Living in Two Worlds

The Audition

"Mom, I'm going to be late!" I called out from the rolled-down windows, my voice laced with urgency. I repeatedly punched the already beat-down horn with my delicate wrist. The neighbors looked vexed, as this had become our early morning weekend routine.

My mom's voice echoed from the front door: "Coming, coming! Jeez, it's only a thirty-minute drive. We'll be there in no time!" She was still on her phone, juggling her coffee mug and house key.

Meanwhile, my pesky younger brother, Thomas, was busy showcasing his soccer skills on Mom's tires. His dark blue jersey and fitted shorts made him look like a miniature version of a pro player, but his mischievous grin betrayed his true nature. Thomas is very efficient in driving away his babysitters in less than two weeks and knows how to play with my mom's emotions quite well.

He once kicked his soccer coach in the you-know-what during practice, but Coach Miller seems bewitched by his love interest for Mom, which is the only reason he is still on the team. If Santa were a bounty hunter, Thomas would definitely be the most wanted on his list.

"Thom, get in the car. Your sister is going to be late!" She screamed as usual. Welcome to Thomas Land, ladies and gentlemen. Here we go. I've seen this movie way too many times and have a good idea of how it ends. This tug of war between Mom and Thomas. It usually starts with picking up your toys, Thomas, or you're spending way too much time in front of the TV. Followed by the do this and don't do that, Thomas, etc.

As we finally pulled out of the driveway, Thomas kicked the back of my seat, and I shot him a warning glance. "Mom, he's doing it again!" I complained.

"Does that mean you're dropping her first mom?" He asked,

"Yeah, dork, she's dropping me first. Got a problem with that?"

"Thomas, stop it! Honey, don't be so hard on your little brother," Mom intervened, cutting insanely through the traffic lanes.

She is honestly not the best driver in town regarding her signals. She once got four tickets and had her car towed in one week. Thank God we live in a small town. How does one manage to get in that much trouble in one week? I wonder what year she got her license and who issued it.

As we approached the highway, my mom's erratic driving made my stomach twist into knots. She weaved through traffic lanes, ignoring other drivers' honking horns and rude gestures.

"No, no, no, what is this?" She said, hitting the steering wheel as the car slowly stopped inches from the other driver's rear bumper.

"It is traffic, Mom," he said in the back with a smirk.

"Duh, thanks for pointing that out, Captain Obvious!" I murmured.

"Smartypants,"

"Shut up, Thom!"

"That's enough, you two. Today is Saturday. There isn't supposed to be any traffic on the highway! Not that early in the morning anyway."

"Great, now I'm going to be late." I scooted over and sighed, my arms closed and my lips pursed.

"Why didn't I just take the train?" I said, putting on my brand new speedy black shades as the sun's rays glinted on the rear-view mirrors. I sighed and gazed out the window, my mind drifting to the audition. What if I messed up? What if I forgot the chords?

"Yes, Sarah is going to be late. Sarah is going to be late." Thomas started singing and kicking the back of my seat again, trying to taunt me.

"Not if I can help it," she said, roughly cutting through and zigzagging her way to the nearest exit.

Thomas pointed to the opposite side of the highway, "Look! Angels!"

I rolled my eyes. "Thomas, there are no such things as angels. You probably saw a bird."

"Did not. I know what I saw." He said meekly. But a tiny part of me wondered, What if he's right?

"Whatever, how did you even see them if they flew by so fast?" I said, looking out the window out of curiosity.

We discovered a car crash had caused the traffic about five kilometers away. The radio broadcaster said the car got scrambled into a tin can, and it was a miracle that the driver survived. Sarah wondered if Thomas had really seen angels flying to the crash scene in a small corner of her mind.

"Your destination is on the right," Siri's annoying voice interrupted. Well, it turns out she really knows the borough inside and out after taking every possible shortcut and being yelled at by enraged drivers. We finally arrived at the Academy, and my mom dropped me off with a quick peck on the cheek. I took a deep breath, grabbed my guitar case, and stepped out of the car.

Every Saturday, she would wake up early, sit in the living room with her cup of coffee, and sort through a stack of newspaper ads. She would then cul–de–sac every block in the borough, looking for any windows screaming final or closing sales to make good use of her coupon catalog.

"See, I told you we'd be there in a split." She said, tapping her fingers on the steering wheel to calm her nerves.

"Yeah, yeah," I leaned over and reciprocated a peck on her forehead, rubbing my hand through Thomas's hair.

