Everybody Knows Your Name by Andrea Seigel Page A

ask Ford again, “Seriously, what is it?”
    He comes off the wall, and I would swear he’s looking at my mouth. I’m looking at his mouth back, because the way he’s looking at me compels me to spend a few seconds on the shape of his lips.
    Then the stage manager puts her hands flat on my back and practically does my walking for me. “Batter up,” she says, moving me toward the door to the stage. I look away from Ford because I have to. The stage manager and I step into darkness, but then, as I round the corner, I can see the stage glowing violet through the slots of the wings.
    I’m put in the front left wing, and then I see the host, Lance Thrasher, run onto the stage with his mic in hand. He has a shit-eating grin that doesn’t budge, and his suit is so tight, it fits almost like a woman’s.
    Over the music he says, “Turn on the spotlight!” It lights him up. It’s so bright. And I think there’s no way I could go out there and come back the exact same person.

Ford
17
    My shoulders go limp as the final chord of my song rings out into the dark theater. From out of the black, rising applause swallows the chord, takes over the room. The house lights fade up a little, revealing the audience is actually on its feet. This feels good .
    The audience’s approval is like a ray of comic book energy hitting me in the chest, a supersizing beam causing me to grow gigantic right in front of everyone, like I could keep growing right through the roof of the theater, then stomp off through LA, an unstoppable hundred-foot-tall monster throwing buses and tearing through power lines, rampaging until the police, the Air Force, and maybe Will Smith are forced to team up and machine-gun me from the top of the Capitol Records building, the whole mess ending with Naomi Watts weeping over my giant dead body.
    This feels really, really good is what I’m saying.
    I look to my side because I need to share this with someone who isn’t out there in the audience. I spot Magnolia. She feels so close to me. I’ve finished the song right next to where the other contestants are seated onstage. From her stool, she’s clapping with a look that says, All right, okay, not too shabby . I walk the rest of the way to her, scoop my hand behind her head, lift her up, and see the slightest surprise cross her face before I kiss her.
    Kissing her feels better than really, really good.
    Lance says something in the background on the sound system about me being a ladies’ man. I barely hear him. The audience makes catcalls and whoops, but they seem so much farther off than they are.
    When I pull away, Magnolia’s kiss lingering there on my lips, her eyebrows are raised and her mouth is almost open like she’s about to ask me a question.
    Lance sidles up to us. “I really hate to interrupt you two, but we do still have a show to finish,” he says into the mic. The audience laughs over the thumping music that has kicked in.
    He escorts me over to the center of the stage, right in front of the judges. Oh yeah, the judges . What’s wrong with me? How could I forget about the judges? Their four votes alone control 50 percent of my fate; America’s call-in vote makes up the other half.
    I look to the three strangers who will probably decide how the rest of life my plays out. There’s Davey Dave, the DJ record producer, eyes hidden behind his trademark aviator sunglasses. Jazz Billingham, who’s already made a fortune selling records even though she’s only eleven. When she stares at you with these eyes that are just too old for her face, it’s kind of unsettling. And, of course, there’s never impressed, brutally honest Chris James. It’s strange to see that famous silver pompadour of hair right sitting right in front of you after all the years you’ve watched him tear apart movies on his review show.
    â€œHow do you think you did?” a