The List
Page 16
BoardRyder: So . . . Cervantes, huh?
TwinkieSmash: Yup. Like I said, school. What’s your excuse?
BoardRyder: Hard-core nerd tendencies.
TwinkieSmash: You’re speaking my language.
BoardRyder: My favorite uncle loved that book, so I gave it a shot one summer.
TwinkieSmash: Ambitious.
BoardRyder: It’s been said.
TwinkieSmash: So you read a lot?
BoardRyder: When I have time. Busy with work. You?
TwinkieSmash: Busy? Yeah.
BoardRyder: And reading?
TwinkieSmash: Not as much as I want to.
BoardRyder: Let’s pretend I didn’t read your profile.
TwinkieSmash: Okay . . .
BoardRyder: And then I can ask you what else you like to do for fun.
BoardRyder: You know, like I don’t already know.
TwinkieSmash: Right.
TwinkieSmash: Huh.
TwinkieSmash: Can I go read my own profile real quick to jog my memory?
BoardRyder: Ha, ha. Been too long since you had fun?
TwinkieSmash: No, I have lots of fun, but most of it’s been surfing lately.
The screen stayed idle for a minute, and then BoardRyder was back.
BoardRyder: You’re here in Salt Lake? I’ve seen that lake. It’s not that much like the ocean.
TwinkieSmash: Funny. I’m not in SLC right now.
BoardRyder: Oh, sorry. I just snuck over and got that from your profile.
TwinkieSmash: No prob. I’m from there, I’ll be there again soon, but I’m just not there now.
BoardRyder: Now you’re somewhere surfing?
TwinkieSmash: Yep.
BoardRyder: How mysterious.
BoardRyder: Let me guess . . .
BoardRyder: It’s summer, you’re Mormon, you’re single, you’re surfing . . .
BoardRyder: You’re in HB, right?
TwinkieSmash: Bingo.
BoardRyder: Impressed?
TwinkieSmash: No. Half the people down here are summer transplants from Utah.
BoardRyder: So true.
TwinkieSmash: You’ve been here?
BoardRyder: A few times.
TwinkieSmash: Did you like it?
BoardRyder: Yeah, I’d say so.
TwinkieSmash: But you’re a Utah boy at heart?
BoardRyder: No. Just here for business.
TwinkieSmash: Which is . . . ?
BoardRyder: The fascinating world of sporting goods.
TwinkieSmash: Cool.
BoardRyder: Sometimes.
BoardRyder: What do you do?
TwinkieSmash: School.
BoardRyder: Down there?
TwinkieSmash: No, up there. That’s why I’ll be back.
BoardRyder: The U?
TwinkieSmash: The Y.
BoardRyder: Why?
TwinkieSmash: Why ask Y?
BoardRyder: Funny.
TwinkieSmash: It’s been said.
TwinkieSmash: Oops. I just yawned. I think that means bedtime.
BoardRyder: Catch you another time?
TwinkieSmash: Sure. See you around . . . Board?
BoardRyder: You can call me Ryder.
BoardRyder: What should I call you?
TwinkieSmash: Twinkie.
BoardRyder: As you wish . . .
TwinkieSmash: Or Ashley. That’s fine too.
BoardRyder: Bye, Ashley. Nice chatting with you.
I closed my laptop, said my evening prayer, and climbed into bed. Don’t you go thinking about Matt’s kiss, I scolded myself as I drifted to sleep. But I didn’t listen.
Chapter 17
After church the next day, I admitted to myself that Matt might have known what he was talking about when he predicted my dating prospects. Within minutes of walking into the linger longer with Celia after Relief Society, a near-constant stream of guys rotated through our orbit. After she fielded a returned missionary I felt was far too old to date, she whispered to me, “Don’t ever, ever move away.” She stifled a giggle when the fifth guy in less than twenty minutes wandered toward us with an ice cream sandwich, today’s refreshment. “Do they all think bringing you a treat so you’ll talk to them is an original idea?”
