Chapter 18: The Monarchs Perform
Inside Meridian Hall, the air smelled of polished wood and fresh flowers, and the seats filled row by row with a low, excited hum. Ayana Brooks slipped into a side seat with Evelyn Brooks, Jalen Ortiz, and Mrs. Delia Grant, her violin case resting against her knee like a small, steady friend. Up on the stage, the lights glowed amber, and a banner announced the Sloane Summer Showcase in bold, confident letters. Somewhere backstage, The Monarchs were waiting, and the crowd was waiting for them.
Harper Quinn, the local arts writer, moved along the aisle with a camera, nodding to people she recognised. Judges sat at a long table near the front, notebooks open, pens ready. Everett Sloane stood near the stage steps, straightening his jacket, smiling the smile of a man who expected applause. He glanced toward the audience once, and his eyes passed over Ayana without pausing, as if she were simply another face in the crowd. Ayana felt her pulse quicken, and then she deliberately loosened her shoulders, the way Celia had taught her.
The house lights dimmed, and a wave of applause rolled through the hall. The Monarchs walked onstage in matching dark suits, instruments gleaming, their steps perfectly timed. Dylan Pierce, their lead singer at twenty-two, took the centre microphone with the easy confidence of someone born to a stage. He smiled at the crowd, lifted a hand in greeting, and the cheers grew louder. Behind him, the band settled into place: drums, guitars, keyboards, and backing singers, all polished to a shine.
Then they began, and there was no denying their power. The drums struck like a heartbeat, deep and exact. The guitars rang out in bright, clean lines. The keyboards filled every corner of the hall with sound, and Dylan's voice soared over it all, strong and controlled. It was loud, it was fast, and it was technically superb. Every note landed where it was supposed to land. Every harmony locked into place. The crowd clapped along, some people rising halfway out of their seats, and a few shouted their approval between songs.
Ayana watched with honest admiration, because she knew how much work a performance like this required. She could hear the rehearsals in it — the hours, the discipline, the repetition. Dylan moved across the stage with grace, never missing a cue, never losing the beat. The band followed him like a well-oiled machine, each player knowing exactly when to step forward and when to fall back. It was impressive, and the audience loved it. By the second song, the whole hall seemed to be moving as one.
And yet, as the set went on, something small and stubborn began to nag at Ayana. The performance was flawless, but it felt finished before it began, like a picture already framed and hung on a wall. The smiles were perfect, but they never changed. The loud moments were loud, and the soft moments were soft, but they arrived exactly when Ayana expected them to, as if the music were following a map rather than a feeling. She glanced at Evelyn, who was listening with her head tilted, her eyes thoughtful rather than dazzled.
"It's very good," Evelyn whispered, leaning close. "But do you hear a person in it, or only a band?"
Dylan sang a final, soaring note, and the band crashed into a big, gleaming finish. The crowd erupted, rising to its feet, clapping and cheering and whistling. Dylan bowed with a grin, and the band members bowed beside him, soaking in the noise. Everett Sloane, watching from the side of the stage, nodded with satisfaction, as if the matter were already settled. He clapped slowly, deliberately, and looked out at the judges as if to say: there, you see.
Jalen leaned toward Ayana. "They're good," he whispered. "Really good."
"They are," Ayana said. "But good is not the same as true."
Delia patted her knee. "You just remember what your grandmother said. Bigger kitchen. Same song."
As the applause faded and the stagehands moved quietly to clear the space, Ayana felt a strange calm settle over her. The Monarchs had done exactly what they were built to do, and they had done it well. The crowd's cheers still rang in her ears. But she no longer felt small beside that sound. She felt something else: a clear, steady sense of what her own three minutes were for. Not to be louder. Not to be flashier. To be felt, honestly, by people who were listening with their hearts open.
The announcer's voice came over the speakers, thanking The Monarchs and asking the audience to settle. The lights softened. The stage emptied. Ayana picked up her case, feeling its taped corner under her fingers, and stood. Evelyn squeezed her hand, and then let go. It was almost time to walk onstage alone. She was ready to offer something different: not a machine, but a song, played by one girl with a worn violin and a melody her grandmother used to hum.