# Chapter 4: The Audition
Monday came too fast.
I spent the morning in my usual routine—river bath, tree root toothbrush, careful inspection of my uniform for any stains or tears. The events from Saturday still clung to me like smoke, but I pushed them down, locked them away in the same mental compartment where I kept all my other pain.
Today wasn't about Mei or Uncle Chen or torn money.
Today was about the audition.
Jasmine had reminded me about it three times over the weekend—Friday after school, in the auditorium, open to anyone who wanted to participate in the spring showcase. Marcus and his crew would be there, along with the drama club, the dance team, and apparently half the school. It was Riverside High's biggest event of the year, the one time when the arts programs got real attention and funding.
And Coco wanted me to audition for a featured spot.
The thought made my stomach twist with anxiety and something else—something that felt dangerously like hope.
School dragged by in slow motion. In English, Mrs. Patterson discussed symbolism in *The Great Gatsby* while I stared out the window, mentally running through song choices. In Math, I barely registered the quadratic equations on the board, too busy worrying about whether my guitar was tuned properly. At lunch, I sat with Jasmine and Marcus, nodding along to their conversation while my mind was elsewhere.
"You're going to crush it," Jasmine said, nudging my arm. "I can tell you're nervous, but seriously, you have nothing to worry about."
"Easy for you to say," I muttered. "You're not the one performing."
"Actually, I am," she said with a grin. "I'm doing a dance piece. Contemporary, probably going to fall on my face, but whatever. At least we'll bomb together."
Marcus leaned across the table. "Dude, I heard your song at the club meeting. If you play that, you're basically guaranteed a spot. The judges aren't idiots."
"Who are the judges?" I asked.
"Principal Davidson, Ms. Reeves from the music department, and some guy from downtown—a talent scout or something. They bring in someone from outside the school to keep it fair." Marcus shrugged. "Just pretend they're not there. Play like you're busking."
I flinched at the word *busking*, the memory of Saturday flashing through my mind—Mei's cruel smile, Uncle Chen tearing money, the crowd dispersing.
"You okay?" Jasmine asked, concerned.
"Yeah. Just nervous."
She squeezed my shoulder. "You've got this, Kenny Rogers. And hey, worst case scenario, you don't get picked. It's not the end of the world."
But it felt like it might be.
Because this audition wasn't just about the showcase. It was about proving something—to myself, to the family that rejected me, to the universe that seemed determined to crush me.
It was about proving I was more than bad luck and broken pieces.
The auditorium was already packed when I arrived at 4 PM. Students filled the first few rows of seats, chatting and laughing, while others warmed up on stage—a girl practicing a monologue, a boy running through a magic trick, a group of dancers stretching in the wings.
The energy was electric, competitive, alive.
I clutched my guitar case and scanned the room for familiar faces. Coco and Mary were sitting in the third row, waving enthusiastically when they spotted me. Jasmine was backstage, stretching in her dance clothes. Marcus gave me a thumbs-up from his spot near the tech booth.
"Kenny!" Coco called out, gesturing for me to join them. "Come sit with us until they call your name."
I made my way down the aisle and slid into the seat beside them. Mary handed me a program—a photocopied sheet listing all the audition slots.
"You're number seventeen," she said. "Coco pulled some strings to get you in the second half. Better time slot, less pressure."
"More pressure," I corrected. "Everyone before me will set the bar."
"You'll exceed it," Coco said confidently. "Trust me."
The lights dimmed, and Principal Davidson stepped onto the stage. He was a tall man with graying hair and the kind of authoritative presence that made even the rowdiest students shut up.
"Good afternoon, everyone," he began. "Welcome to the spring showcase auditions. As you know, we have limited spots available, so the competition is steep. Give it your best, support your fellow students, and remember—this is about celebrating the arts, not tearing each other down."
He introduced the other judges: Ms. Reeves, a petite woman with kind eyes and a genuine smile, and Mr. Takahashi, a talent scout from a downtown agency who looked bored already, scrolling through his phone.
