In the darkness, I can live.

I read Middlesex and think of Henry, and Amistarr and Entyrum and Amarna. Ad then my auditions. I sit up and pray, clumsily and all over the place, to a God that I never believed in for a callback. I think of what my life could be.

I could be an Asian pop star, signed to SM Entertainment. Not a solo artist, my voice isn’t strong enough for that—but maybe it could be. I’d be the little, innocent cute one in the all-girl pop group. Except with heavy, deep vocals—well, deep for her tonal range—and, oh I don’t know. The youngest. I’d be the youngest. I’ve always been the youngest.

Or, or, I could be a student at MIT. Looking up at whatever the hell they’ve done to the Dome this time and getting used to the keyboard on my new laptop. Trying to get into the dorm I want, getting used to life on my own. Finding conventions nearby that don’t suck, telling people that yes, I am a skippee Trying to sew when my roommate(s?) aren’t there, and trying to find fabric stores when I break my last needle.

And still waiting for callbacks. When I start my first year of university, I will be seventeen. That’s the last year I’ve told myself I’ll try out for—seventeen. I’m fourteen now. I’ll try again next year. I’ll be fifteen. And the year after next. I’ll be sixteen. I’ll turn seventeen. I’ll graduate high school. And I’ll try out again, and maybe by that time my vocals will be strong enough that mixed with my looks and the fact that I look several years younger than I actually am, they’ll want to sign me on.

But for now, I’ll continue to believe that they’ll choose me. Out of over four hundred and eighty people, me. Skinny, underdeveloped, fourteen year old, 154 IQ me. Me with no vocals training, me who listens to Tokio Hotel mixed with Super Junior mixed with L’arc-en-Ciel, me who introduced herself in Japanese, sang in Japanese and told the judges she was Chinese. Me who still hopes like a little girl that she has a chance, and prays to a God she doesn’t believe in for a chance.

(Are you there, God? It’s me, Shanna.)

And maybe I do have one. I’m fourteen, Chinese, with decent looks that would be better with makeup and a decent voice that could be better with training. I’ve played the violin for eight years, the piano for six, taken ballet for four years and I have a green belt in Tae Kwon Do. That alone gives me more of a chance over 50 percent, maybe even 75 percent of the people who tried out in Toronto.

It’s the other 25 to 50 percent I’m worried. The girls and boys who are prettier than me and have more training than me and are more Asian than I’ll ever be. There’s only so far I can coast on looks and age.

(I have an ex with carpal tunnel syndrome at age fifteen, and a friend who just lost all his friends from his old school. And I worry about callbacks.)

Meanwhile, I’ll continue to tell myself that I will be the one they choose. I will end up writing an email to the grade conference telling everyone I’m moving to Korea, it was nice knowing you, I don’t know if I’ll be back. I’ll meet my idol. We’ll click, because we’re both Canadian and play the violin and we went through school in Toronto. They’ll call me either today or tomorrow. I’ll go for the second round. I’ll blow them away with the songs I’ve chosen. I’ll pose like the model I’m not.

I’ll study for chem, and finish my English essay while daydreaming.

My audition number was 48.

Is that good or bad luck?