Jane's Harmony (Jane's Melody #2) by Ryan Winfield Read Free Book Online

disappointed look on Caleb’s face, he hadn’t either.
    The convention center had been turned into a circus—thirty-foot banners had been draped from the roof advertising the show, media trucks lined the street with satellite dishes extended, and men in yellow “Crew Member” shirts hustled in and out of service doors with cartloads of equipment off-loaded from idling trucks. Several off-duty cops stood in the street, blowing whistles and directing traffic, even though it was at a complete standstill. Jane stood next to Caleb on the faded outdoor red carpet that marked the entry line, fanning herself with the printed e-mail that was their ticket inside.
    “What’s that thing say my call time is again?”
    Jane unfurled the e-mail. “Says ten fifty-five.”
    “Why do you suppose they do that?”
    “Do what?” Jane asked.
    “They always make it a really specific number, and then they just make you wait anyway. It’s like the doctor’s office. Why can’t it just be eleven?”
    The line inched forward and Jane inched with it. Caleb slid his guitar case up with his foot, sighing. “What time is it now?” he asked.
    Jane glanced at her phone. “Eleven twenty.”
    “Maybe we should just go,” Caleb said.
    Jane turned to look at him and saw that he was frowning. “Oh, baby,” she said. “You’re nervous, aren’t you?”
    “I’m not nervous. I just don’t have all day to stand here and wait on these clowns.”
    “Is Mr. Zigler expecting you at the warehouse later?”
    His shoulders slumped and he looked at his feet. “No.”
    Jane reached and pushed a strand of hair away from his face and tucked it back behind his ear. For just a moment, she could see the boy he had once been.
    “You’ll be fine. They’ll love you. Everyone loves you.”
    The people in front of them fell quiet, and Jane looked up as a fat man with a clipboard emerged from the building and began walking up and down the line, checking call tickets while shouting instructions like a carnival barker.
    “Running a little behind, people,” he called, “so have your tickets and your ID ready when you get to the door. They’ll have a waiver for you to sign at the desk—nothing special, just says that any part of your audition today can and may be edited in any way and broadcast on national or international television, cable, Internet, or via any other means, whether you’re selected to participate in the show or not. But that’s why you’re all here anyway, right? No biggie. Standard waiver. Nothing special. If you need to read it before signing, please step off to the side so that others can go ahead. I’ll say it again, if you don’t want to be passed up, have your call tickets and ID ready . . .”
    It was thirty more minutes before they made it into the convention center, where they were sorted and grouped and given a colored lanyard. Then they had to wait another thirty minutes before being herded along with the others into a large room. They took seats in front of an enormous projection screen, and a woman told them to pay close attention to the video, then she dimmed the lights. The screen blinked on and a sheet of music appeared and caught on fire. When the paper had burned away, these flaming words remained:
    SINGER-SONGWRITER SUPERSTAR
    The video went on to explain the show.
    Today they were filming acoustic or a cappella auditions in front of their panel of five music industry executives. The judges would vote with thumbs-up or thumbs-down, and each artist needed a perfect score of five thumbs-up to advance. The winning artists from each city would then be flown to Los Angeles the following month to participate in the show, where they would compete against the other acts for America’s votes and a half-million-dollar recording contract. The acts could be solo artists or duos but had to perform only original material.
    When the video finished, they were hustled through another door just as a new group was being ushered in