"Later, dork-Vania!" he said, followed by a sinister laugh.

"Whatever, I know you love me!"

"No, I don't!"

“Yes, you dooooooooooooo….”

"Good luck, hon, knock them dead!" Mom shouted, leaning out the driver's side window, causing a spectacle while I crossed the street.

"Mom, that's embarrassing!"

"That's life. One day, you're changing their diapers; before you know it, they're all grown!" She said to the florist, looking right at her from the shop. "Do you want me to pick you up afterward, darling?"

"No, Mom, I'll find another way home. See you later!" I dared not look back. I didn't want to see the complacent look on her face or anybody else's. I lifted my jacket's collar just enough to hide my face and kept my head straight to the door.

As I entered the building, my heart raced like a jackrabbit. I approached the receptionist, my voice barely above a whisper: "Hi, I'm Sarah MacKinnon. I'm here for the audition." While still on the phone, the receptionist gave me the wait-a-minute sign with a finger. She then smiled and handed me a badge with the letter A 55:

"Good luck, Sarah. You're on the 10th floor."

I could tell by the perspiration on her forehead that she was having a rough morning, but a smile was all I could offer at the moment.

My nerves kicked in as soon as I pressed the button to call the elevator. I had shaky hands and sweaty palms. I got in that four walls mirrored box-like and pressed the number ten on the panel. The upward-jerked motion did not agree with my stomach. Good thing I didn't have a substantial breakfast. It would be a shame to mess up these shiny and spotless tiles.

The elevator ride felt like an eternity. My mind filled with memories of my dad, who had passed away a few years ago. I remembered his encouraging words, proud smile, and unwavering support.

I tightly grabbed onto the side rails, closed my eyes, and pictured my dad telling me to breathe at my first recital. Ah, the glorious days. I was only eight then and had a beautiful white dress tied to the back with a red satin ribbon. Dad had promised to take me to the ice cream parlor afterward and get my favorite chocolate fudge if I aced my part. He was very supportive of me, no matter what the choice. Some would even say I was spoiled, but I felt loved at the end of the day.

Flashback memories of spelling bees, bike races, and summer camps started to resurface when I heard the beep and came to a complete stop. I walked out of the elevator with my bedazzled leather guitar case, my dark curly hair slightly tucked behind my ears, displaying my chunky cheeks and Z-shaped rockstar earrings.

Truth be told, I am no longer that satin robe-wearing little 8-year-old daddy's girl. Over the years, I have shed that sweet and innocent look for a full-swing Funk and metal-ish-looking rock star, which landed me weekend gigs at the Red Caffee. It was the only place I felt comfortable enough to let loose and tear down my solitude fortress once I stepped on stage. I started this local band with Jerry, and we are rocking it solid over there.

As I stepped out of the elevator, I was greeted by a long, dimly lit corridor. The air was thick with the scent of polished wood and fresh paint. I timidly placed one foot before the other and followed the signs to the audition room, my heart racing with every step.

I took a deep breath, reached for the door handle, and pushed it open. The room fell silent as I entered. I looked at the lady from behind the door and wondered if wearing my cut-out denim was the right choice.

"Hi, welcome. You're here for the audition, right!" The lady said with glinting eyes, trying to identify me as soon as I walked to the door.

I nodded and redirected her attention to the loosely clipped badge on my collar as even the most straightforward task of getting the word yes out of my mouth felt so difficult.

"Ah, I guess they forgot to put your name on the badge. What's your name, dear?"

I cleared my throat twice and chokingly uttered, "Sarah, Sarah MacKinnon," I guess she could tell from the faint tone of my voice that I was sinking under,

"Are you nervous?" She asked. "Here, have some water."

Again, I nodded and reached for that cup of water, hoping I wouldn't spill any of it on the freshly polished wood and make a fool out of myself. My hands were still as shaky as the autumn leaves falling from a pale oak tree. I went bottoms-up as a freshman, drinking beer at a college dorm party.

"There, how is that?" she asked while running her finger up and down her list of applicants.

"Better," I said with a smile.

"Good! The panel of judges there is known as the Academy's worst of the worst and not easily satisfied. I hope you brought your best repertoire.

I took a seat and immediately felt someone gazing at me with otherworldly intensity from the upper window. "Who is watching from the upper windows?" the girls sitting beside me asked an awkward-looking boy.

"You'll find out soon enough," he replied, his voice dripping with menace.

And with that, the room plunged into darkness.