For Me

“My name is Matilda Collins, and this is For Me.”

I take a breath, set my stance, and say it again. “My name is Matilda Collins, and this is For Me.”

My voice is too high. Reedy, like a little kid’s. I picture myself in stilettos and a ballgown, strutting on stage as the audience cheers, and try to speak more deeply, the way the boys do. All the women are jealous of me and all the girls want to grow up to be me. In my future, I’m receiving a Grammy, and Mom’s sitting in the front row, laugh-crying as I’m handed the golden gramophone. 

I reopen my eyes and the illusion shatters, returning me to short thin Matilda Collins in a ratty dress that’d look better on an 8-year-old, with no curves or friends to speak of. Matilda Collins who will die in a ditch starved to death with nothing except the clothes on my back.

“My name is Matilda Collins, and this is For Me.”

My eyes are too big. I stare into the mirror and blink a few times. Turning my head side to side, I can see that they’re kind of bulbous, permanently surprised. They’re entirely out of place set against my protruding cheekbones and sharp chin. For a moment my eyes remind me of my dad from what photos I've seen, and I immediately decide I hate them.

I fancy there are visible bags under my eyes despite the entire tube of foundation I smeared on. The first time I was on stage, Mom fussed over me with a makeup set she dug out of the boxes in the attic. She put on foundation, highlights, contouring, eyebrow pencil, mascara, her favourite cherry red lipstick when she was young - the works, until I felt like a princess - then finished with a dusting of blush. “Fairy dust,” she said, because I was her little fairy. I touch my face and my fingers come away sticky. I haven't applied any blush.

I stand up and take another deep breath. I don't pace out of sheer force of will. A few weeks ago, a yoga instructor came into our P.E. class and talked about balance and alignment and connection with your body and environment. "Identify negative thoughts," she said, "and cast them aside." Well here's a thought for you, lady, and it's not even negative.

I have no idea what I'm doing. They'll laugh me off the stage.

For a moment I entertain the notion of picking up my backpack and walking out the door. It certainly wouldn't be hard. I didn't talk to anybody on the way in, so nobody knows me, and nobody will miss me. I could slip out during the afterglow of the last performance and catch a bus home. Tell Mom I was at a friend’s. She wouldn't even know I was here. They’ll announce me and when nobody shows, they’ll move on. It’s what everybody does.

"It doesn't matter what they think," I say, parroting my teacher. But the words are hollow, because I’ve never been much for lying to myself, and it matters painfully much. It matters because this is my chance to do something that will give me more than a life lived off of government subsidies with too many bastard kids. It matters because if I play this right, I'll be more than pitiful Matilda Collins who is so mediocre it hurts.

The song - a weirdly romantic lullaby - ends and the only other person left in the waiting room wiggles her fingers at me as she walks through the door.

I’m the grande finale. I’m not sure how to feel about that.

I place a hand over my chest, then shift it left until I find my heart. It feels less like it’s beating out of my chest and more like every beat is a gunshot and it’s surprised I’m not yet a mutilated corpse. My breaths are quickly turning harsh and ragged. I know the performer is singing something hip-hop and the audience is clapping, but my ears are ringing and I'm alone in a dark room with only my too-loud pants for company. My face is flushed and I’m thinking it’s good I don’t have any blush on because I must already look like a tomato; my body is slick and uncomfortably warm but when I join my hands they're blocks of ice; I’m collapsing to the floor but it feels like the ceiling, and I know, in that instant, that I can’t go on stage. Not like this. I can’t, because my cheeks are red and I look eight and the audience is rearing above me with fangs and poison and they’re jeering, spewing vitriol like schoolyard bullies but so much more effective and Mom hates that I’m doing this and my cheeks are wet.

My cheeks are wet. I’m crying. 

It’s a conscious effort to take a breath. My lungs feel like shattered glass and they shudder as I slowly exhale. 

Breathing is nice. I do it again. And again, and again, until my heartbeats feel less like gunshot heartbeats and more like regular beating-out-of-my-chest heartbeats. 

I go hunting for a tissue and dab the tears off my cheeks. I lick my lips just to know I can and it tastes of salt and lipstick. My makeup is totally ruined now, what little of it there was. I’m surprised to find I don’t care.

I’ve just stood up again when the girl before me finishes her song, belting out the final note in a pitch that should be impossible for humans to hear, let along sing, amidst a standing ovation from the front two rows. She bows and leaves the stage as the announcer returns. 

“Wasn’t that phenomenal?” he says. “Very inspired. You, my dear, have a gorgeous voice.”

The audience titters. 

“Now, I’m sure you’re all tired, but we have one more event tonight before our judges announce the results, and I’m convinced this last young lady will make you glad you stayed.

Everybody, give it up for our last competitor!”

Sweat is prickling on my brow and practically pouring off my hands. I swallow, then swallow again. The sea of indistinct faces is shifting forward in anticipation for a song that transcends all others, something soulful or awe-inspiring. But I'm no-one special, and I'm angry at the announcer for painting me as someone who is. The stage is awash in harsh white light and the expectations of the crowd, but I'm safe here, in the shadows. I can still leave, I try telling myself. Leave and never look back.

In that split-second, my body makes the decision for me, the same one I made when I signed up, and again when I stayed. I’m stepping forward with my 8-year-old’s dress and sandals and tear-streaked face and by some miracle of nature, I don’t trip as I sashay my way to the centre of the stage. I pick the microphone up off the stand, and my smile is brilliant as I bring it up to my cherry red lips.

When I speak, I am the Grammy winner in stilettos and a ball gown.

“Good evening, everyone. My name is Matilda Collins, and this is For Me.”

The audience explodes into applause.

I open my mouth and sing. For me.