Just like that, a month passed.
During that time, I went through the motions of daily life in Queens: rehearsals, evenings with my mother. Nothing out of the ordinary, except for one small detail — the initial auditions for America's Got Talent.
People imagine it's all glitz right from the start — big stage, cameras, celebrity judges leaning forward to press their buttons. But the truth is different. The first round isn't televised. It's just a room, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, and a panel of producers who sift through thousands of hopefuls. You get about ninety seconds to prove you're worth broadcasting. Most don't make it.
I did. No surprise there.
The producers barely let me finish before exchanging looks. They knew what I was, even if they couldn't put it into words. They nodded, wrote my number down, and waved me out.
That was the start.
The rest of the month was quiet. I kept my routine — practicing late into the night, experimenting with what kind of performance would stand out. Nothing unusual happened, nothing disrupted the days. But the countdown to Hollywood never left my mother's mind.
...
Now, the preparations were finished.
"Adam, double-check your bag," my mother said as she zipped up her own suitcase for the third time. "We have to leave for the airport in an hour."
I sat on the edge of my bed, watching my duffel bag close itself neatly under my ability. The zipper glided into place, shirts folded perfectly inside. I didn't need to check it — I never forgot anything. Still, my mother fussed like the world might collapse if we left a toothbrush behind.
As for why I was using my powers in front of my mother — I thought, since I was already going to kill her, why not increase my amusement by seeing her reaction to my powers? I was sure she wouldn't tell anyone else.
When she first saw me moving objects around through the air using my Float Float power, she stood stunned, not moving. The only thing that moved was her eyebrow, which twitched a little. After that, she treated the whole situation as if she had seen nothing. She might have even tricked herself into believing she was hallucinating.
It was quite amusing, seeing her try to look away every time I used my powers in front of her.
One time, she asked me if I was moving things with my mind. I played dumb, telling her I didn't understand what she meant. She never asked again. I probably gave her the confirmation that she was hallucinating.
"Tickets?" she asked.
"In my pocket."
"Passport?"
"In the front compartment."
She exhaled, relieved. "Okay. Good. We're really doing this."
...
The flight was from JFK Airport in Queens to Los Angeles International (LAX). Roughly six hours across the country, one straight line from coast to coast. My mother booked it weeks ago, unwilling to risk last-minute chaos. She even chose an airline known for "comfort" — not that I cared about legroom or complimentary peanuts.
The morning of departure, we hailed a cab to JFK. I watched the boroughs blur by through the window — the brick houses, the corner stores, the endless traffic that always seemed half-asleep. It was strange to think that by evening, I would be on the opposite side of the continent.
At the airport, reality set in.
Lines. Noise. Families dragging oversized suitcases. TSA agents with tired eyes. My mother clung to her boarding pass like it was gold, checking the departure board every two minutes to make sure the gate hadn't magically changed.
Meanwhile, I observed. Airports had their own kind of energy — frantic, restless, full of people in motion.
The flight itself was uneventful. Six hours in the air, clouds rolling past, the seatbelt light dinging on and off. My mother kept flipping through a guidebook about Los Angeles as if she might need to navigate Hollywood Boulevard herself. I closed my eyes and thought about the stage lights.
America's Got Talent. The real auditions. The ones with Hasselhoff, Brandy, and Piers Morgan sitting in judgment. I wasn't really nervous about this whole thing. It was such a small event in the grand scheme of things.
For most contestants, it was a once-in-a-lifetime chance. For me, it was just another step forward.
...
We landed in LAX in the late afternoon. The air was different — drier, sharper, carrying a faint tang of salt from the Pacific. Palm trees lined the roads outside, their silhouettes stark against the fading sun. Los Angeles felt bigger, louder, somehow more unreal than New York, even though I had only seen it in movies before.
My mother had arranged a hotel in Pasadena, close to the Pasadena Civic Auditorium, where the auditions would be filmed. It was a mid-range place — clean, reliable, nothing flashy. The kind of hotel with beige hallways and the faint smell of carpet cleaner. She insisted it was better to be near the venue than in downtown Los Angeles, away from distractions.
As we checked in, I glanced at the itinerary she clutched. She had written everything down: rehearsal times, call times, backup routes in case of traffic. She was trying to control the uncontrollable.
I didn't mind. That was her role. My role was simpler.
Step onto the stage. Perform.
...
That night, lying in the unfamiliar hotel bed, I stared at the ceiling. The hum of the air conditioner filled the silence. Tomorrow, the real show began.
For the first time in weeks, I felt a flicker of something beyond indifference — not fear, not excitement exactly, but something close. The awareness that a million eyes would soon be watching. I might have unlocked a new hobby: showing off. I guessed my personality was developing in a different direction in this life.
I came here for wish energy, but it seemed that I might just find the process of how I got it fun.
I closed my eyes. Tomorrow, I would make them see.