Wish Upon a Star by Mindy Klasky Page B

absurdity of the cheer and turned on my heel. I didn’t have time to fight with her, didn’t have a second to spare to argue my case. I’d follow through on—what had she called it? Arbitration?—as soon as I completed what was about to be the most disastrous audition of my life.
    Race-walking down the corridor, I prayed that I hadn’t wasted too much time. I got back to the audition room just as the monitor called my name. “Here!” I said, filling my voice with mock good cheer. Despair clutched at my belly—my voice sounded the same as always. Good. Solid. But not Broadway-bold. Not at all.
    Stepping into the room, I threw my shoulders back and lifted my chin. I quickly crossed my fingers, and muttered my own “Just this once” mantra. I mean, if Teel was going to shortchange me, I had to rely on my own rituals to pull me through.
    I forced a confident smile to my lips and crossed the room to the accompanist’s upright piano. I handed him my sheet music, waiting for his easy nod before I turned to the trio of directors who waited in their uncomfortable chairs. I tried not to pay attention to the discarded coffee cups by their feet, to the crumpled wrappers from cookies and candy bars. They’d obviously had a long day already, and my audition was only making it longer.
    “My name is Erin Hollister,” I said, fighting down tears as I confirmed that my voice sounded exactly the way it always had. “I’m singing ‘Love Changes Everything’ from Aspects of Love. ”
    The accompanist waited for me to take a full breath. He brought his fingers down in a bright chord, then nodded for me to start. “‘Love,’” I sang the first word.
    And I almost stopped singing.
    The sound that flowed out of my throat was like nothing I’d ever heard before. Certainly, it was like nothing I’d ever produced before. The note was huge, full-bodied. It filled my chest and soared out of my mouth like a brilliant, perfect bubble. I sang the rest of the line, and each syllable held its own, captivating, drawing the directors forward on their chairs.
    The full power of a Wurlitzer organ pumped behind my voice. My breath control was something that opera divas only dreamed of. The lyrics swelled inside me, took on a vibrant life of their own. The accompanist sifted his piano notes beneath my sung ones, keeping pace as the song built, as it became an anthem about the power of hopeless, helpless love.
    I knew that I would be cut off after a few lines. All actors were cut off after a few lines.
    But they let me keep on singing. They let me finish the entire first verse. And the second. I modulated keys perfectly, belted out the dramatic third verse. I hit the highest note, drew out the word flame as if my entire soul depended on my ability to embrace the word, to wrap myself inside it, myself, and everyone else in that audition room.
    I couldn’t believe it. No one ever finished a song in audition. Certainly, I had never finished a song in audition. I’d never sung like that in my life. I wanted to run over to the piano, to beg the accompanist to play something else, anything, so that I could further explore my new voice.
    In fact, I barely resisted the urge to press my fingers together, to summon Teel into the room, then and there. I wanted to thank her, to apologize, to tell her that I’d been wrong, that I never should have doubted her, never should have suspected her of shortchanging me on my wish.
    Of course, I wasn’t going to do that. I wasn’t going to give the slightest sign that my performance was anything out of the ordinary. Me? Oh, yes, I sing like that in the shower. Just a little show tune, here and there. Self-taught, I am. Humble, singing me.
    “Thank you,” one of the women said, her voice warm and sincere. “If you could just head upstairs, Ms. Hollister. The dance auditions are in room 401.”
    “Thank you, ” I said, adding a fervent nod and a grin toward the accompanist.
    I almost fainted when I