He stood up. "All right. Your segment is in ninety minutes. Use that time however you need. And Amara..." "Yeah." "Whatever happens out there, you're not alone anymore.
Not after tonight. Win or lose, succeed or fail, you're not going back to the streets. That's a promise. Amara's throat tightened. She nodded, not trusting herself to speak.
Daniel walked to the door, then paused and looked back. One more thing. After this is over, however it ends, I want you to come work with me. Not as a charity case, as a partner. Help me fix this broken system.
Help me make sure no other kid gets used the way they tried to use you. "I don't know anything about running a TV network," Amara said. "You know what matters? That's more than most executives can say. He smiled a real smile this time, warm and genuine.
Think about it. Then he was gone. Amara sat alone in the empty lounge for a long time, thinking about her grandmother, about Daniel, about the plan they just made. She thought about the fact that 90 minutes from now she'd be standing on a stage in front of millions of people and Philip Grayson would do everything in his power to make her fail. She should have been terrified.
Instead, she felt something else, something sharp and bright and almost electric. She felt ready. She picked up her guitar, ran her thumb over the duct tape patch near the sound hole, and started tuning the strings by ear. Time to show them what a weapon looked like.
The stage lights hit Amara like a physical force, white hot, blinding, so bright she couldn't see past the first few rows of the audience, but she could hear them. The whisper of programs rustling, the shuffle of feet, a few scattered laughs that cut off quickly, nervously. She stood in the wings waiting for her queue, watching the contestant before her finish. A girl named Stephanie, eighteen, wearing a dress covered in sequins that caught the light like fish scales. She'd just belted out a Whitney Houston song, hitting every note with technical precision.
The audience applauded enthusiastically. Stephanie walked off stage, glowing, accepting congratulations from the other contestants, waiting backstage. She walked right past Amara without a glance. Philip Grayson appeared at Amara's elbow, clipboard in hand, that same smirk on his face. "You're up next, subway girl," he said quietly, just loud enough for her to hear.
"Try not to embarrass yourself too badly. Remember, you're here to make the real talent look good." Amara said nothing, just adjusted the guitar strap on her shoulder. A production assistant, not Chelsea. Someone else clipped a small microphone to the collar of her hoodie. "This is a lavalier mic," she said, her voice professionally cheerful.
"It'll pick up your voice, so you don't need to project too much. Just sing naturally." Amara almost laughed. The microphone wouldn't matter. She knew exactly what was about to happen. Daniel had warned her that he couldn't stop them without blowing the whole plan.
This part she had to handle alone. The host's artificially enthusiastic voice boomed over the speakers. "And now, ladies and gentlemen, we have a very special performance tonight. please welcome to the stage Amara Johnson." The applause was polite, thin, scattered, not hostile, just indifferent.