I thought he sounded a little doubtful at this point, but I couldn’t spare the extra brain cells to analyze his tone. He crossed to his table and in the shortest ten seconds ever known to humanity, I saw the screen in front of me flicker to life while the cheerful notes opening the song began to blare out.
The words lighting up threw me and I scrambled to find my place, dropping into the middle of the lyric and mumbling my way through the next part.
If I thought I had a prayer of playing it off like I meant to be that bad, I might have stayed up there. If I could have relaxed enough to keep my spot in the lyrics, I might have stayed up there too. Instead, I lost my place again as soon as I risked a glance at my cousins to gauge how big this disaster was. Judging by their expressions, it was awful. When I couldn’t for the life of me find my spot again on the monitor, I stood, mouth agape, while my worst nightmare swallowed me completely.
The chorus swelled, but even though I wore out the Cher movie Mermaids watching it with my sisters when I was a kid, and even though we had reenacted “The Shoop Shoop Song” scene every time, the words fell right out of my head. A world of difference separated the experience of singing into a hairbrush with my sisters backing me from standing on stage with a microphone in my hand in front of an audience that was starting to fidget in discomfort.
By the time the second verse started, I knew number three on The List would stay uncrossed. I wondered if I could fake a hamstring injury and limp off the stage. Anyone who knew my accident-prone history would totally buy that. Halfway through the second verse, I gathered my wits, jerked the microphone awkwardly toward my face and said, “Sorry!” way too loudly, and then I set it down on the ground and fled from the stage in the opposite direction from the deejay.
When I exited the stage stairs, I realized the ladies’ room was just around the corner, so I ducked into it. I had no desire to listen to Celia tell me that it wasn’t that bad, so instead of locking myself into a stall, I slipped into the mother’s lounge. Collapsing onto the little love seat tucked just inside the door, I dropped my burning face into my hands and tried to keep my mind blank. It worked for about two seconds at a time until a flashback would intrude and my cheeks heated with embarrassment again.
The bathroom door opened.
“Ash? Are you in here?” It was Celia. I kept quiet, preferring to nurse my humiliation alone.
“Ashley? I know you’re not in the Jeep because I checked.” I heard one of the stall doors bang open. “Are you standing on a toilet so I can’t see your feet?”
Ha. I’m no amateur.
I waited for her to give up and leave, but the door to the mother’s lounge flew open and there she stood, hands on hips, annoyance scrawled all over her face.
“Why are you hiding?”
“Did you miss the part where I made a total idiot of myself?”
“No. But I’m afraid I’m going to miss the part where you bounce back and laugh this off. You need to get back in there.”
I peeked at her through my fingers. “You’re crazy.”
“No, I’m not. You have to shake this off and go back,” she insisted.
“I’m not climbing back on that stage,” I said.
“You don’t have to. But you should get back in there with a smile on your face and prove you’re not a loser.”
“Did you just call me a loser?”
“No. And you shouldn’t give anyone else the chance to, either. Look, it’s a forgiving bunch out there. Give them a reason to cheer for you and go back out.”
I groaned. “I don’t know if I can, Celia. I’ve never made such a big idiot of myself before.”
“I don’t think anyone thinks you’re an idiot. I bet you have a lot of people’s sympathy. But if you don’t show your face again, you’re going to be a sad, sad footnote to the night.”
I dropped my hands and stared at her, wavering. I so did not want to leave the comfort of my hidey-hole.
“Staying in here is making this a bigger deal than it is,” Celia said.
That clenched it. If going back out to show my face would help the talk die down, then I’d do it.
“Okay,” I mumbled. “But I’m not getting on stage again.”
“You don’t have to,” Celia said. “Just slip into your chair and smile like you think the whole thing is kind of funny.”
“It’s hilarious,” I said.
“Smile when you lie about that,” Celia ordered.
I stretched my lips into a grin.
“Uh . . . that looks kind of feral,” Celia said. “Maybe borrow one of your sister’s pageant smiles.”
