The Spotlight

Chapter 33

The coffee stain on my lyric sheet has dried to the color of old blood, and I can't stop staring at it. Three days since Motown Week ended, and I'm still finding sticky patches of Trisha's "accidental" latte explosion in different places—my shoes, inside my jacket pocket, crystallized on the edge of my phone case. Each discovery feels like finding evidence of a crime scene, which I suppose it was, in its own petty way.

I smooth out the crumpled pages on the kitchen table, running my finger over the blurred ink where my carefully annotated notes used to be. The irony is that her sabotage only made everything clearer. When she'd appeared backstage with that giant latte—"Oh, Riley, I'm so sorry!"—and managed to drench every single page of my prep work just minutes before the full band run-through, something inside me had molded into pure determination.

The memory plays on repeat: the hot splash of coffee across my hands, the gasps from nearby contestants, Trisha's eyes wide with false concern while the corner of her mouth twitched with suppressed satisfaction. The way the brown liquid had pooled in my lap, soaking through my rehearsal clothes, turning my meticulous preparation into papier-mâché.

But she'd miscalculated. She didn't know about the hours I'd spent at the piano earlier that week, trying to find the perfect song. I had started by searching for something to make Gary laugh—scrolling through my phone for Motown songs about vegetables, of all things. "I Heard It Through the Grapevine" came close, but grapes are fruit. I'd gone through dozens of classics, increasingly desperate to find something about carrots or cabbages that would make him smile during our Monday session.

Nothing. Motown, apparently, had not been concerned with vegetable cultivation.

So I'd settled on "You Can't Hurry Love" instead—not funny, but perfect in other ways. It was my mother's favorite Supremes song, one she'd sing while doing dishes, her voice carrying through our old house like sunlight. I knew every word, every breath, every subtle shift in Diana Ross's delivery. The annotations on those ruined sheets had been more for show than necessity; the song lived in my head.

Standing there dripping with coffee, watching Trisha's barely concealed glee, I'd felt something shift. Not anger exactly, but something sweeter. She'd given me a gift without knowing it. Every drop of that latte became fuel, every ruined note transformed into determination.

"I don't need the sheets," I'd told the frantic stage manager, wiping coffee from my face with as much dignity as I could muster. "I know the song."

And I did. When I walked onto that stage for the run-through, still damp and reeking of coffee beans and milk, I sang "You Can't Hurry Love" like my life depended on it. Every line became a declaration, every chorus a promise that no amount of spilled coffee could wash away what mattered. The band had to scramble to keep up with my energy, the brass section grinning as they caught my fire.

By the time the live show rolled around, I was untouchable. I'd channeled every ounce of frustration into joy, every moment of sabotage into triumph. The audience felt it too—on their feet before I'd even finished, their applause drowning out the final notes.

Nicole danced along. Louis called it "proper Motown magic." Tulisa noted how "fun and exciting" the performance was. And Gary—Gary had simply nodded, but his eyes held something that looked like pride mixed with something else, something warmer that made my chest tight.

The real vindication came during results night. Trisha in the bottom two, her technically perfect but soulless rendition of "Stop! In the Name of Love" failing to save her. She'd hit every note, nailed every choreographed move, but there was nothing behind it. There was only empty precision, like a music box playing in an empty room.