Ari gives me a nervous look.
“When did you put your name up there?” I ask.
“When you were working,” she answers. “Here I go.”
She slides out of the booth and approaches the small stage, her movements stiff and robotic. She hasn’t even taken the mic yet and I’m already cringing for her. Now I’m wishing I’d told her about my karaoke theory.
Most of the singers have chosen to stand during their song, though there is a stool by the monitor for those who want it. Ari takes the stool, pushing it closer to the mic stand. I think it’s the wrong choice—you have more energy when you stand, more movement—but I know it’s a comfort and right now she’s probably just wanting to get through this without her knees buckling under her.
Her song pops up on the television screen attached to the back wall: “A Kiss to Build a Dream On” by Louis Armstrong. It’s not a song I’m familiar with, though that’s not saying much.
Ari closes her eyes as a jazzy piano melody rings out. She keeps them closed as she begins to sing. Her voice is sweet, almost fragile, and the song is so very her. Romantic. Dreamy. Hopeful. I can feel Ari’s emotions coming through as she sings, and it’s clear she loves this song. The words, the melody, they affect her, and she’s holding her feelings in a bubble, precariously close to bursting.
It’s lovely, listening to her, and I’m proud of her for having the courage to go up there, and to sing not for a reaction from the audience, but with her actual heart.
For some reason, my eyes dart to Quint. He’s turned away from me, watching Ari, while his friend is still scrolling through her phone. I notice that Quint’s hair is messy in the back, like he hasn’t bothered to comb it today.
Then Quint turns his head. His expression is sour. For a second I think he’s turning to look at me, like maybe he could feel me staring, judging. But no, he’s watching the booth next to ours. I crane my neck to see two college-age guys, one downing the last dregs of a pint of beer. The other cups his hands around his mouth and calls out, “Quit it with the boring jazz crap!”
My jaw drops. Excuse me?
His friends laugh, and the one with the beer raises his empty glass into the air. “Come on over here. I’ll give you a kiss to dream about.”
The other guy adds, “Maybe then we can play some real music!”
No way. They’re heckling her. What is wrong with people?
I return my attention to Ari. She’s still singing, but her eyes are open now and her voice has taken on an uncertain waver. Her cheeks are flaming red.
I think of how much this moment probably means to her, and my fist clenches under the table at how those jerks just tainted it.
I look back at the boys’ smug expressions. I imagine one of them choking on a tortilla chip. The other spilling salsa down his Tommy Bahama shirt. Honestly, universe, if you’ve ever—
Something small flies toward the booth, smacking the first guy in the eye. He yelps and clamps a palm over his face. “What the hell?” he roars. He reaches for a napkin, but doesn’t realize the edge of his own beer glass is on top of it. He pulls. The glass tips and falls, sending beer flowing over the table’s edge and into both of their laps. There’s a flurry of curses as they try to move away from the growing puddle on their seats.
Ari lets out a barking laugh. The chords of the song continue to float around her, but she’s stopped singing. Her mortification is gone, replaced with gratitude, and for a second I think it was me. Did I just…?
But then Ari looks at Quint, and I see his shoulders trembling with restrained laughter. He’s swirling a spoon around his glass, the ice clinking against the sides.
The boys in the next booth are still looking around, vainly rubbing their drenched pants with the shoddy paper napkins. One of them finds the projectile and holds it up. A cherry.
Carlos bustles over to them, trying to act the part of the concerned restaurant owner, though there’s a coldness in his expression that makes me think he probably heard their heckling earlier. He gives them a tight apology and slaps a stack of napkins on the table.
He does not offer to replace the lost beer.
Ari finishes the song and scurries from the stage like it’s on fire. She plops back into our booth with a sigh of relief. “Was it really terrible?”
“No, of course not!” I say, and I mean it. “You were great. Ignore those buffoons.”
She scoots closer to me in the booth. “Did you see Quint throw that cherry at them?”
I nod. As much as I don’t want to, I have no choice but to admit, “That was pretty awesome.” I roll my eyes dramatically. “I suppose he might have some redeeming qualities. But trust me. They are few and far between.”
We stay to listen for a couple more acts. It’s a lot of contemporary music that I know I’ve heard, but couldn’t tell you who the artist is. Ariana Grande? Taylor Swift? Then someone gets up and does a Queen song, so at least I know who they are.
“Next up, for your listening pleasure,” says Trish, checking something on the karaoke machine, “please welcome to the stage … Prudence!”
Ari and I both swivel our attention to her, but I just as quickly turn back to Ari. “Did you put my name up there?”
“No!” she says vehemently, lifting her hands. “I wouldn’t! Not without your permission, I swear.”
I growl, but not at Ari. I believe her. It’s not something she would do.
Could there be another Prudence in the bar? What are the chances of that? I have yet to meet another person with my name, and no one is going up onstage.
“Jude must have sneaked it in before he left,” I say.
“You don’t have to,” says Ari. “Tell her you changed your mind. Or that someone put your name up there without asking.”
My eye catches on Quint’s. He’s looking over his shoulder, surprised. Curious.
My pulse is starting to race. Ari is right. I don’t have to go up there. I didn’t put my name in. I didn’t agree to this.
My palms become slick. I haven’t even left the booth yet and already it feels like people’s eyes are on me. Waiting. Judging. It’s probably just my imagination, but knowing that doesn’t keep my throat from tightening.
“Prudence?” Trish asks, searching the audience. “You out there?”
“Do you want me to tell her you’ve changed your mind?” asks Ari.
I shake my head. “No. No, it’s fine. It’s just a song. I’ll do it.” I exhale sharply and slide out of the booth.
“Wait!”
I look back at Ari. She leans forward and reaches her thumb for the corner of my mouth, rubbing hard for a second. “Your lipstick was smeared,” she says, settling back into the booth. She gives me an encouraging nod. “All better. You look great.”
“Thanks, Ari.”
I clear my throat and approach the stage, making a point not to make eye contact with the goons in the booth. Or Quint, for that matter. I tell myself that I’m not nervous. That I’m not positively terrified.
It’s only four minutes of your life. You can do this.
But please let Jude have picked a decent song …
Trish sets the microphone stand in front of me and I look at the monitor, displaying the song choice. Whew. Okay. Not bad. Jude took Ari’s suggestion and has signed me up to sing the John Lennon song, one I love and definitely know by heart.