Unsung Heroine

by Sarah Kuhn

  “Me?” I said, incredulous.

  “Lucy Valdez, forever karaoke queen of The Gutter championship,” she said, cracking a smile. “I wanted to be as cool as you, you always seemed so . . . so effortless in your performances. Like you were having so much fun. Just enjoying singing. I wanted to enjoy it again. And that meant I wanted to be someone new. Not a former toddler in a tiara.”

  “And a one-named diva with a sad-yet-inspiring connection to this place seemed like a good place to start,” I said. “Is that . . .” I paused, a new realization forming in my brain. “Is that why you rejected Shruti’s sequins—your pageant experiences?”

  “Ugh.” She shuddered. “I hate sequins.”

  “But you dazzled us all with your singing before we knew a thing about you, darling,” I said. “No need for the web of lies.”

  “I wasn’t even going to bust out that G-sharp,” she said. “I wanted to leave it behind completely. But that night, I was vibing with the energy of the crowd and it just came out. And then the reaction was so huge, I felt like I had to do it every time after that.”

  “It’s a showstopper,” I said. “But Celine, dear, why are you running? No one actually cares about the fake backstory. Or even the G-sharp. I’m sure they’d love a chance to get to know the real you.”

  Celine was already shaking her head. “No,” she said firmly. “With all the mic attacks and everything . . . it brought back so many bad memories. My mom was never above sabotaging my competitors—she was a grown woman, trying to take down little girls so I could win. It felt too much like that.” She paused, chewing on her lower lip. “Is it always this cutthroat?”

  “Oh, dear,” I said, more pieces coming together in my brain. “Do you think I’ve been making the mics attack you, darling?”

  “I . . . I don’t know,” she said. “All I know is I can’t be around that kind of thing again.”

  I studied her, really taking her in. She was still drop-dead gorgeous, but now I could see the insecurity and fear percolating underneath the simpering sweet mask she’d tried to affect. She looked more . . . human.

  “How did you know?” she said. “How could you tell I hate the G-sharp?”

  “Your face in this photo,” I said, tapping over to the striking shot on her Instagram. “On the surface, it’s all about the glorious drama of that note, but underneath . . .” I shook my head. “I can practically feel the hate-waves coming off this photo. Call it performer’s instinct.” I hesitated, the beginnings of a new plan taking root in my head. “Celine. I have an idea. About how to stop all this mic attack nonsense. But I need your help. Can you trust me—performer to performer?”

  I held out a hand. She stared at it for a moment, uncertain. Then finally took it. “I can try,” she said.

  Chapter Eleven

  I was about to give the performance of a lifetime. Ironically, it was for one of the smallest audiences ever.

  Evie, Aveda, and Bea were positioned around the bar area, ready for battle. Rose had joined them and set up a few of the traps her team used to contain captured demons—in case we had anything to capture. Kevin had insisted on being present, but was banished to the kitchen with Nate, just in case the shit started to really go down.

  My hope was that the main shit going down would mostly involve feeling things.

  Celine and I were poised onstage, mics in hand. Though we weren’t clad in Shruti’s glamorous outfits, we still looked pretty fabulous—Celine in her leopard-print coat and me in my lacy dress, weapons garter secured to my thigh. Kevin’s music note confetti littered the floor beneath our feet, giving the whole affair a festive feel.

  “All right, Celine,” I said, nodding to her. “Let’s hear the most loud, angry, bloody toxic G-sharp you can muster.”

  The theory that had formed while I was gazing at Celine’s Insta was this: somehow, that G-sharp and the extreme bad feelings behind it had opened up the snag. Perhaps those feelings had been enhanced by the Pussy Queen Portal’s dose of supernatural energy, and boom! That was the trigger, that was what had put enough pressure on the crack. Every time it opened, there had been an extra emotional G-sharp involved: Celine singing that first night, Celine rehearsing in the kitchen . . . and both Celine and I had let loose with some rather toxic G-sharps during “Faith of the Heart.” So now we had to see if it would work again.