I adjusted my mouth and she studied the results.
“Completely plastic but definitely an improvement. Let’s go.”
I trailed her out of the restroom. The final few yards of carpet in front of the cultural hall doors exerted extra gravity on me, slowing my steps to a near crawl.
“No backing out,” Celia said. “You’re a cool girl. You can totally play this off.” She held the door open for me.
I slipped past her and then took a nonchalant stroll toward my seat, moseying like I didn’t have the weight of crushing humiliation pressing down on my shoulders. I slid into my seat next to Dave, who smiled.
“You’re all right, Smash,” he said with a nod. That made me feel a little better.
With the exception of the people in the seats around us, no one seemed to notice my return. Most of the crowd were on their feet, grooving to the raucous honky-tonk anthem the contestant on stage sang.
“I didn’t know this crowd was so into country music,” I muttered to Dave. “Maybe that was my mistake.”
“No, I think your screwup was the not singing anything part,” he said, but he gave me a light punch in the arm to let me know he was teasing.
When Garth Brooks Jr. finished his number, the deejay let the applause die down and then announced, “It’s time for the last performance of the night, folks. Let’s bring up Megan Lowry singing ‘I Will Always Love You.’”
I cringed when I realized it was that Megan. How delightful to know she’d witnessed my karaoke disaster.
She met the deejay at center stage for her obligatory interview questions, but before he could ask anything, she whispered something in his ear. Looking surprised, he informed the audience, “Megan has requested a change in song. Give me just a minute to check if I have it.”
After a quick trip to his table and some tapping on his keyboard, he nodded to Megan. She smiled and lifted the microphone, waiting for the music to start.
When the first few bars drifted out, I wrinkled my forehead. The tune sounded familiar but I couldn’t quite place it. And then the words started, something about not liking some guy’s girlfriend. Megan snarled the lyrics with relish, bouncing all over the place and giving a rocking performance I didn’t expect out of her. By the time the song hit the chorus about how he could do better, I leaned over to Celia.
“I realize I’m extra self-conscious right now, but is she shouting this song at me?”
“That’s not your imagination. She’s definitely singing this for you.”
Dave grinned. “She isn’t exactly subtle, is she?”
“I can’t believe this,” I said, shaking my head. “This girl is a piece of work.”
At the end of the song, Celia turned to me. “Well?” she asked.
I shrugged. “I don’t know if I want to laugh or kill her.”
“Not that she’s my favorite or anything,” Dave said, “but I’m trying to date her friend, so maybe just laugh?”
I grinned. “Way to make this about you, Dave.”
He shrugged. “Dude, Laurel’s cool.”
When the applause ended for Megan’s performance, the deejay announced that there would be a short intermission before the judges announced the winners. People began to stir, leaving their seats to chat with friends while the judges conferred. I stayed put.
“See?” Celia said. “No one’s acting wei
rd to you.”
“No one’s talking to me at all. That’s kind of weird.” Not that I minded, but not even the people around us seemed to know what to say, wandering off to find other friends.
“That’s because it wasn’t a big deal,” Celia said.
“Maybe,” I shrugged, but I felt a lick of hope. Maybe she was right.
Derek chose that moment to wander up. “Dude, why did you bail?” he asked when he saw me.
“Uh . . .”
“I mean, don’t get me wrong. I wouldn’t go up there,” he said. “But why did you run off like that?”
Louisa saved me from an answer, appearing in time to deliver a light smack to the back of Derek’s head. He rubbed his head and stared at her in consternation.
“What was that for?” he demanded.
“Quit being nosy,” she said.
“I was just wondering, is all.”
“No, you’re being nosy. Stop. Go somewhere else.”
He looked hurt but then caught sight of a group of girls who were watching him and giggling. He headed their way for a little flirtation and ego massage.
Louisa turned her attention on me. “How do you feel?”
“Like an idiot.”
