A&b

by J. C. Lillis

  “Shave your beard?” Abel says. “Please?”

  “No-o.” He wags a playful finger at Abel. “So after the show, this guy gave me his number, right?”

  “Which guy?”

  “Orion.” Brandon’s taking out his wallet. “The one in the polo shirt who smashed up the crappy old printer?”

  “That guy’s name is Orion?”

  “Yes, and he was cute, and nice, and screw it, I’m going to call him.”

  “Whoa, whoa.” Abel makes a time-out T with his hands. “Brandon Page doesn’t just call guys. You wait until you’ve like, known them for eight months and had some kind of revolutionary life experience with them, and then you plant an unexpected kiss on them in some poetic location.”

  “Yeah, and that’s why I end up unhappy. I think too hard. I take everything too seriously.” He takes his phone from his pocket. “New Brandon’s not gonna do that.”

  He starts dialing. Abel and I exchange a look.

  “I owe this all to you, Barrie,” Brandon says. “Your cabaret was the—hello? Is this Orion? Hey, yeah, it’s Bran from last night…”

  He wanders back to the guest room and shuts the door.

  The rocket clock ticks off ten seconds. I roll and unroll the top of the bakery bag.

  “Well, fuck,” says Abel.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Yeah, you and your cockblocking cabaret.”

  “Oh God.”

  “Barrie. I’m kidding. Today is a morning of hope and glory. St. C’s had its best night since opening. I won’t let some knob in a polo shirt bring us down.” He gets up with a tight smile and gathers our plates. “Plus there’s no way he goes out more than once with a guy named Orion. It’s not possible. I’ve dated two guys with constellation names and let me tell you…”

  BING BING. Abel keeps talking on his way to the kitchen, but I don’t hear. Because I’ve gotten a text from Ava:

  I reported you this morning. Sorry.

  ***

  My heart seizes. I jump up and book it for the back porch, my left hand still clutching the bakery bag. She told. She confessed our secret. But why, why would she do that when she wants to win so bad?

  Me: Reported me to who??

  Ava: SETOM. It had to be done.

  Me: What’s SETOM?

  Ava: Society for the Ethical Treatment of Mannequins.

  My legs go noodly. Jerkwad, I think, and then I type jerkwad in the text window, and then I delete it and type haha because I want to be done with her as fast as possible.

  She has no such intentions, I guess.

  Ava: So. I watched the cabaret videos.

  Me: It seems that way, yes.

  Ava: I’m impressed. Mostly. Liking this new persona.

  Me: Well, you are directly responsible for her, so.

  Ava: Genius begets genius. What can I say?

  Me: A lot, I’m sure.

  Ava: I could. I made three pages of notes. Sharpened up some lyrics, just for fun.

  Me: I can’t wait.

  Ava: Nope, critiques aren’t part of the deal. Chorus for cabaret fodder, that’s it. You want edits, you’ll have to give me something else.

  I don’t really want an answer, but I type:

  Me: Like what?

  Ava: I don’t know. I’d like to see you tap dance. With a fruit bowl on your head.

  I dig my muffin out of the bag and take a ferocious bite.

  Ava: Or how ’bout you walk through West Hollywood in a TERA SUCKS t-shirt?

  I send her emojis for “ass” and “hat.”

  Ava: Did you sit on your phone?

  Me: No. Why?

  Ava: What’s with the horse and ball cap?

  I start to type The horse is an ass but if you have to explain an emoji insult I imagine it loses its sting. Oh man, I suck at contentious text relationships.

  Ava: Anyway, whatever. Just got our next challenge.

  Me: The words “our” and “next challenge” are concerning me here.

  Ava: Look, I liked your corny old chorus, okay? So did everyone else. And your cabaret is clearly fueled by me, so…

  Me: You want to keep going.

  Ava: It’s in our best interests.

  Somehow I knew this was coming. I knock my head against the wrought-iron post. I haaaate needing Ava, more than I hate freeform jazz or death metal or ramen noodles on the fourth straight night of ramen noodles.

  Me: What’s the challenge?

  Ava: A movie-soundtrack ballad.

  Me: Let me guess: you’ve got another mopey, cryptic unrequited-love song brewing.

  Ava: Yep. I’ll pass you some chorus ideas. You do your hokey musical algebra and make them catchy.

  I glower at hokey musical algebra, because Ava has dipped a deft net into her giant word aquarium and fished out the phrase that best describes my B nature. I am impressed. I am incensed. I am angry-eating a Boston Creme donut as soon as I finish this damn muffin.

  Me: I accept, but I am only available Sunday through Tuesday for chorus work. The rest of my time is for the cabaret.

  Ava: Understood.

  Me: Also, I waitress from 9-3 on Tuesdays.

  Ava: No problem. Oh, and FARG.

  Me: Yes?

  Ava: Here’s something you might find useful.