“Yes,” I grumbled. I wanted to leave, bored and a little irritated by the attention. Not wanting to disappoint Celia, I stayed and tried to think of a new, polite way of turning down the approaching guy’s sandwich. Louisa saved me the trouble, calling my name and waving me over, leaving the guy to veer toward Celia instead.
“Matt’s right,” she said, when I reached her where she leaned against the stage. “He should have made a bet with you.”
“About what?”
“How quickly the guys would move in when he left,” she said.
I sighed. “Don’t get me wrong, they all seem like nice guys, but this is kind of excessive. What on earth is going on?”
She grinned. “You’re a status symbol now.”
“A what?”
“A status symbol,” she laughed. “Matt’s way too humble to tell you himself, but a lot of the guys around here rush in to date anyone he’s dated because they think it elevates their social standing.”
“That’s ridiculous,” I said.
“Maybe, maybe not,” she shrugged. “It totally embarrasses Matt, but it happens every time he breaks up with someone.”
“They only want to hang out with me because I went out with Matt a few times? I felt a little stupid over all the attention before,” I said. “Now I feel really stupid.”
“Enjoy it,” she said. “Most girls would.”
“Not me,” I shook my head. “I don’t have time to figure out how to sort through all of these guys and figure out which ones aren’t total wastes of time.”
“Poor you,” Louisa joked.
I sighed. “I know I sound either totally stuck up or completely ungrateful for the attention, but the truth is, I suddenly feel like a juicy bone in a yard full of dopey Golden Retrievers,” I said, eyeing the plethora of blond guys loitering in the cultural hall. “This is silly.”
Louisa nodded. “I understand, actually. They all just want you as arm candy right now, right?”
“I guess,” I said. “It’s lame.”
“So no one caught your interest yet?” she asked, and I wondered if it was for her own information or if my answer would get back to her brother.
“Not really,” I said.
“I know Matt hogged a lot of your time,” she said. “You don’t see anyone here that can plug the holes in your schedule?”
“Honestly? No,” I said. “I think I’m just going to have to get used to having some free time.”
Louisa studied me, looking amused. “Matt’s dated a lot of girls that I didn’t really like,” she said. “But you’re all right. I’m going to do myself a favor and make sure you stick around so he doesn’t have to go date someone else obnoxious when he gets back from his trip.”
“I’m scared.”
“Don’t be. But I’m going to start nagging you about attending all of the ward activities when you’re not at work so that I keep you too busy to date anyone else,” she said.
“I don’t know, Louisa. I don’t usually go to activities and stuff like that much,” I said.
“Don’t say no yet,” she ordered me. “You don’t even know what we have planned.”
“You’re bossy,” I said. “Matt didn’t exaggerate that.”
“I’m totally bossy, but I get away with it because I’m usually right.”
“Okay, I’ll bite,” I said. “What’s next up?”
“We’re doing Beachside Idol this Wednesday.”
I cringed. “A talent show? Ugh. Not my thing,” I said. It was that whole fear of singing in public. Leila and Juliana got all the voice talent in our family, leaving me completely self-conscious about being nearly tone deaf.
“Oh no,” she corrected. “This is more like an anti-talent
show. Have you ever done karaoke?”
“No,” I said, my stomach sinking. If I had a shot at a List item, I might have to take it.
“We’re hosting our first annual Beachside Idol karaoke competition. Bishop Danvers and his wife will judge, and we’re going to give out awards for stuff like ‘Best Cruise Ship Performance’ and being ‘Soooo Karaoke,’” she said. “The worse you are, the better.”
“I stink.”
“Perfect,” she said. “You’ll be here Wednesday, then?”
“I don’t know,” I hedged.
“Don’t know what?” Celia asked, choosing that moment to join us.
“I’m trying to convince her to come to the activity on Wednesday,” Louisa explained.
“The karaoke one?” Celia raised her eyebrows at me. “The karaoke activity?”
I could tell her emphasis was intended to remind me of The List. “You kind of have to go,” she said.
