Chapter Two

ZENDAYA 

(February 12 - Orlando, Florida) 

The air is bathed in silence behind me as I hum softly to myself, lost in my creative world. I stand before a medium-sized easel board, bringing my imagination to life with every brushstroke. 

My hands are dusted with different shades of paint, and my work clothes are spotted with vibrant colors that flicker in the light as I work. Time-conscious, I move swiftly, my hands dancing across the board with precision.

As I finish my masterpiece, I step back to admire it. A sense of satisfaction washes over me as I appraise my handiwork. With a flourish, I step aside, vividly showcasing my art to the audience behind me.

A collective gasp erupts from the judges' table, followed by a flurry of whispers. There are stunned expressions on the faces of two of the judges. The panel consists of five judges: three males, Baron, Julius, and Abel, and two females, Cassandra and Whitney. Both Cassandra and Whitney openly express their admiration for my painting, their eyes wide with wonder.

I bite the corner of my cheek to contain my excitement, feeling a surge of pride. I glance at the other three judges, gleaning their reactions. Baron is scribbling on his score sheet, his brow furrowed in concentration. Julius peruses my art with an intense gaze, as though seeking flaws within it. Abel, rumored to be expressionless, sits with an impassive face, his eyes fixed on my painting.

This talent scout show, held annually in Florida, has gained prominence in the art world. With only two winners chosen each year, the competition is fierce. 

The agency running the show offers copious opportunities to the lucky winners, setting them up for success in their chosen field. I can only hope that my art will captivate the judges and secure my place as one of the winners.

Not only do they provide a platform for their talents to be noticed by their vast fan base, but they also offer learning programs to improve their skills, funded travels across the world, and worldwide fame.

 The opportunities are endless, and I've often found myself doubting my decision to sign up for this challenge. The competition is fierce, with numerous incredible talents vying for the top spot. I've frequently thought that my chances of winning against them are slim.

However, I hold my head high, determined to give it my all. I won't be able to say I didn't try my best. At the very least, if I don't win this competition, Mason won't have anything to hold against me. He's the one who encouraged me to sign up, bolstering my morale with his confidence-boosting talk. His enthusiasm was infectious, and for a moment, I dared to dream of winning.

It's not that I'm afraid of dreaming big or aiming high. I'm simply tired of juggling five different jobs to make ends meet. But I'm also aware of when I'm at a disadvantage. I prefer not to raise my hopes too high, as I'm terrible at handling disappointment. 

I take a deep breath, mentally chastising myself for the direction of my thoughts.

I refocus my attention on the judges sitting at their table, the only area illuminated by overhead lights in the spacious event hall. The rest of the burgundy-colored chairs behind them, arranged like a football stadium in rows, are bathed in darkness. The soft reflection of the lighting in the judges' area creates a silhouette effect in the background.

 I wait with bated breath for their comments, struggling to maintain a facade of composure and confidence despite the storm brewing within me.

The judges confer with one another, and finally, Abel speaks. "Ms. Dobrev, you have an incredible talent. We are all wowed by the wonderful painting you've created. Thank you for participating in today's event. We will get in touch with you."

I'm left wondering if this means acceptance or if I'm being placed on a waiting list. I sweep a bow to the judges across the room, remove my stained gloves, and clear my stuff.

 I take off my apron, carefully pack my painting and tools into my bag, strap it across one shoulder, and walk away from the stage. The next talent is called in as I leave.

I check the time on my phone and feel a surge of anxiety. "Oh, God, it's almost time for my next shift!" I had carefully calculated the time I'd spend here to avoid clashing with my part-time jobs.

 I quicken my pace, walking out of the building. I keep glancing at the time as I hurry toward the bus stop, hoping to catch a ride before it's too late.

Fortunately, I catch a bus just in time, getting in before another person steals the spot as the last person to ride. I breathe a sigh of relief, grateful to have made it.

I'm forced to stand for the entire journey to my destination, a sacrifice I must endure for the sake of my finances. 

The bus door closes behind me, and the long, crowded vehicle begins to move. The bus is jam-packed with a sea of bodies, making it difficult to see those sitting in the backseat from where I'm standing.

 I'm grateful to have gotten in last, as this positions me near the driver's seat, allowing me to breathe in relatively fresh air instead of being surrounded by the unpleasant odors of my fellow commuters.

My phone vibrates in my worn, brown leather bag, which is slung over my shoulder. I struggle to retrieve it, my movements jerky as I navigate the crowded bus.

 The bag's contents, including my painting board, make it challenging to access my phone. Finally, I manage to extract it, check the caller ID, and answer. It's Mason, my best friend since high school and my daily dose of confidence.

"How far?" Mason asks, eager to know the results of the competition.

 I flatten my mouth, staring up at the bus's roof overhead. "I don't know yet. They told me they would get back to me."

"They were impressed with your work, right?" Mason presses, his enthusiasm evident.

 I twitch my mouth. "Yes."

"I knew it!" Mason exclaims, whooshing air in ecstasy. 

"You shouldn't be too excited. They might never call," I caution, heaving a resigned breath.

"Don't be pessimistic," Mason chides. "What if they call?" 

I snort, skeptical. 

"I have faith in you, Aya, but you've got to believe in your ability too."

As I spot my destination approaching, I interrupt Mason's motivational speech. "I have to go," I say quickly.

 "Work calls?" Mason asks.

 "Yes. Talk later."

"Sure. Break a leg!" Mason says, ending the call. 

I roll my eyes good-naturedly and alight from the bus when it stops, jogging toward my workplace to ensure I arrive on time.