From The Peanut Gallery

A palpable hush settled over the audience as the set was swept between acts. Most of the students in the gym, including those who had already or had yet to perform, crowded the stage with looks of anticipation, camera-phones at the ready. Most of the parents sat back in their seats with resigned, annoyed and occasionally outright jealous expressions – but they set their phone cameras to record as well. A large majority of the audience was comprised of none of these common species; a much rarer bird had descended by the flock. But then, every talent scout east of the Mississippi came to Dearborn when Carly Schweinger decided to dance.

There was a fourth group made up of middle-aged men of the sort that school resource officers keep files on in locked drawers under their desks and occasionally share with the local vice squad. Some of these men might have figured prominently in our story, but for now they're just faces in the crowd, albeit ones watched closely by Resource Officer Morganthau.

The lights dimmed. There was a chatter of excited voices which fell away as the spotlights hit the stage and hit a lithe leotard-clad figure. The accompanying piano was augmented by a recorded drum-set, a basso-nova rhythm that captured the audience; every toe was tapping, every shoulder popping. Every eye was glued to Carly as she began her routine. For almost a quarter of an hour she moved about the stage, eliciting gasps and smiles and admiring stares. By the time she bowed at the end, every person was on their feet applauding except for a few of the more pragmatic talent scouts heading out the door to stake out Carly's beat up Accord. Several of the middle aged men attempted to do the same, but shied off when Officer Morganthau pulled his radio car around back.

Carly exited by the rear door, arm in arm with a chattering girlfriend and a gloating boyfriend. The boyfriend thought the girlfriend was Carly's BFF, and the girlfriend thought the boyfriend was Carly's still-closeted gay best friend. Each were in for quite a surprise, but that story, too, comes later. For now, they were colluding on plans to take Carly to the local ice cream shop, and each privately plotting to steal her company as soon as possible. For her part, Carly was enjoying the adoration as artists will, and also the dramatic irony inherent in the situation... as assholes will. The trio approached the Accord, climbing in and flipping synchronized birds at the talent scouts attempting their spiels, and sped off laughing.

A group of those talent scouts met later that evening in the airport hotel's bar and drank their beers in silence. Several call girls at the end of the bar eyed them hopefully for the first half hour and then left for the first class lounge. A giddy pair of newlyweds drank fizzy concoctions and daydreamed out loud about their tropical destination. The talent scouts switched to vodka. After nearly three hours of silence the most experienced of the talent scouts remembered he had an expense account and the group switched to scotch. Not a word was said as flights came and went, bartenders changed shifts, and teenagers tried to sneak into the bar area.

By midnight, the group of talent scouts was thoroughly sozzled; lubricated enough, in fact, to talk. The least experienced of the group elected to go first. “That little cunt.”

The most experienced scout grinned and downed his eighth Glenlivet. “Welcome to the business. And now I'm cutting you folks off. Hey, bartender! Gimme back my card.”