Sam isn’t too thrilled Mom decided to come, because we have to squeeze into his truck, and when you’re as big as my brother, you want room to spread out. It doesn’t matter how small I am. With me sitting in the middle of the bench, he keeps elbowing me, and I keep elbowing him, and Mom keeps telling us not to fight.

“Let’s go through your songs,” Mom suggests. “What are you gonna sing for your first audition?”

“‘Another One Bites the Dust.’ Doing Queen songs worked on my audition tape, so I figure it might work again.”

“And what will you sing after that?” Mom asks.

“You mean if I even make it past the first round? You know they make tons of cuts the first day.”

“You need to have another song prepared.”

“I do, I do.” I take a deep breath. I’m happy Mom is so encouraging, but I’m still only one of five hundred. “I’m thinking ‘When Doves Cry’ by Prince, though I’ve also been working on a P!nk song so I can show I can sing more than just eighties music. Jesse’s voice coach has taught me a lot.”

At the mention of Jesse, my brother lets out a long sigh. He knows how happy Jesse makes me, but he has to sigh because that’s what annoying older brothers do.

For the next half hour, I practice “When Doves Cry” and “Who Knew” over and over, my mom talking about the strengths of each as a potential second song. My poor brother is wincing, because I’m singing in his ear while he’s trying to drive.

“We should’ve flown to New York,” Sam grumbles. “I feel like I’ve been driving for years.”

“Sam, we haven’t even made it to Knoxville yet,” I say.

“I’m so excited!” Mom exclaims, waving her hands.

“I know! I can’t wait to perform in Radio City,” I say. It’s going to be way different from playing at those tiny metal clubs in Nashville. I’ve never felt such a high, but getting past the semis won’t be easy.

At about noon, we stop at a rest stop in Bristol, Tennessee, and Mom calls Dad to check in. Sam digs around in the coolers and pulls bread, roast beef, cheese, mustard, and mayo out so we can make sandwiches. He lays the spread out on a picnic table, and he dives in. He makes himself a double roast beef sandwich with three pieces of bread. Brothers sure do eat a lot.

Mom makes me a normal-sized sandwich, but I’m too nervous to eat it. Plus Sam forgot to buy pickles, and who can eat a sandwich without them?

“So what do you think will happen during the first day of semis?” Sam asks me as I strum my guitar.

I give him a look. “Uh, were you not paying any attention when I made you watch all those YouTube clips?”

“They change the rules, like, every season. It’s impossible to keep up with it all.”

Mom pulls the envelope from Wannabe Rocker out of my bag and reads the paperwork. “Apparently, the first thing that happens on Monday is the four judges are announced. Then everyone gets to perform.”

“If a judge doesn’t like you,” I say, “he can push a button, and the lights will go off on one third of the stage. If a second judge doesn’t like you, the lights go out on the other side of the stage. And if a third judge decides you suck, he pushes a button, and the entire stage goes dark.”

“So to move forward, at least two judges have to like you?” Sam asks.

“Right.”

“Who were the judges last year?”

“Um,” I pause. “Last year it was Jewel, Steven Tyler from Aerosmith, Slash from Guns, and, uh, Sheryl Crow.”

“Is that who it is this year?” Sam asks.

“It usually changes,” I reply. “I heard a rumor that Jon Bon Jovi might be one, but I don’t know. They haven’t announced the judges yet. Jesse mentioned his manager wanted him to judge, but he’s not,” I say.

We stay overnight at a Motel 6 in Virginia. Mom and I share a double bed, and Sam sprawls out on the other. In the morning, we binge eat at the continental breakfast so we won’t have to buy a big lunch. It takes us about two hours to reach the Washington, DC, suburbs, and as we get closer and closer to the city, I can’t stop staring out the window, because cars keep getting fancier and fancier.

“Holy crap,” I blurt. “That’s a Jaguar XK! And that’s a freaking Mercedes AMG!”

Sam keeps elbowing me when I lean across him to get a better look.

On the New Jersey turnpike, nobody signals when changing lanes, and it seems everyone drives twenty miles over the speed limit. This is my kind of road. Sam loves it as much as I do, grinning as he speeds to keep up with traffic.