I guess I kind of did.
* * *
Wednesday dragged its feet before arriving and it still came too soon. Normally, I had Tuesday night’s Institute class with Matt to look forward to, but without him there, only the mild entertainment of watching Dave flirt with Laurel made the evening worthwhile. I couldn’t focus on Sister Powers’s lesson, wondering what Matt was up to and when he would call. I’d had a couple of texts from him, but nothing with any meat to it.
Ironic. The guy I didn’t want a relationship with refused to call and it bugged me.
I yanked my wandering thoughts away from Matt every two minutes at work and focused instead on choosing a song for my Beachside Idol disaster. I mean, debut. By that night, I had selected and discarded over a dozen possibilities before settling on one. In rare instances I landed on key; it was in a narrow range. My voice isn’t interesting or even very strong, so I needed to choose a song that fit my limited abilities. Dave and Celia insisted on coming to cheer me on, so we squished into Dave’s truck and headed to the church.
In the gym, Louisa and her committee had set up the chairs and stage already. A deejay stood to the side of the stage, fiddling with his equipment, large binders stacked on the table in front of him. Another table, slightly elevated on a riser directly in front of the stage, boasted hand-lettered signs for steven, j-lo, and randy. We grabbed seats somewhere in the middle of the audience. The second we sat down, Dave started craning his neck around, looking for someone.
“Is Laurel supposed to be here?” Celia asked.
“I’m not sure,” he said. “She usually comes to activities.”
“So, do I get to meet her?”
He shrugged. “No.”
“What! Why? Ashley got to meet her and she’s only your cousin,” Celia protested.
“That’s kind of the point,” he said. “I don’t want to make it some big deal like I’m introducing her to my sister and it means something. Besides, Ashley met her before I did, so you can’t hold that against me.”
I tuned out the rest of the argument when I saw Louisa heading my way.
“Hi,” she said. “You’re singing, right?”
“I guess.” Sweat beaded under my tee shirt.
“Then go sign up before the slots are gone and you miss your chance.”
“Thanks,” I said.
“Sure,” she nodded and then hustled off to go boss one of her committee minions.
I made my way to the deejay booth and put my name on the sheet. There were only about four slots left after my name, and I wished I had dragged my feet a little longer so that they were all taken. Scanning the list, I didn’t see anyone else that had picked my song, and after checking the large binders to make sure that the deejay had it, I wrote the title down and headed back to my seat.
“Are you nervous?” Celia asked.
“No,” I said. My toes felt numb.
“But you said you can’t sing.”
“Not very well,” I agreed. Now I was losing sensation in my fingertips.
“Then why aren’t you nervous? Aren’t you afraid you’re going to make a fool of yourself?”
“I’m not nervous because I’m terrified. There’s a reason it’s taken me six years to get to this item. This is Juliana’s fault,” I muttered, wiggling all my digits to make sure they still worked.
“How’s that?” Celia asked.
“She was always looking all sassy up on stage when she did pageant performances and stuff, and she tricked me into thinking it would be fun to try too.”
“But you can’t sing.”
“I know!” I glared. “I think I put karaoke on the list because I thought it would be easier than trying to do a talent show like she used to, but it’s not.”
Dave sighed. “I don’t know why you’re stressing out about this so much. Just bag it. It’s your list.”
“I can’t,” I said. “Once it’s on The List, I have to do it, no exceptions.”
Celia laughed. “I’m going to start penciling in stuff just for the fun of it,” she said. “Audition for the Miss Hawaiian Tropics contest, lead the Fourth of July parade, enter the U.S. Open surf competition, and you’ll be stuck doing it because it’s on The List.”
“I’m pretty sure I’d notice those additions,” I answered. “Especially since I capped it at twenty-five when I made it.”
The deejay did a mic check, signifying that the evening was about to get under way. Satisfied that the sound worked just fine, he handed it off to one of Louisa’s helpers, a tall blond guy with an amiable face. He said the opening prayer, but it was much too mild for the divine intervention it would take to get me through the night with my pride intact. The deejay got the mike back and began to hype up the audience.