  She attaches the most infuriating photo I have ever laid eyes on. It is a selfie taken with Tera in some undisclosed location on the Pop U campus; their gorgeous heads are nearly touching and their red lipstick matches and they look like sisters or lovers or best friends. An actual physical ache fills my chest, as if Evil B’s yanked my heart out and eaten it whole. I bow my head and sit with my envy: the worst and best thing inside me, the thing I need to wrestle and snuggle and tango with for the benefit of my future cabaret audiences, all the hurting people I’ll help with my shows.

  Which…need to be the best they can possibly be.

  With great reluctance, I enter Abel’s kitchen and take a silver mixing bowl from his cabinet. I fill it with an overripe banana, an apple, two mangos, and a bunch of green grapes. Ma wouldn’t let me take tap but I figure I saw enough of Chelsie’s recitals to wing about fifteen good seconds.

  “Can you record me?” I hand my phone to Abel. “Don’t ask.”

  He shrugs and hits record, like he’s used to weirdos on mystery missions. She didn’t say I had to balance it on my head, so I hold it with my hand and hope that’s good enough. When we’re done, I send my begrudging fruit-bowl tap dance to Ava with the following message:

  Can I have my critique now, please?

  Ms. Cooler-Than-Thou Musical Genius is quiet for two and a half minutes. Then she sends three photos of her cabaret notes, lyrical adjustments penned in her compact, annoyingly perfect handwriting.

  Edits attached.

  Nice mangos, by the way.

  PART TWO

  September 7

  Dear Evil Barrie,

  I was at your sensational show this past Friday. (I was the one who brought the life-sized bust of my ex-boyfriend’s head and pulverized it during your Smash Session.) I just wanted to say that the Sour Grapes Cabaret was a real turning point for me. I purged all my jealous feelings toward his new girlfriend and finally said yes to a date with Tiberius Jones, who owns his own comic book store and does not sculpt himself compulsively. THANK YOU.

  Your fan,

  Patti Frankenbeck

  ***

  September 19

  Greetings, E.B.!

  Alan here, the man with the suave little suck-up of a colleague who can do no wrong in the boss’s eyes. What a pleasure and relief to embrace my inner supervillain for one restorative night! Thanks much for talking to me for so long after the show. Also, many thanks for not minding when I smashed the Edible Arrangement on your stage and it got all over your jacket. Happy to pay the d
ry-cleaning bill for the fine lady who helped give my #1 demon his walking papers.

  Most sincerely,

  Alan E. Poplaski

  ***

  October 10

  barrie,

  I’m enclosing a kiss of gratitude on this notecard. (You can’t see it because I don’t wear lipstick, but it’s right beside your name.) Your shows get better and better every week! Thank you for getting me and validating my feelings, and for letting me come up onstage and be totally, brutally honest about how much it sucks when you watch everyone around you get promotions and dream jobs and houses and it’s never your turn. After I finally got to see you on Friday, I went home and wrote a new poem (I’ve enclosed a copy), and now I feel tons better. When are you putting your new song up on Tunestable? And is your bracelet really magic?

  ALSO YOU ARE THE BEST HUGGER ESPECIALLY FOR SOMEONE SO EVIL.

  xoxoxoxxx,

  roxy burns

  ***

  October 17

  Dear Barbara Krumholtz:

  I am the moderator of Green-Eyed Monsters, a Chicago-based support group for sufferers of professional jealousy. For the past four weeks, we have used brief video selections from your cabaret to inspire more frank and in-depth discussion of our issues. Our group members would like to thank you for doing your small part to destigmatize envy and help promote catharsis and healing. You are performing a real community service. May we request twelve autographed photos?

  Kind regards,

  Devin Oberheim

  ***

  October 21

  Dear Sour Rangers,

  Huge apologies if I haven’t gotten to your letter or email yet. I have a strict answer-every-letter policy and I’m only five behind. I like to give long and personalized responses, so if you’re waiting, it’ll hopefully be worth it!

  Did you see my nemesis, Ms. Ava Alvarez, pull off ANOTHER challenge win tonight on Pop U? Man, that one really burned, especially when Tera said “you remind me of my young self, only cooler.” (ARRRGHHHHH.) Expect a bang-up show tomorrow—can’t believe it’s the ninth Sour Grapes Cabaret already! We’re at capacity again, but you can watch the stream right here. And if you can’t make the show, don’t forget you can also schedule a private fifteen-minute Smash Session, with the purchase of an entree at St. Castaways.

  Be bold, be honest, and be free.

  Yours in love and bitterness,

  Evil Barrie

  ***

  October 22

  Dear Ma,

  I’m enclosing $300 to help with rent and anything else you need. The show’s going great. I know you think it’s silly, but people really seem to like it. If you want to watch the videos, they’re up on the new SourGrapesCabaret YouTube channel.

  I hope you’re doing well, and that the new season of Beverly Hills Cougars is making you laugh until you snort.

  Barrie

  P.S. I poked around online and found a new comedy club in Bethesda that does open mikes on Thursdays, if you’re interested. Try it! Please? You need a live audience, Ma. Trust me, it’ll change your life.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Hands reach out for me.

  Old hands, young hands, dark hands, pale hands. They reach for me after every show, more every week, their owners crowding around me in the St. Castaways dining room.

