HANNAH’S POV:
“No,” she said. “Mine are right for my piece. But hers are right for hers. I am just saying it is good. You can appreciate something without wanting it for yourself.”
“That is a very mature observation,” I said.
“I know,” she said, and went back to watching.
We sat together in the green room while the remaining performers finished and the audience waited for the results and Amelia was very calm.
I sat beside her and I thought about the monologue. About her writing it thinking about Mirada. About a girl finding a photograph of a woman who was a dancer before she was anything else.
My mother would never know she had a granddaughter who had written something beautiful about exactly that. But in some way I could not explain properly and did not try to explain to anyone but understood in my own chest) I felt certain she knew anyway.
The results for the junior solo category were announced at half past three.
The adjudicator was a small woman with a clear voice who delivered the commentary for each placing with the specificity of someone who had spent the day really watching.
Third place went to a boy from the north side who had performed a piece about his grandfather’s immigration. Very good and well deserved.
Second place went to the girl who had gone first, who had done a piece about mathematics that had been technically impressive.
And then the adjudicator said, “First place in the Junior Solo Performance category goes to a piece that demonstrated not only technical skill and emotional intelligence but a level of original writing that I have rarely seen at this age. This performer wrote her own material, which was a risk, and it paid off completely. First place goes to Amelia Martinez.”
Amelia stood up.
She walked to the stage and accepted the certificate and the small trophy that went with it and she stood at the microphone and she said, simply, “Thank you. I wrote this for my late grandmother.”
That was it and no elaboration, it was just that.

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