Page 7 of Going Solo (The Brent Boys #2)
Chapter Five
I f there was applause as I walked onto the stage, I couldn’t hear it over the sound of my heart pounding out a drum solo in my ears. Felicity Quant spoke, but I didn’t hear that either. I felt my hands start to shake and stuck them in my back pockets. I saw myself on a screen. I couldn’t have looked more terrified if the clown from IT was staring back up at me from the orchestra pit.
“Name?” Felicity sounded impatient. I’d made her repeat herself. This was off to a terrible start.
My voice squeaked out of me like I’d swallowed an accordion. I cleared my throat and tried again.
“And where are you from, Toby?”
I said Colchester, and the home crowd cheered.
“You seem nervous, ástin min.” That was Johanna Thorsdóttir—the compassionate voice on the panel—throwing out her much-loved Icelandic catchphrase to please the fans. “ástin Min” was the name of her hit Eurovision song. Apparently, it was a term of endearment that meant “my love,” but it could have been an Icelandic brand of tinned herring for all I knew. “Deep breaths,” she said, her piercing blue eyes offering reassurance. “Everyone in this room wants you to succeed.”
The crowd clapped. I took a deep breath, pulled my hands from my back pockets, and shook them out. In the corner of my eye, I saw Cole standing at the side of the stage. He gave me a thumbs up. God, even his thumbs were fit.
The music started. My voice croaked on the first note, and I felt my throat close over. I only had one shot at this, so I coughed, found my voice, and gave it my all. The next ninety seconds were a complete blur. When I was done, Johanna responded first.
“We could hear the nerves at the start, but once you hit your stride, you delivered an anthem. Why did you choose ‘Firework’?”
“It’s about personal acceptance, innit, and I find that empowering,” I said, exactly as I’d rehearsed in my bedroom mirror. “Katy Perry dedicated it to the It Gets Better campaign, which is all about supporting the LGBTQ-plus community.”
“Are you a member of the LGBTQ-plus community yourself, Toby?” Johanna asked.
“Non-practising, babes, but yes,” I said. The audience laughed.
“Well, you did them proud, ástin min.” She hit the button for the big green tick, and I dared to hope.
Robbie criticised my ropey start, my vocal range, and my “lack of broad appeal”—which was Make Me a Pop Star code for too gay, too brown, too fat, or too ugly. With my Ultra Rich Sunny Honey Bali Bronze Spray Tan, I was arguably a full house.
“You’re not a pop star, mate.” He pressed his button, and a big red cross appeared above his head. “That’s just how it is.”
I felt my dream slipping, and my heart rate doubled. The crowd booed. At least they were on my side. Sometimes the judges kept you in if you were a crowd-pleaser. But had I done enough? My nerves couldn’t have been more wrung out if a nineteenth-century laundry maid had fed them through a mangle.
“You’re a real entertainer, there’s no doubt you’ve got charisma,” Felicity said. That was worryingly non-committal. There was a long pause while she riffled through some papers. “I want to see what else you can do,” she said, looking up, as a big green tick appeared above her head. “Congratulations, you’re coming to London.”