“Welcome to Beachside Idol!” he shouted. This produced a moderate wave of applause. Trying again, he yelled even louder, “Are you ready to see the worst of the worst, the performances so bad that they wouldn’t make the American Idol reject reel?!”
This time, the applause sounded more enthusiastic with some whistles thrown in for good measure.
“Then let’s get started!” he hollered. More whoops from the audience.
“We need Anne Gedson to the stage, please,” he announced, and a moment later a cute little blonde giggled her way up the steps. He asked her a few getting-to-know-you questions and then handed her the microphone. Stepping behind his table, he fiddled with his laptop and within moments, the opening strains of Natasha Bedingfield’s hit from a few years before, “Unwritten,” wafted out. Anne stood beaming, not looking the least bit nervous, and when she opened her mouth, I understood why. The girl could sing. In fact, she sang the heck out of the song, and by the time the last few notes closed out, the audience was on its feet, roaring approval.
I turned, mouth agape, to face my cousins. “I thought everyone was supposed to be bad,” I managed.
Celia winced. “I guess she didn’t get the memo.”
“Don’t worry,” Dave added. “I’m sure a few of them will be terrible.”
He was sort of right. Out of the next ten performances, only two were truly awful, each singer playing to his weaknesses and performing as badly as possible. The rest of them ranged from pretty good to amazing. With every new performer driving me closer to the brink of despair, my lungs were laboring to breathe properly and the beads of sweat that had formed between my shoulder blades were now a deluge. When I heard the guy who signed up just before me get called up, I begged whoever oversees things like impending train wrecks and lost causes that he would be one of the “bad” singers. He only had to sing three notes before my hopes disintegrated. Between his perfect pitch and playing to the crowd, I realized I would be following one of the strongest acts of the night.
I leaned over to my cousins. “I’m next,” I said. “I feel sick. I don’t think I can do this.”
“Sure you can,” Celia said, but she looked nervous. “If you’re as bad as you say you are, just go out of your way to make it even worse and you’ll get people laughing.”
As the guy onstage wound down his rousing performance and people jumped to their feet to cheer, my stomach clenched and I wondered how obvious it would be if I ran and hid in the restroom until the night was over.
Interpreting my expression, Celia shook her head. “Don’t do it, Ashley. Don’t bail. It’ll be fine. Just get this item crossed off The List and it’ll be totally worth it. You won’t have it hanging over your head anymore.”
I took a deep breath and nodded. I even remembered to exhale. Until the deejay said, “Next up, we’ve got Ashley Barrett singing ‘The Shoop Shoop Song.’ Let’s welcome her to the stage.” Then I stopped breathing again. I think maybe I suffered a ministroke and lost the ability to move for a moment. My feet stayed put and the polite applause from the audience began to dwindle when no one moved to take the stage.
“Can we get Ashley Barrett up here?” the deejay tried again.
“Go, Ashley,” Celia hissed. “That’s you. Go!”
Dave reached around his sister to give me a rough nudge. “Move it, you big chicken.”
A few more heads turned in our direction, scenting some drama unfolding. That more than anything unfroze my feet. They pointed themselves toward the stage and I slowly followed as the applause increased again, now that a victim had identified herself. The deejay offered a grin and asked, “So Ashley, a little nervous, are you?”
“Yes—” I croaked, and then winced. I cleared my throat and tried again. “Yes, a little.”
“So is this your first time doing karaoke?” he asked.
“Um, yes,” I said, my panic rising. I knew I was supposed to be bantering with him to increase the entertainment value, but with my mind a complete blank, all I could handle was one syllable at a time.
“This will be fun for everyone, then. Any reason for trying it tonight?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said.
He waited for me to elaborate. That didn’t happen. After an awkward silence, he shrugged and said, “Okay . . . I guess we’ll turn Ashley loose to do her thing.”