Olivia

“So, so, so. How does it feel to finally be number one in the charts?” Shane asks while finishing her hair. Olivia manufactures a soft smile and shrugs her shoulders.

She looks left — looks out the picture window of the dressing room — and all she sees are billboard-sized ads for her song Heritage plastered over Times Square.

“I love getting the inside scoop from all of you. The winners. ‘The famed.’ Such a triumph for you, huh?” says Shane, spastically spritzing one last heavy curl.

“This hair of yours is done. Gorgeous!” yells Shane in his usual explosive exit. Alone now, squinting at herself against the bright bulbs of the mirror, Olivia’s eyes well with tears. She can’t stand it. Not anymore.

She’s out of the dressing room, suddenly running, looking for the nearest exit. She sees a fire door and forces it open, not caring if an alarm screams at her. But no alarm; a hallway thick with fans is screaming instead, welcoming her, beckoning her to take the stage. Like a pistol quickly drawn, she puts on her best smile.

The attempt failed, and it’s showtime again.