Evan barely remembered waking up the next day, but he did have the presence of mind to wear the lucky Vonnegut t-shirt he'd purchased in Ann Arbor a few summers before.

The author's wise face was printed in blue, with a quote from Player Piano under it, the one about staying as close to the edge as possible without going over. Evan pulled it over his head and felt somewhat better about everything. Lily wore tight jeans and her hoodie, not bothering to doll herself up like on wristband day.

The two of them sped down to the city where they parked in the same lot they'd parked in on Thursday. They waited in the same line they had for the parking ticket and the ATM.

It was 6am.

As they approached Bridgestone, Evan noticed a tall, rotund guy in thick spectacles with a dark, expansive afro of loose curls walking around the edge of the multitude. He carried a reporter's mic and had a TV crew in tow. Evan recognized him instantly.

"That's Chris Sligh," Evan said, nudging Lily.

"Who's Chris Sligh?"

"He was a finalist on season 6. He made 10th place. He probably would've gotten higher but he gave a shout-out to the founder of Votefortheworst on one of the live results shows, so the producers kicked him off as soon as they could. Maddie really liked him."

"You should go talk to him."

Fear flooded Evan. He watched Sligh walk around the metal barricades, searching the crowd for potential interviewees.

What would Evan say to him? Nothing of consequence. He felt exposed. He felt unimportant. All at once in that moment he felt insignificant and average and lower middle-class and worthless.

"No, it's good," he said, pussing out. "I don't have anything to say."

Lily shrugged.

The line was much longer today, winding back in on itself for a couple blocks, ending next to a construction site where a parking lot lay torn up in chunks with the earthmovers sitting silent like sleeping dinosaurs.

Lily and Evan reached the end of the line. They took a seat on the curb and began the wait to be let in. Lily took out her phone. She lit up a cigarette and exhaled into the cool morning air.

A male contestant with an acoustic guitar slung around his back was talking to female contestant a few feet away.

"...see, my sound's kind of edgy, more like Kings of Leon," the guy was saying.

The woman listened politely with a blasé look on her face. They talked about what it would be like to get through.

"It's basically like winning the lottery," said the guy.

Evan thought about his parents, about Maddie. He hadn't heard from them since he'd left. Lily smoked next to him.

Evan pulled out his phone and decided to text his parents.

He made a group text with both of them and sent, In line now for the audition. hope all is well.

It struck him that for all the texting Lily did, no one ever texted him. The only texts he ever received were from Rob or Matt or Brian, usually inviting him to come drink with them. And they would invariably ask him to be the DD.

Eventually the line began to move, people shuffling forward with their backpacks and guitar cases. It felt like a mass exodus of some kind. They were all reality show refugees, shuffling towards an unknown fate.

They promenaded down the block, through the fences that kept the sight-seeing gawkers separate from the droves of contestants. They walked up a shallow cement staircase and through the arena's south entrance, the ushers directing people left and right. Security indifferently rifled through Lily's handbag and gave it back to her. Evan got a pat down and that was it.

Once in the arena, everyone was sorted into sections based on their wristband numbers. Evan and Lily's seats turned out to be on the west side of the bowl, only a few rows from the floor. The hockey boards and ice were gone, replaced with smooth cement.

There were several rows of folding chairs set up on the floor in front of Evan's section, and twelve curtained booths were lined up straight down the center from goal to goal.

Evan and Lily filed to their seat numbers and sat down. Pop music echoed through the chamber, up to the rafters where banners hung with hockey players' numbers. The blue American Idol logo was spinning up on the big scoreboard. There were advertisements for Pepsi everywhere, which was odd because Evan was pretty sure Coke was the official soft drink sponsor for Idol.

The grizzled young blonde guy sitting next to Evan had an acoustic guitar and a fauxhawk. He placed the bulky plastic case between his legs, spreading his knees out. His right knee dug into the side of Evan's left knee. The backs of the seats in front of them pressed against their kneecaps. The seats were hard plastic. There was very little room. This was going to be an uncomfortable wait.

"How long is this going to take again?" asked Lily, looking jostled and cross.

"Probably all day," said Evan.

