Time flew by, and before you knew it, the day had arrived for Mirabe to strut her stuff at the city’s Frenchpetition.
The event was getting the full Hollywood treatment. A crew from the Educational TVwork <b>was </b>filming the entire shebang, and nning to spin it into a prime–time special for their channel.
The showdown was set in the grand exhibition hall on the second floor of the municipal sports arena. It was <b>transformed </b>into a stage with atmosphere to spare, thanks to the TV folks who’d wrangled a crowd to fill the seats below the tform.
Mirabe’s game n for joining the contest was straightforward she had her eye on the $100,000 prize. From the moment she left school, headphones were her constantpanion.
A girl, tagging along for the ride, leaned in conspiratorially and asked, “Queen Mira, are you drilling French phrases in there?”
Mirabe turned, about to set the record straight with a ‘nope,‘ when the girl interjected, “Mind if I take a listen?” After a beat, Mirabe graciously handed over one earbud.
When the girl popped it in and was met with the pulse of a pop anthem, she was gobsmacked. Eyes wide as saucers, she stared at Mirabe, struggling to process the scene.
Here they were<b>, </b>minutes from showtime, with everyone else cramming their scripts, and there was Mirabe – not a note in hand, jamming to top forty hits… Seriously? Sure, the song was from her favorite band, and their lead singer’s voice was a killer, but was this really the moment?
“How’s the tune? The lead’s got killer pipes, right?” Mirabe even whipped out her phone, showing off the album cover, pointing out the frontman, “And he’s easy on the eyes, too.”
The girl from another ss had heard tales of Mirabe from the Advanced ss and her ice–queen rep, but this was a whole other vibe. Sharing her music and fan<b>–</b>girling over stars, Mirabe was as down–to–earth as theye.
Totally rtable!
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The girl was so charmed that she ditched her French script, and the two of them started fangirling hard.
Returning from the draw, their French teacher nearly fainted at their chatter. He quickly separated them and delivered a motivational speech before handing out the assigned numbers.
There were nearly fifty contestants, and the performance order was a lottery.
Mirabe drew number twenty–one<b>, </b>smack <b>in </b>the middle.
An hourter, it was her turn. As she stepped onto the stage, the spotlight hit her, illuminating
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her delicate features and highlighting her naturally poised aura.
Scanning the audience, Mirabe’s eyes flicked to two sneaky figures tucked in the back corner, causing her eyelids to twitch in irritation.
Regaining herposure, she nodded politely to the judges, and momentster, fluent French poured from her lips.
She recited a well–known piece of poetry sans script – unlike her peers. She stood unshaken, exuding confidence and poise, her pronunciation impable. Among thepetitors, she was a dazzling standout. Barring any surprises, the top prize was as good as hers.
After a three–minute tour de force, rewarded by thunderous apuse, Mirabe’s first move backstage was to reach for her phone.