Just One Voice

•Proving It•

~3~

The usual subtle surge of vibration rattles its way up my limbs as the elevator climbs to the seventh floor.

A familiar bell noise chimes as the doors open up into my penthouse. Max and I slide our backpacks onto the cold hardwood floor and I dramatically throw myself onto the firm gray leather couch.

Max somehow always seems to wander over to the big wall of glass windows that reveal an illuminated cityscape.

"I literally never get tired of this view." He states, as if it was the first time he had laid eyes on such an awe.

"I've noticed." My lips fall into a loose smile, pleased that I can entertain his artistic mind.

Maybe this place is a wonder to Max, but he doesn't have to live here. Sure, it's a nice house, jaw-dropping even, and I'm blessed to live under any roof at all.

But there's a difference between a house and a home.

Every last object in this apartment is state of the art, the newest model and or customary—which basically means a mini heart attack every time anything is touched. I don't know, this is the only residence I have ever known. It's just feels almost as through it's missing something.

"Are we just going to record on your iPhone?" Max awakens me from my thoughts.

"No. I think mom has a camera that will work." I rise from my position sprawled on the sofa and turn towards the staircase.

"Knowing you guys, she probably has an entire movie crew up there." He teases.

I choke back the reality of the comment as I continue with my ascending our marble spiral staircase. Not really helping my cause here.

Only a couple moments later, I remake my way back through the long hallway with a big recording contraption in my hands and a small amount of makeup touched to my face.

I can't help feeling obligated to stop in front of a huge detailed mirror supported by the crisp white colored wall. How does one even dress for an audition to a top arts school? Professional? It's not college. Edgy? I don't want to seem lazy and unmotivated. Am I over thinking this whole thing? Most likely.

Definitely.

But maybe not.

I'm never going to be content with how I look anyway, so I might as well stay in this outfit. Its's not anything to take a double glance at, but I like it.

My favorite pair of black skinny jeans topped with a blush pink blouse that compliments my skin tone is overlapped with a perfectly distressed jean jacket. My feet are sheltered in black boots accented with gold zippers that match the jewelry draped from my neck and laying over my collar bones. Miraculously, my usually frizzy hair has decided to not be as stubborn today, and has calmed down since Max messed with it. I adjust it nonetheless, before joining Max once again downstairs and handing him the camera.

"Dang," he says, falsely pretending it is the heaviest thing that has ever been placed in his arms, "how much does one like this cost?"

"I don't even want to know." I admit.

"Okay, well do you have a song picked out?"

"Uh, yeah I guess." I bite my lip while pulling up the Notes app on my phone. Hesitantly, I start citing the lyrics I had arranged. We haven't even begun filming yet and my hands already feel sweaty, weak and clammy.

Did I mention sweaty?

"No way. Not it." Max waves his hand, pushing something imaginary towards the left and signaling for the next piece.