The backstage corridor smelled like hairspray, sweat, and too much perfume. I was still in my stage clothes when a man with a headset and clipboard guided me toward a corner they'd turned into an interview spot. A glowing sign read ON CAMERA.
"Right this way, champ," he said, crouching a little to meet my eyes. "You're a star now."
Star. They kept calling me that. I didn't feel different. Just smaller than the adults buzzing around like bees on too much caffeine.
They sat me in a chair three times too big. Bright lights snapped on, blinding me. A woman with too much foundation and an even bigger smile shuffled her cue cards.
"Okay, Adam, sweetheart," she said. "We're just going to ask you a few questions for TV. You ready?"
I nodded.
"Perfect!" She turned to the camera. "This is Adam, the five-year-old who just stunned America's Got Talent with an emotional, powerful performance. Adam, tell us — how did you feel out there on that stage?"
I tilted my head. "I just sang."
The crew chuckled. She blinked, leaned closer. "Just sang? But Adam, you had the whole room crying! Didn't you notice?"
"I noticed."
Her smile faltered, then snapped back into place. "And what do you want to do if you win the show? Buy toys? Go to Disneyland?"
I thought for a second. "Buy more cereal."
The crew burst out laughing. The interviewer dabbed sweat from her forehead, forcing a laugh. "Well, there you have it, America — our little star!"
---
After the interview, they sent me to a makeup chair. A woman came at me with brushes like I was her canvas.
"We just need to reduce the shine on your face for the cameras, sweetheart."
My mom hovered nearby, arms folded tight. "He doesn't need makeup. He's a child!"
"It's just powder," the artist said, rolling her eyes. "Even kids shine under those lights. Unless you want him looking like a flashlight."
Mom huffed but stayed quiet.
Other contestants drifted past. Some congratulated me, others avoided my eyes. The adults mostly.
A teenage singer muttered, "How do you compete with that?"
Another whispered, "He's like a circus act. The producers eat it up."
I ignored them. Adults always underestimated what kids could hear. Even though I wasn't really a kid.
---
When the powdering was done, they led us to the "family holding area," a room full of nervous parents pacing, kids sniffling, producers whispering instructions.
Mom pulled me against her side. "You were amazing, Adam. Did you see Brandy crying? Crying! And Piers actually smiled. I thought his face was stuck in permanent grump."
I nodded. "He said I was impressive. Full stop."
She gave me a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Exactly."
A producer popped his head in. "Adam, your segment's going to air in prime time. Editors are already cutting it. This is going to be huge."
"Prime time?" Mom repeated, eyes wide.
"National television. Millions of viewers."
She gasped, clutching my shoulders like I might float away. "Do you hear that, Adam? Millions! You're going to be—"
"A star," I finished flatly.
The producer laughed. "This kid's a natural."
He hadn't noticed the way my mom's expression hardened when I said it.
---
By night's end, contestants were escorted out one by one. Cameras still followed, grabbing "behind-the-scenes" footage. Mom clung to my hand like I might vanish, though we were just walking to the exit.
Outside, the Hollywood air was warm and buzzing with traffic. Fans crowded the barricades. Some shouted my name. My name.
A woman shoved a pen and pad toward me. "Adam! Can I get your autograph?"
I stared at the paper, then scribbled Adam in neat capitals. My handwriting was clean, controlled. I had perfect command of my body — why wouldn't it be?
She squealed like she'd just won a prize.
Mom's grip tightened. "He's only five!" she said loudly, but her eyes darkened the more the crowd reached for me.
As we climbed into the car the studio had sent, she bent close and whispered: "Remember, Adam. You're only mine. Only mine."
I stared out the window. Neon signs blurred past, traffic stretched endlessly. My reflection in the glass looked small, fragile — a child.
But inside, I already knew: I wasn't playing the same game everyone thought I was.