I'm hanging out in the hotel room in Boise watching a movie with Genevieve, the chaperone. The Nannies to Go agency has a "thorough list" of nannies all over the country who have been "extensively screened and have excellent references." Dad tells me this every time he leaves for work, even this time, although I already know Genevieve from our other trips here. She's one of my favorites. My phone beeps with a text from Ashia.
Where are you?! Did you get the email?!
I didn't realize I'd made such an impression in one day.
I text back.
Unexpected trip. Will be back Monday. What email?
Whoa. An all-caps text.
YOU'RE ON THE CALLBACKS LIST! THEY WANT YOU TO TRY OUT FOR THE LEAD!!!
I reread the text to make sure I understand.
I'm sorry, what now? Shelby will get the lead.
We go back and forth for at least ten minutes, but I still can't believe what she's telling me. Apparently, Shelby has made her list of demands and is already driving the teachers crazy. It's time to tell Ashia what's up.
Sorry. I can't do it. Won't be there for the performances.
Why? Out of town or something?
You could say that.
Can you be "out of town" if you're never actually in town?
Try anyway. You never know, right?
I put the phone down and go back to watching the movie. I'll give her all the details on Monday. It's too much to say in a text, and no one ever believes my life without a whole bunch of explanation and pictures.
An hour later, when my phone goes off again, it's another message from Ashia with Mrs. Summers's e-mail.
Let her know if you want a tryout slot! Which, OF COURSE you do.
It's kind of impossible not to be a little bit excited about this. I'm all fluttery inside as I tell Genevieve what's going on. Eventually, though, I stop and take a deep breath. "But it doesn't matter if I try out, because I won't be there for the performances," I say. I slump into the overstuffed chair.
"Although it could be good practice to get up onstage and conquer that fear of singing in front of people," says Genevieve. "But I do see your point. You wouldn't want to waste their time."
"Right," I say. "And my dad said we might need to stay here an extra day, which means I'd miss tryouts anyway."
"That stinks," says Genevieve.
A picture of Shelby pops into my head. "Plus, the girl who wants the lead would probably destroy me if I did audition. Apparently, she's not all that nice."
Genevieve gives me a look. "Well, don't let that stop you."
I pull my knees to my chest and remember what my mom used to say.
Don't you ever let anyone treat you like you don't matter. Because you do. You absolutely, one hundred percent do.
I stretch my legs back out and sit up straight. "Genevieve, can I ask you something?"
She nods. "Sure."
"Is it wrong to want to hear someone besides my dad say I'm good at something?" I ask.
She smiles and scoots over next to me. "Not at all. Do you want me to weigh in? Or I could call the lunch crew up here for an impromptu concert."
I have to laugh. "Listen, I'm not saying you wouldn't tell me the truth, but you're all pretty much paid to be nice to me. Everyone around me tells me whatever they think I want to hear. Seriously, who would dare tell a VIP guest's daughter she can't sing?"
Genevieve pauses long enough to prove I'm right. And as "extensively screened" as she is, she's still a twenty-five-year-old big kid. "You know what? You're right. You need this."
But I've lost track of what we're talking about. "Wait, I need what?" I ask.
"To hear someone tell you the truth," says Genevieve. "Someone who isn't being paid to be nice to you."
"Or related to me," I add.
"Right, or related to you. Plus, it would be fun to see if you could get the part," she says with a mischievous grin. "Maybe teach that other girl a thing or two about show business."
I can almost see the wheels turning in her head. "But I still don't want to waste their time," I say again.
"What if you didn't?" asks Genevieve. "What if you sent a clip of you singing and they could watch it or not watch it? Their choice."
"I do have Mrs. Summers's e-mail," I say.
"And that way, if you're not there on Monday, you still get to audition." Genevieve stands up and puts her hands out in that Why not? kind of pose.. "You could get your feedback and then politely decline if they offer you the part."
"I could do that," I say. But this is totally crazy, and I'm kind of hoping it's all just a game of "What if?" that we're playing.
Without a word, Genevieve picks up the phone and tells the concierge we need someone who can play the piano, sheet music for The Wizard of Oz, and a laptop. She suggests an employee at the front desk. "Have her meet us in conference room A," she says. "Oh, and make sure the piano is tuned."
I try not to abuse my hotel privileges, but it's hard not to notice that I get whatever I ask for at our hotel homes. By the time I get changed and we make it downstairs, Ava is warming up on the piano. People can make things happen pretty quickly when they want to.
Genevieve stops to chat at the concierge desk and then joins me in meeting room A.
"You can do this," she says, giving me a fist bump. "Let's see what happens, right?"
I nod. No reason to worry about standing in front of a live audience of a gazillion people (okay, maybe a few hundred), because I won't even be there for the performances. But I'm more curious than ever to hear what someone besides Dad thinks of my singing.
Ava hits the first note of "Over the Rainbow" as Genevieve starts the video on my phone.
Now or never.
I want to close my eyes and at least hide from the two people in front of me, but it always looks weird when singers don't keep their eyes open. I can do this.
I start soft, but when it gets to the parts when I'm supposed to let loose, I do.
I actually do.
Like I'm singing in the shower. Like I'm singing in the hotel room without a care in the world.
I belt it out.
Loud.
And when I'm done, Ava stops playing and claps, but not Genevieve. Instead she's in tears.
"Was it that bad?" I ask, leaning toward her. She steps closer and grabs my hands. "It was that good, Kenzie," she says. "It was absolutely beautiful. And I am not getting paid to say that." Somehow I can tell she really means it. It takes me a minute to get over the shock of the compliment, but the weirdest part is that I kind of enjoyed having an audience. Even if it is a really small one.
Genevieve opens the laptop and searches for a scene we can act out. "They'll want to know you can handle lines too," she says. "I mean, if you're going to do this, do it right. You know?"
We practice our parts (this time I'm Dorothy), and it doesn't take us long to get it. Ava takes my phone, since she's now gone from front-desk clerk to pianist to videographer, as the head concierge pokes her head through the door and motions to Genevieve.
"One more thing," says Genevieve. She rushes out to the hall and comes back with a roll of gold paper. "Might as well set the scene with your very own yellow brick road."
I grab one end of the roll. "Might as well."