Contestant number 32, Performance slot: Thursday at 7:00 p.m., preliminary round. Her smile was razor sharp. Don't be late, though. Between us, honey, you're wasting money you clearly can't afford to lose.
Tiana took the form, her hand brushing Victoria's deliberately. Victoria jerked back, reaching immediately for her hand sanitizer. I'll see you on that stage, Tiana said quietly. She turned to leave and nearly collided with a man in an expensive suit standing frozen in the doorway.
He was staring at her face like he'd seen a ghost. His coffee cup hung suspended in midair, forgotten. Tiana mumbled an apology and slipped past him. The man, Christopher Hayes, according to the guest judge badge on his lapel, stood motionless for another 3 seconds.
Then he turned to Victoria, his voice carefully controlled. That child, what's her name? Victoria waved dismissively. Nobody important.
Contestant 32, some kid from Riverside. She won't last past preliminaries. They never do. Christopher's throat worked.
How old is she? I don't know, 10 maybe. Victoria's tone said she couldn't care less. Does it matter?
Christopher didn't answer. He couldn't because he just looked into Diane's eyes, staring out from a 10-year-old's face, and his entire carefully constructed world had started to crack. That night, Tiana stood in the bathroom of their apartment, the only working light bulb flickering overhead. She held a marker in her small hand and wrote on her palm, For mama.
The words looked tiny against her brown skin. From the other room came the sound of her mother coughing, the deep rattling kind that had started three months ago and never stopped. Tiana closed her eyes and pressed her hand against her chest, feeling her heartbeat. Baby, you should be sleeping.
Diane stood in the doorway, so thin now that her work uniform hung off her frame. The headscarf she wore had slipped, revealing patches of scalp where chemotherapy had stolen her hair. I'm practicing, Mama. At midnight?
The show's in three days. Diane moved closer, her steps slow and careful. She took Tiana's hand, studying the marker words. Baby girl, I need you to understand something.
Even if you don't win, I'm going to be all right. But if you don't, Mama, Tiana said, her voice cracking. I'm going to win. I have to.
Diane pulled her daughter close, and they stood like that in the flickering light, holding each other up. When did you grow up so fast? Diane whispered. when you got sick. The words hung between them, true and terrible.
The next The next three days passed in a blur. Tiana practiced everywhere. In the hospital stairwell during her mama's shifts, in the empty church sanctuary after school, in the corner of the grocery store parking lot where her mama worked, she sang, Rise up! until the lyrics lived in her bones, until she could feel every word in her chest. Carol Bennett, the black nurse who'd been watching Tiana sing to the pediatric patients for years, found her Wednesday evening in the hospital stairwell.
Tiana was crying, her voice cracking on the high notes. Baby girl, what's wrong? What if I'm not good enough? What if I mess up?
Carol sat down beside her on the cold concrete steps. Listen to me. You know what? You have an anointing.
That's not talent you can buy with lessons or coaches. That's a gift from God himself. She pulled a $20 bill from her purse. It's not much, but when you're up there singing, I want you to remember you're not just singing for your mama.
You're singing for every little Black girl who got told she wasn't enough. You hear me? Tiana nodded, unable to speak You hear me? Carol stood, pulling Tiana up with her.