The Spotlight

Chapter 23

I wake to a knife in my throat—or that's what it feels like anyway. My hand flies to my neck, fingers pressing gingerly against the tender flesh as if I could somehow massage away the stabbing pain. It's worse than yesterday. So much worse. I swallow experimentally and wince as fire races down my throat. This is bad. This is really, really bad.

The morning light filtering through my curtains seems unnecessarily cheerful compared to the dread pooling in my stomach. My brain clicks into gear, and panic rises in my chest like floodwater. Gary will be here in less than an hour, and I have three days until Friday's live show. And my throat feels like I've been gargling glass all night.

I sit up too quickly, my head spinning slightly as I swing my legs over the bed. The floor is cold against my bare feet, but I barely notice it as I stumble toward the bathroom. My reflection in the mirror looks haunted—pale face, dark circles under my eyes, hair a tangled mess. I press my fingers against the sides of my neck, feeling for swollen glands. They're there, tender and angry.

"No, no, no," I whisper, the words scraping painfully against my raw throat. "Not now. Please, not now."

I fumble around in the bathroom cabinet, knocking over bottles of shampoo and lotion before my fingers close around the cough medicine I took yesterday. I twist off the cap with trembling hands and pour the viscous red liquid into the measuring cup, filling it past the recommended line. I know it's probably not smart to overdose on cough syrup, but desperate times call for desperate measures.

The medicine burns going down, making me wince and grip the edge of the sink. It tastes of artificial cherry and broken dreams. I swallow repeatedly, trying to coat my throat with the syrupy substance, hoping it might numb the pain just enough to get me through rehearsal with Gary.

I unwrap a cough drop next—the last one from the packet—and pop it into my mouth. It sits there like a useless stone, the menthol flavor strong but ineffective against the deep, throbbing ache in my throat. I suck on it anyway, out of pure desperation.

The shower comes next in my frantic morning routine. I turn the water as hot as I can stand it, stepping under the spray and closing my eyes as steam fills the bathroom. For a brief moment, the warm vapor soothes my throat, allowing me to take slightly deeper breaths. I tilt my face up into the spray, letting water run over my closed eyelids, my lips, my chin. For these few minutes, I can pretend that the heat and steam might actually fix me.

But when I step out and wrap myself in a towel, the relief evaporates as quickly as the water droplets on my skin. One experimental hum confirms what I already know—the shower has done almost nothing to improve my condition. If anything, now I'm just a clean, damp version of my miserable self.

I dress quickly, pulling on comfortable jeans and a soft, loose sweater. My movements are mechanical, automatic, while my mind spins with increasingly catastrophic scenarios. What if I can't sing on Friday? What if I get eliminated without even performing? What if Gary thinks I'm not taking the competition seriously enough? What if, what if, what if...

The stairs creak as I make my way down to the kitchen. It is blissfully empty. I fill the electric kettle and flip it on, the familiar click and hum usually comforting. Today, it just sounds like the countdown to disaster.

While the water heats, I rummage through cabinets until I find honey. Tea with honey—my mother's solution to every ailment. I smile faintly at the memory, though it quickly fades as I spoon a generous amount into a mug. The kettle clicks off, and I pour steaming water over a tea bag, watching as the water darkens. The scent rises with the steam, but I can barely smell it—another concerning symptom.

I wrap my hands around the warm mug, letting the heat seep into my palms. I consider walking outside to wait for Gary, like I did yesterday. But standing in the cold morning air would be monumentally stupid right now. My throat constricts at the mere thought. If Gary sees me shivering on the front steps, he'll know something's wrong before I even open my mouth. And I can't risk that. Not when I'm clinging to the slim hope that maybe, just maybe, I can hide how bad this is.