"Let's begin," Principal Davidson said. "First up, we have Emma Chen performing a classical piano piece."
The auditions started.
Emma played beautifully, her fingers flying across the keys. A sophomore did a stand-up comedy routine that got genuine laughs. The dance team performed a synchronized hip-hop number that had the audience clapping along. Each act was good—some great, some just okay—but all of them confident, polished, prepared.
I watched them all, my anxiety building with each performance.
What if I wasn't good enough? What if street performing had made me sloppy, unrefined? What if the judges took one look at me and saw exactly what Mei saw—a cursed kid who didn't belong?
"Number seventeen," the stage manager called. "Kenny Rogers."
My heart stopped.
Coco squeezed my hand. "Go show them what you've got."
I stood on shaking legs, grabbed my guitar case, and walked toward the stage. The auditorium felt massive suddenly—too many eyes, too many expectations. I climbed the steps, my shoes echoing on the wooden floor, and took my place center stage.
The lights were blinding. I couldn't see the audience anymore, just silhouettes and the vague shapes of the judges sitting at their table.
"Whenever you're ready," Principal Davidson said.
I set my guitar case down and pulled out my guitar. My hands were trembling as I slung the strap over my shoulder. I checked the tuning, stalling for time, trying to steady my breathing.
*You have a gift, Kenny.*
Grandma's voice, clear as day, echoing in my mind.
I closed my eyes and found the opening chord.
"This is an original song," I said into the microphone, my voice steadier than I felt. "It's called 'Still Here.'"
And then I started playing.
The first notes were soft, tentative—a gentle fingerpicking pattern that filled the auditorium with something fragile and aching. Then I began to sing:
*"They say I'm a shadow, a ghost in the light,*
*A curse that they carry through day and through night,*
*They carved out my name from the family tree,*
*But I'm still here, I'm still breathing, I'm still me.*
*I've slept in the cold with the stars as my roof,*
*I've swallowed my pride, I've buried the truth,*
*But every lost battle has sharpened my fight,*
*And I'm still here, still standing, still holding tight."*
The chorus built, my voice rising with it, raw and unfiltered:
*"You can tear me apart, throw me into the street,*
*You can tell me I'm nothing, that I'm destined to break,*
*But I'll rise from the ashes, I'll build from the pain,*
*I'm still here, I'm still fighting, I'll sing through the rain."*
The second verse poured out, every word soaked in the truth of the last four months:
*"I've been told I'm the reason that good people die,*
*That my touch brings destruction, that my love's a lie,*
*But the woman who raised me believed I was more,*
*So I'm still here, still singing, still opening doors."*
The bridge was where I let everything go—all the pain from Saturday, from February, from seven years of carrying other people's grief and blame. My voice cracked on the high notes, but I didn't care. This wasn't about perfection. This was about truth.
*"And maybe I'm broken, maybe I'm scarred,*
*Maybe I'm lost, maybe I've fallen too far,*
*But as long as I'm breathing, as long as there's sound,*
*I'll keep on singing, I won't stay down."*
The final chorus hit like a wave, and I felt it—the shift in the room, the way the air changed when music stops being performance and becomes connection:
*"You can tear me apart, throw me into the street,*
*You can tell me I'm nothing, that I'm destined to break,*
*But I'll rise from the ashes, I'll build from the pain,*
*I'm still here, I'm still fighting, I'll sing through the rain."*
I let the last chord ring out, sustaining it until it faded into silence.
For a long moment, no one moved. No one spoke.
Then the auditorium exploded.
People were on their feet—Coco, Mary, Jasmine, Marcus, kids I'd never even talked to. The applause was deafening, and through the stage lights, I could see faces lit up with emotion. Some people were crying. Others were cheering.
I stood there, frozen, unable to process what had just happened.
Ms. Reeves was wiping her eyes. Even Principal Davidson looked moved, leaning back in his chair with an expression I couldn't quite read. Mr. Takahashi had put down his phone and was staring at me with something like interest.
