“A
ll kids with surnames from D to G, step forward and sit on the front bench!” bellows Mr. Mazeika into the megaphone. His invitation echoes through the schoolyard.

Daina’s classmates jostle across the concrete to show their talent. She struggles to keep her own excitement caged. Vilnius is so out of reach, she might as well stay put. But she can’t help herself. The chance to try out dazzles her. Drama, song, opportunity... How far can her voice take her?

Imposing, stone-faced officials hunch over their notepads. Students shuffle into place. A bright white circle chalked onto the concrete in the center of the yard simulates the national spotlight. One by one, the students step up to the mic and belt out the songs they have prepared. They aren’t given much time, and more often than not, their performance is cut short. The judges move the kids along like so many robots in a production line. Daina’s foot taps to the music. Before she can get too worked up, it’s her turn to try to impress.

Shakily, she approaches the magical circle. After wiping her palms on the edge of her blouse, she picks up the mic and swallows. Eyes. So many eyes. All upon her. The sky feels low. The concrete looms unnaturally close. She closes her eyes and thinks of her song, the one she’s been practicing every waking hour. As the words slip off her tongue, she lets the air glide through her vocal chords, stretching a syllable, steadying a wobble, perfecting her pitch as she blends with the plaintive tune.

Even when her eyes open wide again, she sees only a blurry rush of patterns, feeling a depth of emotion she cannot begin to explain. She is charged. Electrified. Daina tapers off into the low notes and is about to belt a final flourish into the mic when a man in a waistcoat and gray fedora stops her.

“You’re good. Nice voice. I wonder whether you’d be able to hit the high notes.”

The panelists speak among themselves. As their voices carry across the open mics, Daina hears nothing but garbled mumbling in a haze of static. A stout woman wearing bejeweled glasses peers at her and says, “Give us that stanza again, one scale higher. Can you do that?”

Daina’s eyes sweep her feet, and she fidgets with the mic. But drawing on the man’s compliment, she breathes in and starts again. When asked to repeat it, she sings a second time, then a third. Until the man raises his palm. They’re done.

She glances back at the bench, wondering whether she should dash back, when a thunderous rush of applause grabs her. They love her song. Her song! Floating on a stream of vanished, tinkling notes, Daina nods to the judges, slips the mic into its cradle, and steps out of the bright circle.

“Mzzz Gorskis! Wheeere have you been hiding? Such deliiightful talent!” Laima rolls her tongue and claps her hand, mimicking the national panelists to perfection. She claps Daina’s back. “I’ve never heard you singing like that before. Howdja do it?”

Daina shrugs. “Just did.”

A girl with neon-green glasses rushes toward her. “Hey! Your mother wants you, at the gate. Hurry, she says you’re late.”

“Gotta go,” Daina mutters, turning to fetch her schoolbag.

“Where ya off to?”

“No idea!” she shouts over her shoulder. Mind your own business, she feels like adding. But she really, truly, has no idea.

(Excerpted from Family First, Issue 615)