Meeting Day Salvatore (1)

"I see they're holding auditions for local pop idols," August said, his voice almost drowned out by the chatter of the bustling market. He paused in front of a faded poster that was barely clinging to the weathered brick wall.

The colors had long since faded, and the paper was worn thin, but the words still stood out to him.

He traced a finger over the bold print, his mind racing with possibilities.

Celine, her arms weighed down by two oversized bags of broccoli, glanced over at him with a disbelieving frown. She shifted her stance, the plastic handles cutting into her fingers.

"An audition, August? Are you serious? We're barely scraping by, and you're thinking about auditions? This isn't some quick fix, you know."

August kept his eyes on the poster, as if it held all the answers to his problems. "I know it's not. But the audition's free. No entry fee, no ticket, nothing. It's local, too. I'm just thinking… maybe it's a chance for people to see me, to recognize me."

Celine let out a heavy sigh, her breath fogging up in the cool morning air. She adjusted her grip on the bags, the weight of them making her arms ache.

"Recognize you? You went to that engagement party, and everyone heard your name—'August Farley, August Farley.' But did they even know that you were the August Farley? No! Now you think they'd know your face? When are you going to learn, August?"

August winced at her words but didn't back down. "Fine, maybe I would tell them my name then and they'd recognize me by that," he muttered, more to himself than to her. His mind raced with possibilities—if he could just get in front of the right people...

"The same name that's been dragging you down," Sleeve said, her voice heavy with frustration. She shifted the bags again, her fingers turning white from the strain.

"The same name that makes people say 'no' before you even open your mouth? You're asking for the thirtieth rejection, August. I'll go over to that stall and see if I can sell this broccoli off to that old woman."

August watched her start to walk away, the bags rustling like leaves caught in a strong wind.

He knew she was right, but something in him just couldn't let go of the thought. He stared at the poster again, muttering under his breath, "I'll just go for it anyway… It's free."

He tore the poster from the wall, crumpling it slightly in his hand before shoving it into his pocket. The sound of it crunching seemed louder than it should have, echoing in his ears as if mocking his decision.

He sighed deeply, shaking his head to clear his doubts.

But as he took the first steps towards the audition venue, a sudden thought hit him like a cold splash of water.

"Reed… Did I leave the door unlocked?" Panic gripped him, and he stopped dead in his tracks. "I always lock the door, right? Always… But did I this time?"

He stood there, frozen for a moment, his mind racing back to the morning.

He saw himself grabbing the keys, turning them in the lock—but had he done it today? The thought gnawed at him, but he shook it off.

"Yeah, yeah, I did. I must've. I always do," he reassured himself, though a small part of him still wasn't convinced.

*

When he finally reached the audition venue, he was met with a sight that made his heart sink—a line. A long, winding line that snaked out the door and around the corner.

The sound of chatter, nervous laughter, and the occasional hum of someone practicing a tune filled the air.

August stared at the line, his shoulders sagging slightly. "This is really going to take forever," he muttered, running a hand over his face.

Just as he was about to turn and leave, thinking it might not be worth the wait, an elderly man's voice cut through the noise. "Hey, pretty boy in the hat!"

The man's voice was raspy but carried an unexpected warmth, like an old record player struggling to play a familiar tune.

August turned to see an older man, his face crinkled into a wide grin, waving him over. "You here for the audition?"

"Uh, yeah, I guess so," August replied, caught off guard by the man's enthusiasm.

"Guess so?" The man chuckled, his laugh a deep rumble that shook his whole frame. "Well, you're in the right place then! Can you sing? Dance? You look like you could, with a face like that!"

"Uh, sure," August lied, forcing a smile. His heart was pounding, a nervous thump that he could feel in his throat.

"Good, good!" The man clapped him on the back, almost knocking the wind out of him. "Come on in, kid! We've got all sorts here. And guess what? There's a famous person here today! Or so they say—he's wearing a mask. Can you believe it? Probably some local pop star slumming it with the rest of us!"

The man's words hung in the air as August thanked him and made his way inside.

The door creaked loudly as it swung shut behind him, the sound echoing off the bare walls.

Inside, the place was buzzing with activity—voices mingling with the sound of shuffling feet, the rustle of paper as people signed in, and the occasional thud as someone dropped a guitar case or stumbled over a chair.

A young woman at the registration table handed him a number tag without even looking up. "You're up next after that guy," she said, pointing to a lanky man who was nervously bouncing on his toes, his arms moving awkwardly in what seemed to be a desperate attempt at warming up.

"Next?" August's voice was almost a squeak, his eyes widening as he realized how close he was to actually having to perform.

He looked at the guy in front of him, who was now doing some sort of interpretive dance that involved a lot of wild arm movements and spinning in place. The guy looked like he was having a seizure, but no one seemed to notice. Who knew that was a dance move?

The woman at the table finally looked up, her gaze softening slightly when she saw the panic on August's face. "If you need anything—a guitar, some music—just let me know," she offered with a small, encouraging smile.

"Thanks," August croaked out, his throat dry as sandpaper.

He looked down at his hands, which were trembling slightly. "What am I doing?" he muttered to himself, trying to steady his breathing. "I can't sing. I can't dance. What the hell am I doing here?"

But as the thought of having to feed Reed, pay for special care for him and also take him to school so he doesn't end up being a blue boy amongst fair skinned, he knew there was no turning back. He had to try.

Maybe, just maybe, this time would be different. Someone might notice him and offer him a helping hand.