"Thank you, Mr. Rogers," Principal Davidson said once the applause died down. "That was... remarkable. We'll be in touch with results by Wednesday."
I nodded, unable to speak, and walked off stage on legs that barely held me.
Backstage, I was immediately mobbed.
"Oh my god!" Coco threw her arms around me. "That was incredible! Kenny, you just—that was—I don't even have words!"
"That was insane," Mary said, and she was actually smiling—a real, genuine smile. "Where did that come from?"
"You made me cry!" Jasmine appeared, still in her dance clothes. "I'm supposed to go on in ten minutes and now my makeup is ruined because of you!"
I let them pull me into a group hug, let their excitement wash over me, but part of me was still on that stage, still singing those words, still wondering if what I'd felt was real or just desperation masquerading as hope.
Marcus appeared, grinning. "Dude. You're in. There's no way they don't pick you after that."
"You don't know that," I said.
"I know that," he insisted. "Everyone knows that. You just stopped the show."
The rest of the auditions were a blur. I sat in my seat, guitar case at my feet, barely registering the other performances. Jasmine danced beautifully. A senior girl sang an opera piece that showcased technical skill but felt cold compared to what I'd just poured onto that stage.
When the auditions finally ended, Principal Davidson stood up again.
"Thank you all for your incredible performances today," he said. "Decisions will be posted Wednesday afternoon outside the main office. Congratulations to everyone who had the courage to get up there."
The crowd began to disperse. Students gathered their things, chattering about who would make it, who wouldn't, what songs they'd perform if selected.
I packed up my guitar slowly, my hands still trembling slightly from adrenaline.
"Hey."
I looked up to find Mr. Takahashi standing beside me. Up close, he was younger than I'd thought—maybe early thirties, with sharp eyes and an expensive-looking suit.
"That was a hell of a song," he said.
"Thanks," I managed.
He pulled out a business card and handed it to me. "I scout for indie labels and small venues downtown. If you're interested in performing outside of school—open mics, showcase nights, that kind of thing—give me a call. We're always looking for real talent."
I took the card, staring at it like it might disappear. **Kenji Takahashi - Talent Coordinator - Echo Music Collective.**
"You serious?" I asked.
"Dead serious. You've got something most kids your age don't—authenticity. You're not performing, you're communicating. That's rare." He nodded toward my guitar. "Think about it. No pressure. But if you want to make music your career, you should start building a presence now."
He walked away before I could respond, leaving me holding his card and trying to process what had just happened.
"Kenny!" Coco appeared again, Mary in tow. "We're going to get food to celebrate. You coming?"
I opened my mouth to say yes, then remembered I had exactly twelve dollars in my pocket—not enough for food *and* the storage unit payment due tomorrow.
"I can't," I said. "I have... stuff to do. Homework."
"On a Monday night?" Mary raised an eyebrow.
"I'm behind in Math," I lied smoothly. "But thanks. I'll see you guys Wednesday?"
"Wednesday," Coco agreed, though she looked disappointed. "And Kenny? You were amazing today. Really."
They left, and I was alone in the auditorium with my guitar and a business card from a talent scout.
I looked down at the card again, at the address for Echo Music Collective—a venue downtown, not far from where I performed on weekends.
Real talent, he'd said. Authenticity.
For the first time since Grandma died, someone in the industry had looked at me and seen potential. Not a homeless kid, not bad luck, not a street performer scraping by.
A musician.
I tucked the card carefully into my wallet, next to the torn pieces of the 10,000 yen note.
Two sides of the same story—one showing where I'd been, the other pointing toward where I might go.
I just had to keep moving forward.
That night, under the bridge, I pulled out my notebook and wrote a new song. The words came fast, flowing from some deep place I hadn't known existed:
*"They told me to stay quiet, stay small, stay gone,*
*But I found my voice when they thought it was lost,*
*And I'm singing louder now than ever before,*
*This is my life, my stage, my song."*
Wednesday couldn't come fast enough.
*End of Chapter 4*