  Celine tightened her grip on her mic, threw back her head, and sang. The G-sharp was still glorious; there was no way it could be anything less. But now I could hear the full-on rage simmering underneath the pure beauty of her voice. I could hear how much she absolutely hated it. It shaped that G-sharp into a deadly weapon, all hard edges and sharp angles.

  She used the G-sharp to lead into the opening verse of “Emotions,” adding in those high-pitched Mimi trills here and there. I joined her, giving the verse a harmony, and tried to project my own stew of bitterness. Rage at my father for being such a loser. Rage at my mother for lying about it. Rage at myself for letting all of that hold me back from so many good things.

  There was a flash of light and the mic twitched in my hand, the top of it morphing into an all-too-familiar snarling demon mouth. I held it tightly as it snapped its fangs, keeping it away from my face. I spared a glance at Celine and saw that her mic had also morphed. Her face twisted and her voice faltered as she struggled to continue singing while the mic snapped insistently at her nose, its fangs sharp and eager.

  “Darling, toss me the mic,” I called out. “Keep singing, just, you know—project.”

  I heard a whoosh as the mic sailed across the stage and into my hand. I planted my feet in a wide stance and held both mics away from me, singing with all my might. They twitched and snarled, determined to wriggle out of my grasp. But I held tight.

  “Okay, everyone!” I yelled over Celine’s singing. “It appears the snag has opened. Now we need to overwhelm it with feelings and get it to close for good: time for the emotional flood.”

  “Blow that amp out!” Bea shrieked.

  “Yeah, fuck you, portal!” Aveda screamed. “Er, supernatural snag! Whatever you are, fuck you!”

  “You make us so mad!” Evie bellowed. “So, so mad!”

  “You guys are awful at this,” Bea groaned. “You have to channel true rage. Think of the big sister who won’t get off your frakkin’ case for trying to figure out who you really are, which might not involve her idea of—”

  “We may be getting off-topic there, love,” I called out.

  The mics were now full-on writhing in my hands, slippery with the sweat from my palms. One of them snapped at my bandaged wrist, its razor-sharp teeth cutting the bandage and sinking into my fresh scabs.

  “Gaaaaaaah!” I cried out. I flung both mics across the stage, then reached into my weapons garter, pulling out a pair of small throwing daggers. I threw them in a neat arc, satisfaction blazing through me as they landed with a hearty thump-THUMP! at the base of the mics, right where they connected to the cords. The mics wriggled like mad, snapping at the daggers, trying to get free. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Evie let loose with the flames, flinging fire from her hands. It blazed across the room and enveloped the pinned mics, incinerating them.

  “Lucy!”

  I whirled around—and my jaw nearly hit the floor. Celine was still trying to sing, but her arms flailed wildly around her face, trying to bat away an army of . . . what were they? They looked like a bunch of tiny mic demons who had come to life and were now swarming her like bees, only they had an attachment of swoopy lines that went up and out . . .

  Oh, blast. Were those music note demons?! Was the actual song trying to kill her?

  Wait . . .

  I glanced down at the stage and realized the music note confetti from Kevin’s beloved cannon was mostly gone. So . . . the confetti had come to life, just like the mics, and was attacking Celine.

  Smashing.r />
  Aveda and I charged at the same time. I pulled Celine out of the way while Aveda went into her fighting stance, then watched as her arms and legs struck out at the swarm of demonic notes with precision. She managed to slice a neat kick through the swarm, but it only split in half, snapping at her from both sides.

  I faced Celine, gripping her shoulders. Her face was pale, her eyes terrified, and her voice wobbled, nearly giving up on the song.

  “Celine, look at me,” I said. “It’s all right. Keep singing. You can do this.” Her scared eyes met mine. I joined her on harmony again, making my voice strong and assured. I nodded at her to keep singing and positioned my body in front of her. I turned my gaze to Aveda, who was still trying to kick and punch her way through the note swarm. A small cluster of notes flung itself through the air and away from her—probably Aveda’s telekinesis, I realized. Without missing a beat, Evie sent out the flames and the notes combusted on the spot.

