Page 7 of Playing With My Heart Strings

I frown and stop in my tracks.So callous, I think.

Then,I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.

“Baylor!” Daniella calls out to me. “Hey, I’m so sorry.” She starts to apologize, but all I can think about is the fact that I have to go on the show now.

“What am I even supposed to do?” I mumble.

“I can’t believe I did—huh? What do you mean? What happened?” Daniella snaps her head in my direction, no longer worried about what she did. “Oh my God, you got fired, didn’t you? I need to go tell Colette it was my fault.”

“No, no, I didn’t get fired.” I stop her before she does anything rash. “Although I’m not sure if that would be worse than the alternative.”

“What do you mean?”

I let out an exasperated sigh. “Because of how popular the video has gotten, instead of firing me, she’s putting me on the show.”

“Wait, that’s good! Isn’t it?” Daniella asks, a little unsure of herself.

I purse my lips. “I mean, for someone who wants to go on the show, sure. But the fact is I’m only going on so I can keep my job.” I don’t want her to feel bad. It could have happened to anyone. And I was the one responsible for the social media accounts, so it’s just as much on me as it is on her. “I have zero idea what I’m supposed to do now, though, as a contestant instead of an employee.”

“I mean, I can ask?” she offers as she shuffles her feet, unable to maintain eye contact. “It’s the least I can do, really.”

I wave her off. “I’m sure someone will brief me.”

No one briefed me, so when the call for contestants came and I showed up, you could probably imagine my confusion and frustration when I was told to leave. Not only was I told to leave, but a bunch of the actual contestants gave me the stink eye. They probably thought I was some poser trying to get on the show.

Don’t worry, ladies, you have nothing to worry about. I don’t actually want to be here, I think as I head from backstage through the tunnel that connects to the main building where a group of producers are congregating.

“Is anyone going to tell me what the hell is going on?” I roll my eyes, hoping to get at leastoneof them to help me. I know I probably sound like a diva, but my job is on the line.

One of my producer friends, Alex, pulls me aside. “Baylor, maybe you should just go home today. The thing is, we don’t need you right this moment.”

“I’m confused. Colette told me that I’m going on the show.”

“Yes, well…you are. But we aren’t going to have you sing in front of him. The world has already heard your voice. They alreadyknowthey want you on the show.” He ruffles his hair.

“Isn’t Dusty supposed to choose the ones he wants?” I know sometimes shows are scripted—well, let’s face it,mostare scripted—but this makes it seem like Dusty isn’t even going to have a choice. And I hate that.

“I mean, yeah, but we want a good show, too, Baylor. And the people want you. We can’t risk him not choosing you on live television.”

Wow, thanks for the confidence boost.I don’t hesitate to tell him that either.

“Jeez, thanks for having faith in me, Alex. So, what does Colette expect me to do?” I’m officially annoyed—no, I’mpastannoyance.

“Just hang tight until the first week of filming is over, okay? Trust me on this.” Alex pats me on the shoulder before he heads to the set. “Think of it as getting paid to sit at home!” he calls over his shoulder.

“Think of it as getting paid to sit at home,” I grumble as I pace around my living room for the fiftieth time this afternoon. This isboring.I wasn’t made for sitting at home all day.

I don’t want to be on the show, but I would rather sing in front of Dusty Wilder a thousand times than twiddle my thumbs wondering what to do for the next week.

I type in “Heart Strings” on social media. While the original video Daniella posted of me was taken down, it was reposted hundreds of times. The video quality isn’t even good. It’s shakyand blurry, like a four-year-old took it. You can even hear Daniella’sbreathingin the background.

“You’re so lucky you didn’t get fired.” I curse Daniella even though she’s not here. No one is here. Just me and all my thoughts. A scary combination, if you ask me.

Instead of dwelling on the consequences of our actions, which would most certainly send me into an even deeper spiral, I pull out my journal. The edges of the leather are worn, and small amounts of coffee stain the lined pages, but I’d never throw it out. Writing is my escape when the world gets a little too heavy. It’s why I bring the journal with me everywhere, but I didn’t think people actually paid attention to me writing in it.

Music, and especially lyrics, have always called to me. There’s a certain type of beauty in pouring all your feelings and emotions into a song. How some of the most upbeat songs have the saddest meanings behind their lyrics, or how a melancholy tune can evoke hope if you listen closely enough.

Even though I don’t want to be on the show—can’t afford the setback in my career goals—maybe it will spark some inspiration in me. Deep down, though, my hope is that it’ll allow me to muster up the courage to stand up to my parents, to tell them my passions are worthwhile, even if they don’t make me millions of dollars. That I can have a successful career and, if I’m lucky, maybe pursue music, too.

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