Spotlight (NOT a fanfic)

(OK, this is NOT a fanfic of anything. This was written in pure boredom, and inspiration hit me. It's written in two viewpoints, "Chloe" and "Alea.")

The violinist rose from her chair, closing her eyes as the applause wrapped around her like a warm blanket. Cheers and hollers from the euphoric audience floated up to the stage. She wondered if the ovation would end, hoping desperately that it wouldn’t.

Of course, the clapping wasn’t for her. Neither were the proclamations of love from the members of the audience, and she couldn’t claim the bouquets of roses that were being passed to front-stage center, either. That honor, once again, belonged to Chloe, the rosy-cheeked, flaxen-haired, small-waisted, pixie-like vocalist who was bowing and curtseying like a princess at a ball, which wasn’t too far off the mark, actually. Chloe was the leading light of the show, the luminary of every one of Evanni’s shows, and it paid off big-time for the twenty-one year old.

Alea, the violinist just out of reach of the spotlight’s glow, stood watching, as she did every night, and as she would continue to do for the rest of the tour. Beneath a curtain of dark, pin-straight hair, a surge of envy was growing. She fingered the smooth exterior of her violin, her only friend nowadays. Her only source of solace and companionship came from the instrument, and the music she could make with it.

“I’m going to be famous one day,” she had bragged as a child. This self-confident, assured remark made the adult friends of her parents’ chuckle; the way grown-ups did when they thought something was just too endearing for mere words. But that simple statement seemed to stick, and Alea went on to be the first-chair violinist in her middle school and high school concert bands. Back then, her name was in boldface print on the front of the evening’s handbill that everyone in attendance received. She was the one that people whispered about in the shadows of the concert halls (that doubled as the high school’s auditorium in the daytime). “That girl is going places,” Alea would overhear as she walked by, gleaming with pride, after concerts.

If I’m “going places,” then please don’t let this be the last stop of my ride, she pleaded to whatever entity was out there as she watched Chloe break into an encore of the night’s headlined debut.

*-*-*-*

As soon as she got the chance, Chloe darted for the dressing room with her name plastered on it. She ran as fast as she could in the high-heeled shoes her stylist had chosen for that particular ensemble of clothing, which consisted of a constricting cobalt-blue sleeveless dress and a pair of fishnet stockings, which had made the male audience whistle and cheer approvingly. “Gross,” she muttered, shuddering and peeling the skin-tight clothes off of her body.

Despite what everybody- everybody- thought, she didn’t actually like her job. Sure, it was her dream to sing in front of millions of adoring fans, to have thousands of people pile into a gigantic arena, but she didn’t want to sing as part of a touring group.

Evanni, the name that everyone was talking about nowadays, wasn’t actually the lead singer, or guitarist, or even major instrumentalist of the group. And yet, it was his name on the CDs, it was his name that made nearly every teenage girl swoon, and it was his name that actually brought in the cash. She was just the pretty face with the pretty voice, or so he seemed to think.

“You know, Chloe…” he would begin casually, leaning on his piano before delving into the exciting and wonderful life of Evanni Meliane. And, somewhere in the history lesson, Vann managed to toss in a couple of tips and rectifications directed towards her performance. Which, in and of itself, shouldn’t have been such a big deal; she wasn’t so arrogant as to refuse the advice of a seasoned professional. It was the condescending, almost pitying way that Evanni communicated with her. It was all she could do not to stomp over to the computer, search “evanni tours” on some search engine, and shove all of the results that had her name in it, not his.

The only time she didn’t have to bite her tongue was when she was onstage. She had fallen in love with music at an early age, and whenever she got the chance to sing, something inside of her just burst out. Some people seemed to think that singing the same materials over and over again, almost every single night for the entire tour, would make you resent the music before long. Chloe didn’t understand how anyone could hate music; in fact, every time she burst out into a vivacious rendition of “Voices,” she just found something else to love about it. It awakened something in her, something she couldn’t find anywhere else.

A quick rap on the door brought her back to Earth, or whatever you called this little dank hole that somehow passed as a dressing room. “Chloe?” A familiar voice accompanied the knock, and Chloe sighed. She threw on her silky robe and opened the door, teetering on her heels.

“Hey, Maggie,” she said cheerfully, faking a smile. She made a mental note to wipe off whatever goop was still on her lips, but stood aside to let her assistant, a mousy, secretarial-styled girl who always looked intimidated, no matter who or what she was surrounded by.

“Um, so, I have some…fan mail for you…” Maggie said, digging an entire stack of mail from the clipboard that she toted around without fail. She handed the mountain to Chloe, who set the stack on the feeble-looking table in the center of the room. Maggie looked up at Chloe, surprise written in her murky brown eyes.

“Um…aren’t you going to read it?” the girl asked, shifting her weight uncomfortably.

“Nah,” Chloe said, waving her hand dismissively at the pile. “It’s kinda silly for anyone but the chief vocalist to get fan mail, don’t you think?” She smiled sweetly and twisted a lock of blonde hair around her slim finger.

“Um, apparently your fans don’t think so,” Maggie said, looking directly at the stack of paper that was now teetering precariously. As the heap finally lost its balance, and tumbled over onto the feeble table, Chloe watched wistfully. Letters overlapped each other, spilling out onto the floor, and yet, there was something so humanly erred about the entire deal that made Chloe indescribably and unexplainably sad.