  “Has the swarm multiplied?” Evie yelled. “It looks like it’s getting bigger.”

  It did. I glanced at the floor again—all the music note confetti was gone now. And it was getting hard to even hear Celine’s singing through the snapping of tiny fangs.

  “Is everyone still projecting all those bad feelings?” I asked.

  “I don’t think it’s working,” Rose called back. “It feels like the attack is getting worse.”

  “And the faster we burn the note-demons, the faster they seem to multiply,” Evie said, her voice frustrated. “How much fucking confetti is there?! Annie, watch out!”

  “I’m . . . fine,” Aveda grunted, her fist connecting with another note cluster. Sweat poured down her face, and I could tell she was getting tired.

  “Ughhhh,” Evie said. “It feels like we’re flooding it with all those toxic, angry feelings, but it’s just not working. I don’t know how much longer I can pretend to be mad.”

  I joined Celine on harmony again, trying to do something, anything, to keep fighting. I pushed the words through my throat, forcing them to be loud, angry. My mind felt blank, out of ideas. Evie’s words floated through my brain, lodging themselves there.

  Pretend to be mad.

  Wait. Wait a minute.

  I flashed back to Rose and me the night before, realizing we could be real with each other. How powerful that was. How finally freeing all those pure, genuine feelings had been so much better than all my pretending and putting up walls and running from her.

  Suddenly, I felt all those puzzle pieces arranging themselves in the center of my brain, forming . . . not exactly a complete whole, but something I could definitely work with.

  I felt like one of my British murder show detectives when they finally have that elusive lightbulb moment.

  A-ha! Scott would say to Bailey. Now let’s make out.

  I remembered what Bea had said earlier, about having toxic feelings to spare. About her very real emotions shutting down the mic. How I’d realized a certain essential truth about Celine when I’d really studied that photo of her singing her G-sharp, all her suppressed feelings coming to the surface.

  You have to channel true rage, Bea had said.

  She hadn’t known how right she’d been.

  “Stop!” I screamed.

  Everyone whipped around to look at me. Aveda danced away from the note swarm. Celine stopped singing. They all looked at me expectantly.

  “Everyone stop what you’re doing,” I said. “Oh, except you, Aveda, you can keep fighting the evil confetti.”

  “Thank god,” she muttered, going back to it.

  “I mean, stop projecting fake feelings,” I said. “I just figured it out.”

  I took a tentative step toward Aveda and the demonic note swarm, studying it. Then I closed my eyes and reached deep into my heart, touching all those places I usually tried to keep hidden. Those pieces I never allowed anyone to see. The things I never let anyone know.

  I opened my eyes and looked over at Rose, who had drawn so much out of me the night before. She stared back at me, those big brown eyes holding my gaze. Letting me know she trusted me. Letting me know she wouldn’t let me go. I thought of her murmuring against my skin:

  I’ve got you—I’ve really got you. Okay?

  I reached deeper into my heart and found another memory, one I never revisited—right after I met my father. Sitting in my car outside my mother’s house, tears streaming down my cheeks, Ana Gabriel on the radio. “Quién Como Tú.” Her voice was so deep and passionate and hurting. It was like she was feeling exactly what I was. Even though she was longing for a lover, and I was longing for a parent who would make me whole, the emotion felt the same.

  I remembered crying through the whole song. Wiping tears from my eyes. Going inside and pretending like nothing had happened, listening to Mama spin more of her tales. Putting on a smile.

  I never sang that song again, even though it was my favorite.

  I opened my heart and felt all those soft, vulnerable, painfully honest emotions flowing through me. I let them show on my face, put them out there for everyone to see. Then I opened my mouth and sang the opening notes of “Quién Como Tú.”

  My singing was not as perfect as it usually was—I was a bit tremulous, my voice suffused with unshed tears. But I sang from my heart.

  I sang with truth.

