Chapter 12: The Second Round
Backstage at Meridian Television Studios, the air smelled of hot lights and strong coffee. Miriam Cole sat before a mirror that was too bright, wearing a simple dark dress, and tried to keep her hands still. Beyond the curtain, the audience murmured and settled.
"You look steady," Lena Ortiz said, appearing beside her. Lena was thirty, with her hair pinned back and a smile that did not hide her nerves. "I am not steady at all, so I am borrowing yours."
"You can borrow it," Miriam said. "Just bring it back after."
Lena laughed, and the sound loosened something in Miriam's chest. They had met in rehearsal the week before, and Lena had been kind from the start, asking about the song, not about the clip. She sang with a clear, bright voice, and she worked hard, arriving early and leaving late. Miriam liked her at once, and liked her more for not pretending the competition was not real.
"I heard your song in rehearsal," Lena said. "It made me think of my grandmother's kitchen. That is a dangerous thing to do to another singer before she goes on."
"Yours made me want to practise more," Miriam said honestly. "So we are even."
Marcus Webb, the host, came through, warm and unhurried. He stopped beside Miriam and smiled.
"You know this room already," he said. "You have cleaned it. Tonight you only have to sing in it."
Miriam nodded. She had mopped this stage at night, when it was empty and dark. Now it was lit and full, but the work was the same: do the job in front of you, carefully.
Priya Raman, the producer, checked her clipboard. "Miriam, you are third. Lena, you are fifth. Sing the song you brought. No surprises."
The first two singers went on, and Miriam listened from the wings, counting her breaths the way Ruth had taught her. She thought of the church hall, of Ruth tapping her knee, of breath low and slow.
When her name was called, the lights seemed brighter than she remembered. She walked to the centre mark, felt the floor steady under her shoes, and looked out at a blur of faces. For a second her throat tightened. Then she remembered Ruth's words: do not apologise for singing. Take the time the line needs.
She sang "Bread and a Song." It was her own song, about her mother, about work that never quite ended, about raising Denise on wages that had to stretch. She sang it simply, without decoration, letting each phrase breathe. The line about bread on the table came out round and steady. The line about a song carried through a long day held, quiet and clear. She did not rush the ending. She let the last note fade on its own, the way Ruth had taught her, and then she lowered her hands.
For a beat, the studio was silent. Then the applause came, full and warm, and Miriam felt her shoulders drop. She smiled, thanked the audience, and walked off, her legs a little unsteady.
In the wings, Lena squeezed her arm. "That was beautiful," she whispered. "Now I have to follow it. Thank you very much."
"You will be fine," Miriam said. "Sing it like you mean it."
Lena went on fifth, after a short break. From the wings, Miriam watched her take the stage with confidence and sing beautifully, her voice bright and controlled, rising cleanly through a difficult passage that made the audience lean forward. It was a different kind of singing from Miriam's, younger and lighter, but no less honest. When Lena finished, the applause was just as strong, and Miriam clapped until her hands stung.
Backstage afterwards, the two women sat together with cups of water. The waiting felt longer than the singing had.
"Whatever happens," Lena said, "I am glad I met you. You make the room feel larger."
"Thank you," Miriam said.
Marcus returned with the results, holding an envelope the way he always did, without drama. He read the names of those going through to the next round, slowly, so everyone could hear. Miriam heard Lena's name first, and she turned and hugged her. Then she heard her own name, and for a moment she could not move at all.
Both of them were through.
Lena laughed and cried at the same time. "We did it," she said. "Both of us. Now we have to do it again, only harder."
Miriam nodded, feeling the tiredness and the relief settle together. "Then we practise," she said. "No shortcuts. Just work."
They walked out together into the cooler night air, still in their dresses, still carrying the evening with them. The studio doors closed behind them, and the city sounds returned: traffic, distant music, a bus sighing to a stop. Miriam thought of Denise waiting at home, of Ruth waiting for Thursday, of Earl waiting for his shift. The second round was done. The next one would ask for more, and she was ready to give it.