The stage lights flickered once, then hummed to life. Rows of plastic chairs were set up in the school auditorium, and a faint buzz of conversation hovered in the air as students trickled in, some in costume, others clutching sheet music or nervously sipping from water bottles.
Ethan stood just offstage, staring at the curtains as if they might swallow him whole.
"You okay?" Maya's voice was soft, almost hesitant, like she knew not to press too hard.
He gave a tiny nod, but his fingers fidgeted with the hem of his shirt—an outfit he'd changed three times this morning until it felt just right. Navy button-down. No patterns. Piano pendant tucked beneath the collar like a secret only he knew.
Cher leaned against the prop table nearby, applying a final swipe of lip gloss. "This is so exciting. It's giving me Britney-at-the-VMAs energy, and I'm not even performing."
"I am," Ethan mumbled.
"You'll do great," Gus said, holding the clipboard he'd compiled with the program order, times, and two backup plans in case anything went wrong with the lighting cues. "You've rehearsed. You're prepared."
"Prepared doesn't mean calm," Ethan replied.
Shawn peeked in dramatically from behind a curtain. "Big crowd tonight. Jay and Gloria were talking about it in the parking lot—Jay said if he's giving up golf for this, there'd better be empanadas."
Ethan half-laughed, then took a deep breath. His stomach twisted. His mind was racing with questions: What if his voice cracked? What if the audience didn't get the song? What if he just... froze?
But he didn't say any of that. Instead, he looked toward the auditorium doors where people were still filing in.
His family would be sitting somewhere out there.
In the second row, Claire adjusted the camera on her phone, already recording even though the show hadn't started.
"You've got it pointed at the wrong side of the stage," Alex said.
"No, I don't," Claire whispered. "This is where Ethan said he'd be coming out."
"He said the left," Alex corrected.
Phil leaned in, grinning. "Maybe he meant stage left."
"Does anyone even know what stage left is?" Haley asked, flipping her hair over one shoulder. "Is it the left when you're on the stage? Or looking at the stage?"
"It's the performer's left," Luke announced proudly, wearing a home-made 'Team Ethan' badge and holding a foam finger.
"Since when do you know that?" Claire asked, squinting.
"Since I Googled 'how to cheer at a talent show'," Luke said proudly.
Jay, seated two rows back with Gloria, sighed and crossed his arms. "He better be good. I skipped lunch for this."
"He is going to be amazing," Gloria replied firmly, smoothing her skirt. "He is very talented, and very sweet. He's like a little music wizard."
"Let's just hope we dont start to cry," Mitchell muttered to Cam.
"I brought tissues just in case," Cam said, voice thick with sentiment. What if I cry and scare the other parents?"
Backstage, Ethan watched another act finish. A sixth grader with oversized glasses bowed after an enthusiastic violin solo.
"You're up in four," Gus said, checking the clipboard. "You want a bottle of water? Backup tuner? Flashlight?"
"I think I'm okay," Ethan replied, swallowing hard. "I just need a second."
He slipped away from the group for a moment, finding a spot against the cool brick wall backstage. Away from the lights, the noise, the voices.
He closed his eyes.
The first notes of Pompeii echoed in his head. He'd played it so many times now that the progression lived in his fingertips. But today, it felt heavier—like the weight of his entire freshman year was pressing on the keys.
Then he thought about that day at the piano, when he'd first created the piece. About Maya listening quietly, about Claire peeking in and smiling.
He thought of Alex, who'd quietly complimented him last week when no one else heard. "It was... actually good," she'd muttered, which from her was the equivalent of a standing ovation.
He thought of his family. Of the noise, the chaos, the love. Of Cher's glitter pens, Gus's spreadsheets, Shawn's pineapples, Jane's quiet nods. Of Maya, steady and real.
He opened his eyes.
He was ready.
The emcee's voice boomed through the mic. "Up next, with an original composition, we have Ethan Dunphy."
Applause trickled in.
Ethan walked out into the spotlight.
The stage was bigger than he'd imagined. Everything else—chairs, faces, sounds—fell away. All that remained was the piano. Familiar. Solid. Home.
He sat down, adjusted the bench by three notches—just like always—and breathed in.
Then he began.
The first notes were soft, almost tentative. The melody echoed into the stillness of the auditorium. Then, his voice joined in. Not powerful, not polished—but clear. Warm. Real.
🎵I was left to my own devicesMany days fell away with nothing to show🎵
Claire pressed a hand to her chest. Phil was already tearing up. Luke was waving his foam finger slowly, like it was conducting.
🎵But if you close your eyesDoes it almost feel like nothing changed at all?🎵
The chorus hit harder, the piano louder now. Ethan leaned into the keys, his voice stronger with each line.
🎵How am I gonna be an optimist about this?🎵
In the back row, a couple of students exchanged surprised looks. One whispered, "Is that Ethan Dunphy?"
Another whispered, "He's... actually good."
A few faces in the crowd seemed caught between awe and disbelief. Some clapped along quietly. One boy in a theater hoodie, clearly one of the other performers, rolled his eyes—but even he stopped talking when the bridge began.
🎵Oh where do we begin? The rubble or our sins?🎵
The last chord rang out, echoing. Then silence.
And then—applause. Loud. Real.
From the front row, Phil leapt to his feet, clapping wildly. Claire beamed, teary-eyed. Alex gave a proud half-smile. Luke dropped his foam finger and just shouted, "THAT WAS AWESOME!"
From the wings, Maya mouthed "You did it."
Cher was dabbing her eyes with a glittery tissue.
Gus gave a thumbs-up and mouthed, "Perfect tempo."
Shawn leaned on Jane's shoulder and whispered, "Told you he was gonna kill it."
Jane didn't say anything—but she was smiling.
Ethan stood, nodded, and walked offstage.
His heart was racing.
But he'd done it.
And in that moment, with all the nerves and pressure behind him, he knew—whatever happened next, he had already won something bigger than applause.
He had found his voice.