Stage Fright Smoothie

Maya's hands shook so hard she nearly dropped her phone. Three texts from Gia already:

'U coming???'

'Talent show starts in 20'

'PLS tell me u didn't back out'

Maya stared at her reflection in the hallway mirror. Her hair — usually her security blanket, always perfect — refused to cooperate today. The humidity had turned her straightened strands into a frizzy disaster. She looked like she'd stuck a fork in an electrical socket. Or been struck by lightning. Either way, not exactly performance-ready.

'Running there now,' she texted back, lying. She was still in her bathroom.

Her mom poked her head in. "Maya, honey, you want the rest of this papaya smoothie? I made extra."

"Mom, I can't eat anything! I'll throw up!"

"It's just papaya and coconut water. Calms the nerves. Trust me, I used to sing at church." Her mom set the bright orange cup on the counter. "You've got this. You've been practicing for weeks."

Maya looked at the smoothie. She looked at her hair. She looked at the time.

7:43 PM. Show started at 8.

She grabbed the smoothie and chugged it. Not because she believed in the magical calming properties of fruit, but because she needed to do something other than panic.

Her phone buzzed. 'I see u running across the parking lot lol'

Maya grabbed her guitar case. Her hair was still a mess. Her palms were sweaty. Her heart was doing something that felt less like beating and more like trying to escape her chest entirely.

"You've got this," she whispered to herself, even though she absolutely did not feel like she had this.

She burst into the auditorium, guitar bumping against her leg. Gia was already backstage, hyping herself up in that way where you aggressively whisper motivational quotes to yourself.

"YOU MADE IT!" Gia whisper-screamed. "Your hair looks fine, stop messing with it."

"I look like a electrocuted poodle."

"You look like a talented musician about to crush it. Also, that papaya smoothie on your chin? Not a vibe."

Maya wiped her face. "Thanks."

"You're up in five. Remember what we said? It's not about being perfect. It's about being you."

Maya's stomach did a flip. But then she remembered: she'd written this song about exactly this moment. About being scared and doing it anyway. About showing up when every part of you wants to hide.

"Yeah," Maya said. "Let's do this."

She walked onto the stage, spotlights blinding her. She couldn't see the crowd, but she could feel them. Hundreds of teenagers, phones out, waiting.

Her hands found the guitar strings. The first chord rang out, clear and sure. By the second verse, she wasn't thinking about her hair or the papaya smoothie or running across the parking lot like a maniac.

She was just singing. And for the first time all night, she wasn't scared at all.