All I Want Is Everything

Rewarding

Well, I don't know why I came here tonight
I got the feeling that something ain't right
I'm so scared in case I fall off my chair
And I'm wondering how I'll get down the stairs
Clowns to the left of me, jokers to the right
Here I am, stuck in the middle with you

Stealers Wheel, Stuck in the Middle With You

Sam put her hand on his arm and turned her up the red carpet. "Smile for the cameras, Ella," he said through his own smile. Very handsome smile. "What do you mean that was your dad? I thought he was... dead?"

Ella pasted on the best smile she could. "He is dead, damn it. We had to identify the bodies. But damned if that didn't look like his twin. He was just a little leaner than my dad. And his voice." She couldn't repress a shudder. "I haven't heard that in years now. I've missed it."

"Ella, that is weird." Sam took a glance. "Ok, don't cry. This is supposed to be the happiest day of your life." Ella couldn't help a laugh, and he grinned. "That's right. You know you're going to clean up tonight, right?"

"I hope so."

"You got plenty of room in that house of yours to display everything," he teased as they stopped for photographs. The escorting woman got them to the top of the carpet faster than she thought possible, and with a final wave, they went inside.

"Break a leg," Sam said, patting her shoulder. She smiled, still troubled, and booked over to the backstage door.

"Excellent," the wardrober said. "Hair and makeup first, you're looking pale. Happens to most everybody the closer we get to air." Ella sat down, the makeup artist whisked a little more waterproof mascara over her lashes to lengthen them, put on a little more eyeliner, freshened her lipstick with the one she'd brought, and brought up a charming blush on her cheeks before the stylist took over and curled the tendrils. Then she was on her feet and getting zipped into the performance dress.

"Ella Rogers, you're on in five," the PA said, then vanished. Ella looked around and took the envelope out of her purse. It was kind of crumpled. There were no markings on it, and she opened it apprehensively, bringing out a single hand-written sheet.

"'Ella Aoife, I'm sorry to meet you like this, but both you and your brother are difficult to find. You may be wondering how I know your name. I'm your—"

The page and her purse were whisked away from her. "Nope," Brad the PA said. "No time for fan letters. Come on. Are you all warmed up?" No, she had completely forgotten that. Whoops. She quickly started singing scales on the way to the wings, then stopped as soon as she heard Kenny Rogers, the host, talking. "You're on in four, three, two—"

"Ella Rogers, singing 'Gravity,' nominated for Record of the Year and Song of the Year." She was given a microphone and a discreet shove by Brad, and she walked out onto the stage to the gentle piano and strings, opening her mouth and starting to sing.

She'd rehearsed for this moment, both here at the auditorium and in her home, until she'd fine-tuned her intonation, her delivery, her power. She thought she was ready for this.

She was not.

She could hear the audience breathing and rustling, and she was more upset by the strange man who looked so much like her dad than she wanted to admit. The song was already very personal and emotional for her, and she had, by sheer repetition, put some barriers between her performance and the song. As she sang, she sounded heartbroken, feeling tears sting her eyes. She kept looking up at the balcony to keep the tears in her eyes. The lights were bright but not bright enough to hide the audience from her, and she felt like she'd stripped herself bare in front of them.