Free Jerkbait by Mia Siegert

fright, it fucking sucked. I forced a smile and approached the pianist to give her my sheet music. She quirked her brow, but said nothing.
    Ms. Price sat on a folding chair. She adjusted a video camera on a tripod. The red recording light went on. “You want to say your name and who you’re auditioning for before you start?”
    “I didn’t realize this was going to be recorded.”
    “Is that a problem?”
    “I . . . no.” I gazed into the eye of the camera. “I’m, uh, I’m Tristan Betterby and I’ll be singing ‘Pity the Child’ from Chess. ”
    Ms. Price quirked her brow. “You do know The Drowsy Chaperone’s a comedy, right?”
    My face darkened, fingers curling against my palm. Talk about a stupid choice of song. After all, Craig did something campy and fun. Probably everyone was doing something campy and fun. It was just that “Pity the Child” meant something to me. The first time I watched the 2008 live recording, I became speechless when Adam Pascal sang. The kind of raw talent that earned him the lead in Rent even though he had no formal training. I thought maybe it’d be a good luck charm.
    “I’ve never auditioned before,” I mumbled.
    “Don’t worry about it. I don’t want you to get nervous,” Ms. Price said.
    Little late for that.
    When I heard the piano, I had to take a moment’s pause. My voice started low, maybe a touch shaky. The red glare of the camera pierced my eyes, expanding until I couldn’t see anything else. I was deaf to my words, hearing only a loud, static hum. A sudden bitterness burst forth with each unheard accusation. Once I hit the final “Who?” the static cleared. My own voice, crystal clear, pitch perfect, rang out as I hung desperately onto the last note.
    The pianist stared at me, as did Ms. Price.
    “Holy shit,” Ms. Price said. “You did half of that acapella.”
    What?
    My cheeks were wet. I turned my head and used my sleeve to wipe away tears I hadn’t realized were there. Had the pianist stopped? Had I gone past my twenty measures and continued, lost in the moment?
    I swallowed hard, unable to remember a single thing about my song. How it sounded, if I had conviction. Anything except that last note. “Was it . . . was it okay?”
    “Not only did you sing it acapella , but you held the end note for twenty-three beats,” Ms. Price said. “Twenty-three beats. You seriously haven’t studied with anyone before? Anyone?”
    “Just, uh . . . just what I told you. With Heather.”
    “It’s like you’re Adam Pascal the second.” And, for a moment, I felt the same sort of swelling pride and incoherence Robbie did whenever he was referred to Wayne Gretzky. Ms. Price folded her arms and continued, “You know, when Adam Pascal started, he got a lot of criticism for his notes. His voice was weak except for the gravel. But that’s something he worked on. That’s something you can work on.” She took a breath, head cocked to the side as if she was debating. “ I want to make a few phone calls. See if I can get you some additional training.”
    “I uh . . . my parents are making me do hockey.”
    “You don’t do hockey year round, do you?”
    I looked at the card and swallowed. “How much is it going to cost me?”
    Ms. Price almost laughed. “Oh. Oh, no, Tristan. This would be pro bono . Just like dance lessons at my studio.”
    I spluttered a bit. “ My parents are kinda crazy and not supportive of this stuff, but I want to take you up on that. I mean, if you’re serious. Just . . . might have to wait until the semester’s over. Is that too late?”
    “I’m pretty sure I’ve got a few friends who would wait for the chance to train a voice like yours. And I’d love to get you in my studio dancing with Craig.”
    “You teach Craig outside of school?”
    “Who do you think got him enrolled here?” Ms. Price then asked, “I don’t mean to embarrass you, but are you wearing a belt?”
    I shook my head and glanced to my jeans. “No, I