She nodded. “Derek kind of had a point—”
“That I’m a runaway loser?” I interrupted.
“I was going to say that he wouldn’t have gotten up there, and neither would I and neither would most of the people in this room right now. And that means that we all understand.”
“You’re saying you would have run out too?” I challenged her.
She shook her head. “I’m saying I never would have gotten that far, and you get points for trying.”
I absorbed that for a moment and let it sink in. “Thanks,” I said.
“No problem,” she said. “I promise that whatever activity I bully you into next will not put you on the hot seat.”
“Deal,” I said. I wanted to stay on Louisa’s good side because she was Matt’s sister, but I also found myself liking her more each time we spoke.
“Have you heard from Matt lately?” I asked. I tried to sound casual but I didn’t fool her.
“Yeah. He’s working like crazy right now, trying to get leases ironed out and all of that. He hasn’t called you yet?”
“He’s texted me a few times. He warned me he’d be pretty busy. So where is he this week again?” I was fishing, but Louisa wasn’t taking the bait.
“Oh, you know. Here, there, and everywhere, just like last week. He really should slow down, but he doesn’t listen to me.”
I nodded like I knew what she was talking about. I couldn’t believe how hungry I was for any crumb of information she dropped.
Bishop Danvers turned around to beckon her over.
“Guess I better go see what’s up,” she said. “I’ll see you around.”
“Yeah, see you,” I said.
Megan sashayed over next. She literally did this little skippy dance move on her way to my seat, probably delirious with glee at my public shaming.
“Sorry you had such a rough time up there,” she said. Insincerity dripped like venom from her invisible fangs.
I decided not to let her get to me. “Thanks,” I said. “It’s such a personal song to me that sometimes it’s hard to get through.”
“‘The Shoop Shoop Song’ goes that deep for you, huh?” she asked, and her eyebrows crept toward the ceiling in disbelief.
I flushed but refused to back down. “Yeah, uh, ‘If you want to know if he loves you so, it’s in his kiss.’ That always makes me think, you know?”
Her face darkened. I realized she had taken that as a hint that I’d kissed Matt. I didn’t mean it that way, but since it was true and it bothered her, I let it stand and felt a little bit better.
“Your song was . . . interesting,” I said.
“Did you like it?” she almost purred.
I shrugged. “I hope you didn’t make too many girls in the audience nervous with those lyrics. Some of the insecure girls might decide to stonewall you for something like that.”
“But I was talking about—” She cut herself off. “It’ll be fine,” she said. “They know their guys are safe.” For Megan, that was subtle.
I barely refrained from an eye roll and might have done it, anyway except the deejay announced that the awards were ready. Megan favored me with a gnarly glare before heading back to her chair.
“That girl is unbelievable,” Celia said.
“All right, ladies and gentleman, it’s time to announce our winners!” the deejay shouted. It confused me when deejays and emcees did that. I mean, they had a microphone in their hands. Hello? Was shouting really necessary? From the stack of certificates in his hand I could tell this would be one of those situations where everyone got an award. The first one he called out was for best dance moves, which went to a girl who had sung a Britney Spears song. Her choreography had stopped just shy of calling lightning down on all of us. Mr. Honky-Tonk anthem picked up something called “The Next Generation Cowboy” award and Megan picked up the angriest rocker chick prize. That seemed apropos. Several more awards for best costume, best ballad, and the best soundalike performance went out too. Even though I knew I had one coming, I still flinched when I heard the deejay say, “Ashley Barrett won the award for . . . Most Dramatic Exit!”
I scrunched down in my chair, but Dave said, “No way. You have to go accept it.” Before I could climb to my feet (and I would have!), he stood and hoisted me over his shoulder like it was nothing and strode toward the stage. I cursed his summers as a junior lifeguard and as the laughter from the audience followed us up the stage steps, I grabbed the closest part of his back I could get to and pinched him hard. He kept going, probably because he was skinny and there was nothing to pinch.
