Page 14 of Stolen Voices

“Do you need help, Ms. Wright?” He holds out his hand.

I hesitate as my dad’s voice races through my head. “Don’t let them see weakness.”

Twisting the gold band on my thumb, I shake my head. “I’m good. Thank you, Mike.”

Throwing my gym bag strap over my shoulder, I twist my body, take a deep breath, and brace myself as I place my feet on the curb. I hiss at the sharp stabbing pain in my knee as I stand. Refusing to touch the tender spot, I take a few tentative steps and breathe through the pain as I make my way to the entrance. It’s going to be a long, grueling day of rehearsals and choreography before I can find peace in the soundproof recording booth at the studio and rest my leg.

My mind drifts to yesterday’s accident. My heel snapped off as I stepped onto the moving platform, and I fell face first towards the ground. Fear struck me like a shot of ice to the chest, freezing me dead. Luckily, the stage box moved, and my knee slammed against the edge instead. The impact pushed my body out of trajectory, and I landed on my back.

If the heel had snapped after the box rose ten feet from the floor, I could have been seriously hurt or worse. I shudder at the thought as anxiety zips through me. Besides the fall, there have been a few other incidents that have me worried.

Last week, I got locked in the hot wardrobe closet under the moving stage. Thank goodness Hudson found me and I’d only spent ten minutes there shouting for someone to let me out. Hudson ended the rehearsal early and screamed at every stagehand, threatening to fire each one of them if something like that happened again.

Then there are the late-night phone calls. I’m met with silence every time I answer. Other times, I feel like I’m being watched, but when I look around, I can’t find anything or anyone out of the ordinary.

Like right now. I search the parking lot, paranoid like the boogie man is going to jump out at me.

I flinch as Mike slams the car door and rushes to catch up with me. He opens the front door and escorts me inside the building. Aside from a few stagehands, the space is lifeless. Only a wide variety of equipment that will make up the stage for my tour fills the space.

Being the first to arrive, I embrace the quiet. I prefer doing my vocal warmups alone in my dressing room. It helps ease my nerves before everyone trickles in for the day. The idea of performing in front of thousands of people still scares the hell out of me.

Sure, I’ve starred in movies and have opened for other musicians, but headlining a tour is very different. On a movie set, I can retake a scene if I mess up. There’s also less pressure to open a concert for someone else. With my tour, everything reflects me and there are no retakes. Everything must be perfect—from the set list to my singing and dancing, to my outfits.

Ugh, the outfits.

They are so uncomfortable to dance in, and a part of me feels like they are way over the top and sparkly, but what Silla wants, she gets. So, dancing in four-inch heels, which are color coordinated to match each set dress, is what I’ll do.

Mike follows me backstage, towards my dressing room. He takes his spot outside as I head inside and close the door. It’s nothing extravagant, but I like it. Aside from my apartment, it’s the only place that feels like mine.

A velvet-soft purple loveseat and matching ottoman are situated to the right against the wall, next to a mini fridge full of water. The small white coffee table to the left holds a four-pound jar of red vines, and an endless supply of pens and notebooks, while my guitar sits on a stand to the right. A rack of costumes lines the wall to the left that also leads to a small ensuite bathroom, while the back wall contains a fully lit vanity with a plush, lavender, wide-seat wingback chair and wall-to-wall mirrors.

Contrary to what Silla requests, this is the only stuff I allow in this space. The rest is up in her so-called office. When Hudson came to find me here, he noticed most of the things on my list of dressing room requirements weren’t present.

When he questioned me about it, I tried to shrug it off, saying the space was too small, but I’m a horrible liar. Hudson saw right through me. He has yet to voice his concern or ask me about it. I see the way he watches me and Silla interact. I’ve wanted to tell him all about our twisted relationship, but something holds me back every time.

I drop my bag on the floor and lie down on the couch. Closing my eyes, I take a few deep breaths and let the words I’ve memorized as a child fill the air.

My mother loved this song. She sang it no matter her mood. Feeling happy? SingSomewhere Over the Rainbow.Sad, mad, frustrated, or excited? She’d belt it out at the top of her lungs. She had the most beautiful voice I’ve ever heard, and it used to bring me so much joy to come home from school to her singing in the kitchen. I’d watch my dad come up behind her and kiss her cheek. She’d throw her head back and laugh before singing again as she cooked or washed dishes.

Then, one day, it all just stopped.

Now, I cling to the memories of her. The way she ran her hand through my hair and the sound of her sweet voice as I fell asleep and dreamed about rainbows and blue birds.

When I was about eight or nine, I recall asking her why it was her favorite song.

She brushed my hair behind my ear. “My sweet girl, when a song reaches inside you—down to the deepest part of your soul—and brings out an emotion, you’ve come face to face with the beauty of music. One day, if you’re lucky, you’ll find a song that does that for you.”

“I like your song.” I snuggled deeper into her side, my head on her chest.

She rested her cheek on my crown. “Me too.”

I listened to mom’s heartbeat. “Can you teach me how to write a song like you do?”

“Really?” She sounded surprised.

I nodded shyly. “Maybe we can write a song that makes people happy too.”

“I’d love that, sweet pea.” Mom hugged me tight, and my eyes closed as I drifted off to sleep.