"Goddamn it."

The arena filled up gradually, the noise of the chattering crowd getting louder by the minute as voices were added. The rows of chairs down on the arena floor filled with people, too, mostly distinguished-looking types, prep school kids and their Armani- wearing mothers with expensive haircuts.

The festivities started when a chubby, frazzled-looking guy in glasses and a bandana came out from the north entrance under the stands bellowing, "WHAT UP NASHVILLE!" into a mic. The audience responded with an ear-shattering cheer. Most of the sections were packed completely full, and even the ones in the upper balconies had occupants.

The emcee explained that they would be doing some crowd shots and he needed everyone to be up and on their feet and animated. Camera men sprinted onto the arena floor, cameras on their shoulders. Two big cranes with cameras perched on the ends of their arms rolled in through the Zamboni entrance. The crew moved fast.

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The emcee, who never actually introduced himself, had everyone yell WELCOME TO NASHVILLE and WELCOME TO NASHVILLE, THE MUSIC CITY and I'M THE NEXT AMERICAN IDOL about four or five different times each.

He would tell the audience the line they'd all need to recite, then count down from three. The cameras would roll, doing their sweeps and cuts as the arena of hopefuls blew their voices out. Then after each take, the emcee would look over at a director for approval. If the director liked it, they would move on. If not, they'd do another take.

"Where's Seacrest?" someone above Evan wondered aloud.

Ryan Seacrest never materialized, but the emcee led them through several more chants and yells. They also collectively sang several takes of Sweet Home Alabama. Those that did not participate were threatened with eviction.

"YOU CAME HERE TO SING, RIGHT," the emcee yelled into the mic. The crowd responded with another eager roar.

The cameras on the cranes captured the magic. The contestants did as they were told, their cheers rising and falling on cue as directed by the emcee. In between takes there was an amusing sight as the thousands of people stood with their hands clasped in front of them, like the world's biggest, most ostentatious classroom waiting on instruction from a teacher.

Evan stood and clapped, doing enough so as to not be singled out for lack of participation, but not so much that he would be singled out for being showy, either. He wanted to blend in and nothing more.

Lily stood up for a while and watched the audience yell their lines but sat back down with her phone after only a few takes.

"This is gay," Evan heard her say.

A few rows down in front of Lily and Evan, there was a large guy in a silver suit and top hat with an enormous Flavor Flav clock around his neck. He looked much too old to be auditioning but he yowled with the best of them and quickly got the attention of the cameramen.

"SMASHVILLE CITY, SMASHVILLE CITY," he hollered, brandishing his clock.

The camera on the crane trained on Pseudo- Flav a few times before sweeping up over the entire arena for a wide shot. Evan tried to hide behind the people in front of him. He was still very uncomfortable in the camera's eye. It felt like, no matter what, he just wouldn't be captured in a way that would be flattering to him.

I shouldn't have come here, he thought gloomily, looking at all the flamboyant displays around him.

It was like a manic pep rally at a supersized high school. He thought of Maddie seeing him on television sometime next January and somehow felt dirty about it. He didn't feel special at all. Something in him did not want to be filmed, now that the cameras were actually right there in front of him. He had an intense and concentrated feeling of not belonging.

After about an hour's worth of getting the needed responses from the crowd, the emcee explained how the day's auditioning process would work.

Most everyone in the stands had taken a seat by now. Evan felt like he was at church. Stand up, sit down. Stand up, sit down.

Evan noticed the curtained tables in the center of the arena floor were beginning to fill up with judges. The judges didn't look much different from a lot of the more average contestants, casual and unassuming. They could've been a group of programmers at a software company filing in for a morning meeting. Almost all of them were male and looked to be between thirty and fifty years old.

The emcee explained, his voice echoing through the PA-- they would all be called down by section, and they'd be sorted to the various booths and given approximately fifteen seconds to sing.

The distinguished-looking kids and their parents who sat in the free chairs down on the arena floor would be called first, as they had won some sort of contest to be bumped to the front of the line.

"Yeah, it's called being born into money," someone above Evan snorted.

