It's five minutes 'til the curtain rises and I can barely breathe. There's no time to touch up my makeup one more time, no time to really fix my hair--I slick it back with my palms, skin bumping over the tight braid at my hairline. The rest of my dark hair is looped into a loose chignon at the back of my neck, and I touch it nervously. This is my first performance, and it might be at an underground little bar where they'll love me just because I'm new and no one knows my name, but I still feel pressure to perform. Who wouldn't? If I do well, I'll get more jobs--more jobs means less time as a barista, and then I'll be even closer to my dream. I don't want to be quiet and indie forever. I'd suffer for my art, like Daddy taught me; but I don't sing for my health. I sing to be heard. If I'm indie for always, I'll end up dying alone, as a nobody. That's not what I want.
Then the five minutes are up and Florence Adalsteinn-Cross is on stage, silhouetted against the brick wall of the basement by a bright light. She is a little girl insanely out of her depth in front of an audience of fifty-two--she counts these heads in a flash, quicker than she can snap her fingers, fifty-two fucking people watching her freeze up in front of them. A little girl dressed up like she could maybe perform, maybe keep them in their seats; she can see them getting restless. But there is one face--a lovely face, she thinks, with seafoam eyes under a cap of dusky red hair. The person wearing it offers her a smile, warm and encouraging, and that gives her strength.
And then I'm back--I return the smile, but it's soft with my nervousness, my hands are shaking so I wrap them around the microphone and lean towards it, and I begin to sing--my voice is weak, my hands are shaking, but he smiles again and then I know I can do it. And my voice soars, and they're enraptured, they're all looking at me now and they're all smiling, and I'm singing to that man with the green eyes. I can lift my hands off the mike without them shaking, I can reach and gesture like the choreographer told me to--I can't dance, so I don't, but they all watch me, and I am singing.
When it's over, for a moment I'm Florence again. The little bar is silent, dead silent; they're all looking at her and she's conscious of tears trailing her mascara down her cheeks, of blood at the corner of her lip where she's bitten it. She brings her hands up, fingertips shaking at the bottom edge of the band of ribbon at the base of her throat, tucks her chin down to hide the bitten nails. That's when the applause begins, as her shoulders hunch inward and jerk once; they're standing, they're demanding an encore, but she's just saying thank you over and over, and she seeks out the red-headed man in the crowd but he's not there.
Backstage, I wipe off the makeup. I swab my forehead with a soft cloth to free the sweat. It's been half an hour, but it feels like years have passed, and when I close my eyes I can see the man again.
Challenge: Write a story that alternates between the I and the "he" or "she" without confusing the reader. 500 words.
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