A/N: This is the first draft of a school assignment based off the topic “Appointment With (The topic of your choice). This is dedicated to Zan; you inspired this story. Any feedback is appreciated! Please enjoy:-)

I checked my watch again for about the tenth time in the past five minutes, and seeing the time, I couldn’t help but become nervous; I had another half an hour. I could feel my insides do flips. Just the thought of going on stage was making me literally sick.

Just like the last I performed, one and a half years ago; it was the school talent show. I passed the auditions with flying colors, but come the performance night, Splat! I threw-up on the stage in front of 400 people, all over my guitar, and all over me.

Twenty-eight minutes I still have, and my heart is beating faster, I can feel my breakfast about to come up. I knew that I shouldn’t have taken Mom up on the pancake offer two hours before I’m going to perform.

“Lisa Marie,” I can sometimes hear my father say, “What’s there to be afraid of? The people don’t hate you. Sure, they may laugh, but they won’t kill you,”

“What would you know about hate?” I whisper to my father even though I knew that he wouldn’t hear me. My father had actually known a lot about hate, because he was a military man.

Twenty-five minutes, and I can feel my insides churn. I know that it’s too late now. I’m about to audition for American Star, the most popular music competition on television today.

Twenty minutes, and another just went into the ‘The Room’, and another person was on deck.

‘On Deck’; there I go again with ‘stage speak’. My father would have been proud. His favorite singer of all-time was Elvis Presley, and he regularly told me that he had hoped that one day my music would take me as far as Elvis’ did.

I used to love to play my guitar and sing. Actually, I think that I loved to do it, because Dad would clap and whistle like there was no one in the world more important then me, like he wouldn’t have to leave for another war-zone the next day.

Eighteen minutes, and two more people just entered the room, and took a seat on the chairs next to me. I glance around the room, still nervous as crazy, when my eyes glance down and catch a comforting sight.

My acoustic guitar rests in its case; the case as black as that day.

It was just another ordinary day, and summer was still growing strong. The bright sun gave warmth to my body, and the blue sky lay above me in that comforting manner that it so often does in that time of year, right before the nights get darker and the days get colder. I went home, expecting to find my father listening to the radio (most likely 99.50 “The best music played in all of Mississippi”), playing his guitar, or talking to Ben, the slightly zany man who lived next door.

However, I didn’t see my father there. I would have checked the fields, but the rain clouds were rolling, about to ruin the beautiful day. I head inside, and find the teakettle on. Father must have been watching it, because Mother was at the market, however, he wasn’t there.

I called his name, but I got not answer. Eventually, I decide to check every room in our small five-room house. One by one, I carefully checked every room. Frustrated that I couldn’t find my father and that he wasn’t responding to my calls, I threw open the bathroom door to find…

Now, I’m suddenly looking down at my hands, which have begun to shake, as they so often does when the memories come.

Thirteen minutes, and need to get some fresh air, but I know that I can’t. If I go anywhere now, my chance to audition will be lost forever, and I can’t do that.

“Daddy!” I can hear my younger-self say into the telephone, which took both of my child hands to hold. “I can’t sing at church,”

“And why not?” My father, who was thousands of miles away from me at that time, asked,

“Because… you’re not here,” the younger-me tried to explain.

“I may not be there, but I’m in your heart, Lisa Marie. I don’t care what you do with your musical talent, but whenever you play, it’ll be a song just for me,”

Again, I have to bring myself back into reality, to where I am now.

“Lisa Marie Smith, you’re on in ten!” the stage manager called.

Ten minutes? I don’t know how I’ll be ready to perform in TEN MINUTES! So, I do what I have always done: I start picking my calluses on my fingers that I have from playing my guitar so much.

“That has to be one of the worst darn habits that I have ever seen!” I can hear my father comment.

Then, I remember another time when my father spoke of habits. “Bad habits must be stopped!” he exclaimed, downing the rest of the beer bottle that was in his right hand.

Ignoring my father’s voice inside my head, I continue picking my calluses. Why I decided to try out for American Star for my father, yet still pick my calluses, which he said was a bad habit, is still beyond me.

“Lisa Marie Smith on deck!” the stage manager called.

I pick up my guitar, and walk toward the stage, and only for a moment do I visualize my father sprawled out on the bathroom floor, with a shattered glass cup, and millions of little pills distributed on the bathroom floor, my father’s pulse growing weaker. And only for a second, do I visualize my younger-self running towards zany Ben’s house.

“This way miss,” The stage manager says, leading me towards stage right.

I follow the stage manager, and he finally stopped right behind the curtains.

I peek out to see hundreds, maybe thousands of people watching the host introduce me, and my heart and stomach are still flipping, but they are calming down, just like the sea after a storm.

Again, the stage manager’s voice rings in my ears “Lisa Marie Smith is on is 5…4…3…2…and 1…”