Louder this time. A sound like stepping on a dry twig. The guitarist behind him shifted his weight. Leo felt heat bloom across his cheeks. It wasn't stage fright. It was physical. A rogue muscle in his vocal fold, spasming like a faulty piston.
Leo took a breath. He tried to relax his jaw, to think of the note as a step, not a cliff. He played the progression. G. C. Don't crack, don't crack, don't— Dys Vocal Crack
The judge set down her pen. "That," she said, "was interesting. Not perfect. Interesting." Louder this time
Silence. The judge—a woman with razor-cut bangs and a face carved from glacial ice—looked up from her clipboard. Not with pity. With assessment. Leo felt heat bloom across his cheeks
The fluorescent lights of the audition room hummed a note that felt like a personal insult. For Leo, every ambient sound was a potential adversary. The click of a pen. The rustle of a judge’s paper. The low-frequency drone of the HVAC system. They all threatened to lodge themselves in his throat, turning a melody into a minefield.
"Because I’m terrified of it," Leo whispered.
He strummed the opening G chord. The first line came out clear, a warm amber tone. Second line, still good. He felt the familiar, treacherous loosening in his larynx. Don't think about it. The third line approached—a gentle step up to a C. A step he’d made ten thousand times.