#LookingForAlaskaContest

written by Holly Owen aka Morgan Rider

If you suffered from stage fright but loved to sing, would you suck it up and perform anyway? My entry for the Looking For Alaska Contest had me reliving a painful first, which taught me that some of us shine brighter behind the scenes.* * * * *

The blinding stage lights camouflaged my audience, which helped a ton, but the heat had me sweating like a wrestler on the mat. I cleared my throat, advertising my nerves, and gestured for the kid at the piano to sit this one out. I'd heard him accompany the previous victim, and I wasn't letting him ruin my song.

With my heartbeat setting the rhythm, I pretended the judges were stoned and belted my lungs out inside the auditorium. I'd performed the song hundreds of times in my backyard, singing for my dog and any pigeons who stuck around. This was Las Vegas, after all. The pigeons were used to watching random performances. Despite my spiking adrenaline, I nailed every note and finished my audition with a relieved bow.

Reeling from the buzz of stage fright and applause, I stumbled toward the stairs, taking each step carefully so I wouldn't collide with the floor. Mr. Cooper, my drama teacher and the only judge that mattered, gave me an indecipherable nod as I returned to my seat. Then I sat with my stomach in knots as I listened to the rest of the auditions.

At lunch, word spread of my acoustic set, and friends I didn't know wished me luck on landing a part in that year's school musical, Grease. It wasn't a big part. I wouldn't even have a speaking role, but everyone agreed that I was, by far, the best singer in our junior class. Their encouragement justified the three minutes of terror I had endured.

Waiting for the results was almost as bad, especially when talk circulated of politics tainting the judges' decisions. I wasn't surprised. I attended a school where money did most of the talking, while I had grown up on the fringes where my neighbors drove low-rider Chevy's rather than BMWs.

I should have known what was coming when my drama teacher barely made eye contact with me that whole week, and the condolences started even before I looked at the audition results. While the sting of disappointment hit me like a slap in the face, the worst blow came when I learned that the girl who had snagged the part couldn't hold a tune if she had Beyonce backing her. What she did have was a commercial credit and parents who funded the school's arts department.

To protest the injustice, my friends boycotted the play, but the experience proved more than their loyalty. I tasted my first bitter pill of truth. That talent wasn't necessary in the entertainment biz. Money and influence were all you needed.

Needless to say, I spent the rest of the year giving my drama teacher the silent treatment. And, although I never sought the limelight again, my life as a musician's daughter granted me backstage passes to every headliner in Vegas. It was a connection I refused to exploit, and I learned that dwelling in the lowlight suited me just fine. The stories I could tell you.