Just Brooke

I didn't know what to expect when the time came for me to go on stage. An attendant with a clipboard and wearing headphones came out to get us one by one in the waiting room as if we were awaiting a Golden Ticket opportunity that may never come.

I see cameramen around me, and I am always on the lookout to see if I can spot Giovanni from among those holding a microphone or balancing a Steadicam, but I haven't seen him all morning.

Though I know what to sing, it would seem as though I don't know how to dress.

The other women still in the waiting room with me are all dolled up from head to toe. Thick make-up. Fake eyelashes. Freshly painted nails. Curls trapped under layers of hairspray. And here I am with my jeans and basic heels, a green tank top sporting a large butterfly design. My hair is straight and parted off to the side. I did my own make-up though it looks like my competition hired professionals to do theirs.

The woman stands at the doorway and shouts my name. She then escorts me to the main Studio down the hall and to the right. The production workers hardly pay attention to me as I enter from stage left.

"Wait for your cue," she instructs.

"And let's welcome to the stage, Brooke Evans!" I hear the voice of the show's host over the loudspeaker.