My heart does a jumping-jack routine when I see the crowds on the sidewalk and the marquee blazing with lights. It reminds me of Broadway. Plastering a smile on my face, I join the people lining up to get in. At least tonight all I have to do is listen and blend with the crowd. But tomorrow… Don’t go there. Forcing myself to stay in the moment, I study the people around me. Most of them are gazing awkwardly into space, trying to avoid eye contact. I check out their clothes. At least I’ve hit the right note of casual chic in my dressy black pants, midnight-blue chiffon top and jeweled flats. “Excuse me.” A plump guy with hair the color of maple syrup materializes at my side. He’s wearing wire-rimmed glasses and a slouchy tweed jacket. A bright-orange name tag hangs from his neck. The same kind I’m wearing. A contestant’s name tag. “Aren’t you Paige Larsson?” It takes me a second to place him. He’s the teen comic from Spokane who was featured in the newspaper article with me.
