is officially rolling—and honestly, the show part is the only thing that really freaks me out.
The Warner Grand Theater lobby was absolutely massive—and ridiculously fancy. Golden ceilings soared so high I practically had to crane my neck backwards just to take it in. My eyes immediately landed on the buffet, packed to the brim; I'd slept through most of the flight and basically skipped breakfast.
I changed in the bathroom, swapping my ruined coffee-stained hoodie for a denim shirt. I shoved the hoodie in my bag for good—no way I'm tossing it—leaned over the gilded sink, and splashed water on my face.
No, I wasn't nervous about the audition. I was ready for anything—making it through or getting sent home. And if it's the latter, don't worry, I'm not about to do anything drastic.
Though, honestly, I've heard plenty of horror stories—maybe that's why there are two ambulances parked outside the theater. Everyone handles rejection differently.
But what's actually stressing me out is where I'll spend the night, how I'll get a ticket home, how I'll pay back what I owe, and how I'll call Grace so my damned cheeks will finally stop burning.
My reflection in the mirror wasn't exactly encouraging. Especially my eyes. The whites were bloodshot around dark green irises—classic sleep deprivation. And of course, I'd forgotten my eye drops at home, even though I'd been planning this trip for over a week. But hey, who ever remembers everything when they travel?
I'm no exception.
Night shift at the supermarket, morning coffee, quick shower, bag in hand, Gibson on my back, said goodbye to Grace, and ran straight to the airport. Who knows what tonight will bring...
Time to pull it together. Deep breath in. Slow breath out.
"Nervous?"—a bright laugh rang out behind me.
A tall, short-haired brunette in ripped jeans and a Red Hot Chili Peppers tee tucked into her waistband claimed the next sink—fixing her bold makeup.
"Not really," I replied, dabbing my face with a paper towel.
The girl flashed a wide grin, her bright blue eyes sparkling with mischief.
"Could've fooled me—you look nervous as hell."
"You're wrong."—I was in no mood for heart-to-hearts right now. I grabbed my stuff and headed for the door.
"Not from L.A., are you?"—the brunette called after me.
I turned, raising an eyebrow in confusion.
"Your skin," she smirked, "way too pale."
"I'm from New York."
"Mmm…"—her gaze swept over me, landing on my sticker. "Looks like you'll be here a while. I mean... "
"My number. I get it."
Contestant 109 stepped up and offered her hand, friendly enough.
"Dani."
"Tate," I said, shaking her hand.
"That beauty yours?"—she nodded toward my guitar.
"Who else's would it be?"
Dani kept smiling. And maybe in L.A., everyone who tries to act genuinely friendly somehow comes off the exact opposite — or maybe this girl wasn't genuine at all. Or… maybe it was just me: sleep deprivation, paranoia, and a bucketload of issues.
"You didn't hear?"—Dani kept grinning.
"Hear what?"
She nodded at my guitar again.
"In the first round, no instruments allowed. Just vocals. "
She gave my shoulder a gentle pat.
"By the way, awesome hair color!"—she winked playfully and zipped out of the bathroom, leaving me alone, looking like a complete idiot.
"Great… What am I supposed to do without my guitar?"
Time to rethink my whole plan.
They were calling twenty people at a time into the waiting area. From there, contestants went in one by one to face the judges.
Cameras and interviewers darted around, pausing every so often to ask someone how they were feeling about the big day.
Now even I was starting to get jittery…
It was like the event of the year! Christmas itself had been completely forgotten.
"Auditions! Rock band! Judges! Second round!"—those were the words flying from every corner.
I sat on the floor near the waiting room door, hugging my Gibson like an old friend, watching others warm up and racking my brain over what I'd even sing.
The last thing I wanted was to let go of my guitar. She's my confidence. She's my lucky charm. With her, I actually feel safe on stage. With her, I can give everything I've got.
But "baby" isn't coming with me.
Damn. If I want to show off my vocals, I'll have to pull off something that can outshine a killer guitar solo.
Not that I was stressing too much. I was pretty sure they wouldn't even get to my number today. I had a chill snack in the buffet—spent a couple bucks on a chocolate bar and some crackers (they were handing out water for free)—went back to my spot by the door, and by the time I finished eating, it was already dark outside. Nearly ten p.m., and honestly, the crowd hadn't thinned out much at all.
That's when they finally called number 322 in the last group.
Something just flew right out of me at that moment—probably my entire spirit.
On shaky legs, I got up from the floor and grabbed my stuff with trembling hands.
The waiting room was cramped, hung with mirrors, and brightly lit. It looked like a real locker room.
Assistants in identical bright yellow T-shirts with the words "Rock Without Borders" surrounded the last participants, telling everyone how to hold a microphone, how to achieve the best sound, and the like.
I didn't make a fuss, I just listened like a good little girl. Then I sat down on a padded chair, put headphones in my ears and frantically scrolled through my songs, trying to choose the one that fits perfectly.
My legs were shaking, my fingers were beating a nervous rhythm on the seat, and every muscle in my face—hell, my whole body—was screaming with tension.
"Number 322,"—the assistant guy smiled at me, pointing toward the far door.
I let out a shaky breath and stood up.
Well, my time has come.