The opening off the arena floor to Evan's left were the 'non-winner' doors-- WE DON'T HAVE ANY LOSERS HERE, DO WE?!—through which the vast majority of the audience would pass in the coming hours.

The lucky few who got a golden ticket would be sent through another opening at the opposite end of the arena where they would go to begin getting processed for television. Evan felt a flutter of excitement despite himself.

When the emcee was finished with his directions and the cameras were moved out, they finally began having contestants file down to the floor. Evan and Lily's section was directly across the arena from the very first section called. They would be the last section called before the balcony.

Evan looked at the sheer number of people, all the sections in the lower arena completely filled and teeming with life. His odds were not good. He thought about leaving right then and there but kept it to himself.

Instead, he sat back and resigned himself to being stuck in this seat all day.

This is what you came for, he reminded himself.

If, by chance, those judges sitting and prattling blithely amongst themselves did happen to let him through, this would all be worth it. Maybe Lily would even sleep with him. Probably not, though. No matter, he'd find someone else.

There was a short, chubby girl of about sixteen with freckles and short brown hair sitting next to Lily. She had big fat legs stuck into wide blue jeans. Her eyes were beady, her nose piggish, her hair cropped short and pudding brown. Her face was sunburned pink and had the look of someone who doesn't speak up unless they're absolutely sure they're going to be agreed with. Evan heard her shyly strike up a conversation with Lily, asking her what she used on her hair.

Lily was cordial, taking on a tone of voice that sounded for all the world to Evan like a big sister. The din of the numerous conversations around them cut out most of the specifics, but Evan heard them discussing hair products and make-up and Lily's tattoos. The chubby girl didn't seem to know much about them, but was interested in learning.

"I'm Amelia," Evan heard the girl say.

"I'm Lily," said Lily.

The first section alone took a good half hour to empty out completely, and then the second section stood, row after row, and began waiting their turn.

It's like communion, thought Evan. He thought of waiting in the pews with his parents and Jason, he and Jason whispering to themselves how they were going to try and drink as much wine as they could before they were stopped. He felt a small twinge at his temple at the memory, and pushed it out of his mind.

The twelve tables down front slowly consumed the lines that formed on the arena floor. There was a steady trickle through the non-winner door.

It was nearly two hours later when a shriek went up from behind the tables and the other side of the arena began to applaud. A young, hysterical blonde girl ran towards the winner's door, waving a yellow sheet of paper. The first Golden Ticket had been given out. Though a fair number of people cheered and helped celebrate the girl's success, the rest of the arena also seemed to be eyeing each other nervously. One less chance they'd be the ones through the winner door.

The morning stretched on. The winners ebbed and flowed, and the non-winners were a steady river. Sometimes golden tickets were given out what seemed like every fifteen minutes, then the merriment would die off and another one wouldn't be given for half an hour or more. The seated sections always gave a polite, congratulatory ovation to the golden ticket winners.

Evan sat there, Lily trading between her iPhone and chatting with her awkward teen neighbor.

Amelia would sit with her bored-looking mother, look around the arena and then turn to ask Lily a question-- What do you use on your skin, I love your skin, what does that flower mean on your other shoulder, you look like the girl from Wicked, did anyone ever tell you that? Lily politely answered while thumbing her texts.

"You look like the girl from Wicked, and you also look kind of like Kara," Amelia told Lily. "You're really pretty."

"Thank you," said Lily. "Who's Kara?"

"Kara DioGuardi. The judge."

"The judge?"

"Yeah, you know. On Idol."

"Oh, she's a judge on Idol?"

"Yeah, she's the fourth one they added last year. You look like you could be her daughter."

"I don't watch Idol," Lily said.

Then came the inevitable question.

"Well, what are you auditioning with?"

"I'm not auditioning," Lily told her, pointing at Evan. "My friend is."

"What are you singing?" Amelia asked Evan.

"I think Do Lord by Johnny Cash," said Evan. "What are you singing?"

"Angels, by Jessica Simpson."

Evan didn't know that song. His mind was strangely blank. He imagined Amelia didn't know Do Lord, either.

"Well, good luck to you," said Evan.

"You, too," said Amelia, smiling pleasantly.