The Spotlight

Chapter 26

I pace the dim corridor backstage, my footsteps silent against the industrial carpet worn thin from years of nervous contestants just like me. The air hangs heavy with hairspray, sweat, and anticipation—a peculiar cocktail that's become oddly familiar these past few weeks.

Around me, makeup artists dart between contestants with brushes poised like weapons. Production assistants with headsets march in every direction, their clipboards clutched against chests like armor. It's the usual havoc before a live show, but tonight everything feels amplified—perhaps colored by the shadow of illness that nearly ended my journey here.

I take another sip from my water bottle—my second in twenty minutes. The cold liquid slides down smoothly, with no hint of the raw inflammation that had silenced me for days.

"Riley?"

I turn to face a production assistant—the same one who's been my shepherd since arriving this afternoon. She's young, with a messy ponytail and dark circles that suggest a week fueled by nothing but coffee and adrenaline.

"Yes?" I ask.

"There's been a change to the running order," she says, wincing slightly. "You'll be performing last tonight."

The words hit me like a physical blow. Last. The final act. The position that can make or break a contestant. I've watched enough X Factor to know that closing the show is both a blessing and a curse—the audience remembers you, but the pressure becomes astronomical.

"Last?" I repeat, my voice catching. "But I thought—"

"I know, I'm sorry. The producers just finalized it." She glances at her clipboard. "You'll be on after Dean."

I nod automatically, but my mind races, thoughts tumbling like clothes in a dryer. After every other contestant has had their chance. After the audience has sat through an entire show. After the judges have formed opinions on everyone else.

The production assistant squeezes my arm sympathetically before hurrying away, leaving me alone with my spiraling thoughts. My stomach plummets. Will the mechanical bull routine work as a finale? Is "Hot Fudge" exciting enough to close the show?

I find the nearest chair and sink into it, my legs suddenly unreliable. Being last means the longest wait, the most time for nerves to build. But it also means something else: the producers think I'm strong enough to close the show. Or are they setting me up to fail? It's impossible to tell with reality television—what serves the narrative they're crafting?

The most significant aspect of performing last: my performance will be the final impression viewers carry when they pick up their phones to vote. I'll be freshest in their minds—for better or worse.

I take a deep breath, trying to steady my trembling hands. Three, two, one, inhale. Three, two, one, exhale.

Across the corridor, David paces in tight circles, lips moving silently as he rehearses lyrics. He catches me watching and flashes a thumbs-up, his warm smile momentarily cutting through my anxiety. David's performing Gary's song tonight—"Pray." The irony isn't lost on me.

I stand, smoothing down the embellished fringe jacket Sofia fitted me with earlier. The leather shorts feel strange against my skin—worlds away from my usual jeans. But they're part of my persona tonight: the cowgirl pop rock star, confident enough to climb onto a mechanical bull on live television.

I stretch my arms overhead, rolling my shoulders, trying to physically shake off my anxiety. This nervous energy needs transformation into something useful, something that will fuel my performance rather than sabotage it.

"Thirty minutes to broadcast," announces a voice over the PA system.

Thirty minutes until the show begins. Maybe two hours until my performance, given my position in the lineup. The thought accelerates my heart rate again, but I push back against the panic. I am not the same Riley who auditioned weeks ago, terrified and unsure. I've grown. I've improved. I've survived a setback that could have sent me home without even getting the chance to perform.