A girl standing nearby whispers to another as they scan me up and down, looking fearful.

“Fame whore,” one says under her breath.

The other sneers. “Why were you singing with a country star if you’re an eighties rocker?”

Liam interrupts the haters. “Maya, your performance was great.”

My hands, which had stopped shaking when I was talking to Liam, shake even worse than before. I hope people don’t expect a Belle Carol encore, which, considering how much Jesse and Holly have to say about my poor mechanics, may not happen. I mean, I want to do well at this audition and would love to make it into the top thirty, but I’ll be so embarrassed if I bomb onstage. Then, I was singing with a three-time Grammy winner. Now? Not so much.

Mom and Sam go to find seats in the back of the auditorium, and I grab a bottle of water from a refreshments table. I uncap it and sip, taking deep breaths.

Ten minutes later, an older man in a blue pinstripe suit walks out onstage, smoothing his silver hair. He speaks into the microphone. “If you could take your seats, please.” After everyone has finished tripping over each other to sit and the murmuring has died down, the man continues. “As the executive producer for Wannabe Rocker, on behalf of NBC and Rêve Records, I’d like to welcome you to the season twelve semifinals.”

Everyone stars cheering and clapping, and my heart pounds.

“My name is Phil Tyson,” the producer says. “Let me give you a rundown of today’s schedule. Our judges are going to listen to each singer perform.” Mr. Tyson pauses as applause breaks out again. “But this year, we have a new twist.”

The girl to my right leans over. “There’s always a twist!”

“This year, if the judges turn out all three lights on your first-round performance, you’re out. You don’t get feedback from the judges. You’re to leave the stage immediately. You will get a critique from our judges only if your lights stay on.”

Murmurs and gasps fill the auditorium. We don’t get any sort of feedback? That sucks and is kind of heartbreaking. I can’t imagine coming all the way to New York City to perform and then getting kicked off without even knowing why. But it must make for good television. I fidget, trying to get comfy.

“If you make it through the first round today, you’ll get another chance to perform in front of the judges tomorrow. Same rules apply then—if the lights go off, you’ve been cut. If we still have more than thirty people after that, the judges will listen to you again on Wednesday and Thursday until they’ve narrowed the number down to thirty contestants. Got it?”

“Got it,” we all chorus.

Mr. Tyson claps his hands together. “Ready to meet this year’s judges?”

The noise in the auditorium escalates, reminding me of Jesse’s concert at the Opry.

“God, I hope one of the judges is Taylor Swift,” the guy on my other side says. “She’s so hot.” He sounds like a real perv; besides, it should be about her music, not her looks.

The first judge to come out is freaking Dave Matthews, and everyone jumps out of their chairs.

“Ahhhhh!” I yell. I’m going to be performing in front of freaking. Dave. Matthews.

He tells us how honored he is to be here. “I hope I get to see some awesome singers today.” Then he takes his seat at the judges’ table in front of the stage.

The second judge onstage is Joel Madden from Good Charlotte, which makes the girl to my right giddy. She jumps up and down, pumping her fist. Cameramen walk up and down the aisles filming everyone. What a circus this is. I wonder if any of my footage will end up on TV. With so many people auditioning, they’ll probably only show the best and weakest when it comes time to air. That’s usually how it goes.

Mr. Tyson announces the third judge, Annie Lennox! She sings one of my favorite eighties songs, “Here Comes the Rain Again.” I don’t think my blood has ever pulsed this hard.

Mr. Tyson says into the mike, “And now for our fourth and final judge this season. The winner of Wannabe Rocker season three, Jesse Scott!”

I cover my mouth with both hands while all the other contestants clap and holler for Jesse.

“Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God,” I chant. I thought he was in Philly! I thought he was retiring…I thought he blew this gig when he fell off the yacht! Why didn’t he tell me? “Oh my God…”

“Please be seated,” Mr. Tyson announces, and the other contestants sit down, but I keep on standing, touching my throat.

Jesse scans the audience, and his eyes meet mine. His mouth falls open. Then it slowly forms his famous half-cocked smile.