Page 11 of Playing With My Heart Strings

I know my prediction for Jade is right when a backtrack of a song I’ve never heard once in my life begins playing. It’s a country song, but it’s one of the newer, poppier songs. Just because I’m considered a mainstream country artist doesn’t mean I actually listen to mainstream country. I’d rather not be clumped in with those guys—the ones who probably wear their cowboy hats backward and have never touched a horse in their life. But realistically, am I that much better?

I may be from the country, but my dream was to always get out, get off the farm, and make something of myself.

Of course, the producers would say this girl is on their radar. Not that she’s bad. It’s the opposite, in fact. Even though I’ve never heard the song before, her rendition would no doubt make people want to get up and dance. Her energy alone would be great for an album and a tour, assuming her stage presence matches her voice.

When the song wraps up and the click of heels fades away, I take a deep breath, letting my lungs fill, and then exhale, pushing everything out.

“You doing all right, Dusty?” the producer babbles in my ear.

I subtly nod, an action small enough that his prying eyes can see but the camera won’t pick up.

“Next singer is a go,” someone else says in the background through my earpiece.

I sigh, trying my best not to let my emotions show.

None of this is real.I need to keep reminding myself that. This is all for show. It’s no different than the media persona I’ve had to put on for the past eleven years.

After an hour or so, we’re down to the last four singers of the day. Then comes the hard part: narrowing thirty women down to nine. I kind of wish I had a notepad so I could write down all of their names. Surely they’ll have recordings that I can listen to, even though the auditions are airing live.

My thoughts are interrupted by a crash backstage. My head whips to the side as I try to figure out what the hell is going on.

“Act natural! You’re onlive television, Dusty!” the producer, whose name I still can’t remember, screeches in my ear, and I resist the urge to flip him the bird. That definitely wouldn’t look good on live TV.

I turn my head away from the camera and toward the crew off to the side of the stage and mouth,What the fuck is going on?I’m only met with a shrug and a gesture to turn back to the camera.

“What do you mean I’m not allowed on stage?!” A high-pitched shriek hits my ears, causing them to ring. “I’mpartof the auditions! I deserve a fair shot!”

I hear a few mutterings of, “Ma’am, calm down,” and, “We’re going to need you to leave the premises.”

“Bring out the next singer, we need to keep rolling,” echoes in my ear.

I’m going to have a few words with the producers after this, even if just to figure out what the fuck is going on.

“I’m Abigail,” a sweet country accent greets me.

Her song is short and sweet, much like her introduction. I enjoy it a lot, though. Her voice matches what the label is looking for, and I already have a feeling our voices would mesh well together on an album. If she ends up making it that far, that is.

Only three more left.

The last three singers’ performances go by quicker than I anticipated. There’s only one of them who I truly see myself performing with, though. The other two probably won’t be on my final list.

“Cut! That’s a wrap on the auditions.” Once the cameras stop rolling, the lights on the stage dim and I immediately receive instructions from the producer who has been nagging in my ear all day.

“Dusty, we need to see you in the green room to debrief, and then we’ll need to get some confessional shots.”

I turn my head over my shoulder to see the producer already impatiently gesturing for me to follow. I give him a nod and face forward again, if only so I can get my annoyance out while I’mstill in private and not in front of more cameras or an audience of producers.

Especially that executive producer lady. She scares me.

I plop down in a dark-green chair in front of a larger couch where several producers are sitting, running my hands over the fabric as I wait for them to say something.

“I think that went well.” The only female producer looks at her male counterparts.

“I agree,” one of them says, as if I’m not right there in the room with them.

I clear my throat, hoping it will prompt them to talk to me, instead of just amongst each other.

Their heads all snap toward me at once.

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