  One of the demonic notes flew toward Aveda’s head, fangs snapping—and then disappeared with a pop. And then, one by one, the others started to do the same—pop-pop-pop-pop-pop!

  “Lucy!” Aveda shook her head in wonder, smashing her fist through a cluster of notes. They popped and disappeared on the spot. “Keep doing whatever you’re doing!”

  “It needs to be overloaded with truthful emotions,” I called out, interrupting my song for a moment. “They can be angry—that’s why the mic shut down for you when you did your experiment, Bea, because your rage was real. But they don’t have to be angry, they just have to come from the heart. From the parts you’re scared of. Beam them out, darlings, and let’s take this thing down! Celine,” I murmured, lowering my voice, “join me, won’t you? You don’t have to sing my song—sing what you want to sing. Sing something that speaks to your heart and your soul. Something you’ve been denied. Just make sure whatever you’re projecting is honest and true.”

  I went back to my song. I heard her shift next to me, hesitating. Then her gorgeous bell of a voice was ringing through The Gutter once more, treating us to the dulcet tones of—

  I whipped around to face her. “Is that Britney Spears’ ‘Lucky’?!”

  A light, boppy, deeper cut from Brit’s first album—not exactly showing off Celine’s ridiculous vocal range and mistakenly regarded by some as corny, embarrassingly on-the-nose filler. But the song was, at its heart, about a girl who just wants people to let her be who she is. I loved it.

  Celine grinned and shrugged—and kept singing, her eyes shining. No rageful G-sharps in sight. I went back to my own song, enjoying the way the melodies overlapped with each other.

  The note-demons were disappearing with a vengeance now. Aveda barely had anything left to fight.

  As both Celine and I wound up to our songs’ big finishes, I was very nearly distracted by a sudden braying sound cutting through the air.

  I swiveled my head, trying to find the source as I kept singing. The braying got louder. And louder. The demonic notes started to pop with even more frequency.

  And then Kevin was bursting out of the kitchen, arms flung wide, singing his heart out.

  His voice was terrible. Loud and almost monotone, no nuance or vocal prowess . . . or . . . or anything. I believed he was trying to sing Selena’s iconic ballad “Dreaming of You,” but I could not be sure.

  Perhaps this was why Kevin’s karaoke career had ended—he was quite possibly one of the worst singers I’d ever heard. But he definitely had passion.
He was laying a whole mess of incredibly truthful emotions out there. And shouldn’t that be celebrated?

  “Kevin!” I cried. I held out a hand. “Come up here and join us!”

  He obliged, sashaying around Aveda and the swarm and up onto the stage. We all sang together—chaotic and cacophonous, the songs crashing against each other. But somehow also sounding like they were in a bizarre sort of perfect harmony.

  Aveda used her telekinesis to send the last cluster of note-demons spinning away from her. Evie incinerated them in midair with a mighty burst of flames.

  I held on to my last note, closing my eyes, feeling it deep in my bones. Feeling raw and terrified and completely exhilarated as my emotions poured out of me. Just pure feeling.

  When I opened my eyes, everything was silent. The note-demons were gone. Evie met my eyes and gave me a goofy thumbs-up. I beamed at Celine and Kevin, both flushed with the adrenaline that results from a fabulous performance. “Thank you,” Celine murmured, squeezing my hand. “That was so . . . fun.”

  And then, before I could do anything else, my beautiful Rose Rorick was bounding onstage, sweeping me into her arms and pulling me tightly against her. I sagged, the adrenaline draining from my body, my performance high floating into the ether. Prickly feelings of vulnerability started to creep in—but instead of getting the immediate urge to run, I felt myself sagging more heavily against Rose. Letting her really hold me.

  “I’ve got you,” she whispered.

  And for maybe the first time, I truly believed her.

  Epilogue

  Present Day

  “There is something wrong. And there’s something we desperately need to discuss.”

  The words had scarcely left my lips before Kevin was onstage, bellowing out my name as the winner of the Gutter karaoke championship.

  “Oops!” I said, squeezing Rose’s hand. “Sorry, one moment, love.”