Raine knew the girls applying the makeup and fixing her hair didn’t know who she was from Eve. Maybe their parents did, if they cared. She sat in the chair wondering if appearing on this show was a good idea, irritated at the horrid itch and imprinting of the fabric weave into the back of her thighs. Cheap chair. I would wear a miniskirt.
All around was a buzz of activity she didn’t feel remotely connected to. She was a prop. She wished there was a studio audience, but alas; she’d be an insect under the pin. If only she could be as dead to it all as a bug would be. 6 minutes of relentless scrutiny by some plastic kid who’d gently condescend to her simultaneously. I should never have let Dave hear a note! Dammit.
Years ago, at 18, she thrilled at being called “precocious” and “extraordinarily talented”. She hadn’t thought what she was going to do once all the hard work had yielded its fruits, however, and drinking and screwing away the anxiety of always having to top herself followed. After awhile, every moment of life felt perfunctory, including the debauchery. Somehow, she’d managed to escape with her talent intact and turned it on scrutinizing her own clichéd trajectory. What am I trying to prove now? To whom?
“I grew up loving your music, Ms. Talley.”
“Thank you, Sasha.”
“Thank you for being here. You ready?”
Two cameras bore down.
“I’m always ready, Sasha.”
Raine smiled. She had to.
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