When he set me on my feet and walked off the stage again, I looked out at the audience in some trepidation. How many times can a girl embarrass herself in one night and still get the sympathy vote? I wondered. But almost every face smiled back at me in genuine encouragement. Celia and Louisa were right—it was a sympathetic crowd. Well, except for Megan. She sat third row center with a sneer. Such a bad look for her.
It snapped me out of my daze, though. When the deejay handed me my certificate, I clutched it to my chest, stared at the audience in exaggerated fright, and fled the same direction I had before. This time I stopped in the wings, and when I heard the applause and laughter, I poked my head back out and waved, glad to be in on the joke this time. I passed Louisa on the way back to my seat and she gave me an approving smile.
When I sat back down, Celia leaned over to examine my prize.
“What are you going to do with? Frame it?” she asked.
“No way,” I said. “I’m going to watch this sucker burn.”
The last few awards went out and the perky blonde who opened the show squealed when the deejay awarded her the prize for best overall performance. It was a giant ham. I watched her exclaim over it, pretty sure she didn’t get the joke.
While Dave stuffed his face at the cookie buffet Louisa’s committee had set out, several people congratulated me for going up on stage again. I also got several better-you-than-me comments delivered with sympathetic smiles. Yeah, that’s me, all right, I thought to myself. Taking the hits so the rest of you don’t have to. Because you’re sane. And don’t have stupid lists to take care of.
At home, Celia invited me to watch an eighties flick she found on one of the movie channels, but I passed in favor of some shut-eye. I had never been more ready for a night to end, including the time I went to prom with Nate Sperry and he puked all over my dress.
It wasn’t even ten o’clock yet when I climbed into bed but it still surprised me to hear my cell phone go off. Digging around in my purse for it, I fished it out by the fifth ring and saw Matt’s name on the caller ID. “Hi,” I said.
“Hi, yourself.” The warm sound of his voice curled my toes again. How did he do that?
<
br /> “I heard you had a bit of a night,” he said.
My stomach sank. “Did Louisa call you?”
“Yeah,” he said. “She thought maybe you could use some cheering up. Do you?”
“I feel okay,” I said. “But I wouldn’t mind some conversation.”
“I can do that,” he said. “On the condition that you’re totally fine.”
“I’m not yet, but I will be by the time I sleep on it. Does that mean I get to change the subject now? And if so, I pick the subject of you.”
He laughed. “Okay,” he said. “Me. What about me?”
“What have you been up to? How are things going?” And as I settled in to listen to his answers, I felt my tiredness and bruised spirits flee in favor of the comfortable rhythm he and I always seemed to find. I ignored the little voice that whispered, Back out, Ashley. You’re getting too close. Danger, danger! Matt presented no threat to me. I had earned a good conversation with a great friend.
How could Matt Gibson be dangerous?
Chapter 18
Thursday night I collapsed on my bed smelling like Irish Spring soap since I couldn’t find my jasmine vanilla shower gel. It was still better than smelling like meat. I grabbed for my laptop, hopeful that Matt had e-mailed me. When I didn’t see his name in my inbox, I decided not to stress about it. We had talked for nearly two hours the night before. Maybe he didn’t feel like he had as much to say today.
Sighing, I clicked over to check on my Internet dating project. My Lookup inbox held messages from two new prospects, both of them pleasant and unobjectionable. They weren’t future boyfriend material, but it was nice of them to at least say hello. I guess in the virtual realm that equated to asking someone to dance at a church function, and who didn’t appreciate that? I mean, assuming whoever asked wasn’t obviously a psycho or suffering severe halitosis or something.
I decided the slow but steady stream of new faces in my inbox made it worth wading through the nut jobs on the site, but it wasn’t a new face I was looking for. I wanted to see Ryder’s picture next to a waiting message, and it surprised me how much. We had “bumped into” each other online a few times over the week, joking back and forth for a few minutes, or chatting about random things. To my disappointment, I saw right away that he wasn’t online.
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