  They want me to sign their arms, their programs, shards of things they shattered in our Smash Session. They pluck green feathers from my jacket and tuck them in their pockets for luck. They touch my semi-famous bracelet, rub it like a genie lamp in case the rumors are true. In case it really is magic.

  I take their hands in mine like Tera would. I try to give them what they need. I listen to their stories, shine a light on their darkest feelings, tell them not to be ashamed. I give the toughest cases my private email so they can talk to someone freely, someone who’ll tell them their secret envies and resentments don’t make them a bad person, just a temporarily hurting one.

  “Dammit,” I whisper through gritted teeth.

  Speaking of hurting.

  It’s 11 p.m. on a chilly October Friday. I’m in the bathroom post-show after hugging the last Sour Grapes straggler goodbye, and now it’s time for the worst part. Taking off the bracelet.

  There’s a trick to it, I’ve learned. Gently pry the two halves apart, pausing when you feel the first pain. Slide your finger underneath the bracelet to find the weeping places that have stuck to the metal, and work your skin free with a series of tiny tugs. When the bracelet is off, apply ointment within ten seconds. Don’t look too closely at the sores that look the worst, the angry ones that never seem to heal.

  “Hey. Girlie. Quit hogging the loo.” Kira’s voice outside. “Someone might have to crap.”

  “Sorry!”

  Once I’ve freed myself, Evil B fades and my normal self rises to the surface. I click the bracelet shut and weigh it in my hand. I probably wear it way more than I should, but whether it’s actually magic or not, I need it now. It gets my head in the right place, keeps me focused, pumps electric confidence through my veins. It’s like a glowing amulet in a fantasy story, one that holds so much power that the heroine will climb perilous mountains and fight whole skeleton armies for it.

  Plus I’m helping fifty to sixty people a week.

  Compared to that, what’s a little arm infection?

  I slather on my drugstore ointment, wrap a fresh gauze bandage around the sores, and roll my green velvet sleeve down so nothing shows. I have to be careful. If Abel saw my arm he’d make me go to a doctor and get rid of the bracelet, and I can’t afford either thing.

  He’s in the emptied-out dining room when I emerge, whistling along with Chaka Khan and fussing over a Formica two-top. Brandon called him an hour ago from a bookstore coffeeshop after another bad HeyCupid date, to bitch about guys and put in an order for Don’s most popular new menu item: Green Grapes of Wrath Pie with Bitter Caramel Drizzle. Orion didn’t last past date number one, nor did the eight other guys whose profiles he’s optimistically up-swiped since August.

  “Excellent show, Evil B.” Abel’s still in his green emcee pants but he’s changed into a FREE HUGS t-shirt. “Best yet, hands down!”

  His enthusiasm is probably a tad inflated by the prospect of post-bad-date snacking with Brandon, but I smile anyway. “Thank you, sir.”

  “Wanna help with an odious task? Or should I wait till the evil wears off?”

  “The evil fled the ballroom. I’m a pumpkin again.”

  “Good. Seasonally appropriate.” He thunks down at a booth and lifts a giant ball of snarled Halloween lights out of a plastic shopping bag. “Please help?” He blinks up at me. “I’m going to weep.”

  I giggle. “No problem. I’m good with impossible messes.”

  I sit down across from him and we get to work loosening the knots, untangling the small plastic ghosts from each other. We sing along softly with “Ain’t Nobody.” I can’t believe it’s October already. Time flies when you’re fulfilling your ambitions in a completely unexpected way.

  “She should text annnnny minute now,” Abel murmur-sings.

  “Who?”

  “Pfft. Who. Ava.” He clicks two ghosts together. “The girl whose texts consume your every weekend.”

  I pick at a stubborn knot and regret, for the three hundredth time, spilling the beans about our creative arrangement. “It’s business,” I inform him.

  “Sure. I know.”

  “The better she does on the show, the better it is for mine.” It’s the truth—Ava’s won three challenges and ranked Top 3 almost every week, my choruses elevating her verses and vice versa. Plus she’s Tera’s obvious pet. She sends me details of their interactions, the in-jokes and hugs and one-on-one mentoring sessions, and despite the cabaret success, it batters my heart with ugly green bruises each time I think of it.

  “I’m just saying,” Abel says, “I hear that BING BING quite a bit.”

&nbs
p; “No more than necessary.”

  BING BING

  Abel grins at my phone. “Your business partner awaits.”

  “I’ll look at it later.”

  “Look at it now! I want to see your face go all goofy.”

  “Whaaat?” I glare at him under my Evil B bangs. “My face does not go goofy.”

  “Here’s your actual face when she texts.” Abel performs a coy eyelash-flutter.

  “Whatever. Can we talk about this situation?” I twirl my hand at the table next to our booth, where Abel’s laid out a slice of pie on a silver plate, a small bowl of red jelly beans, and a mysterious blue folder.

  “He had a bad date! He could use some distractions.”

  “What’s in the folder?”

  Abel sighs. “It’s too embarrassing.”

  “Really?”

  “Okay, it’s not. Remember I told you Bran and I had a Castaway Planet vlog in high school? With fans and everything?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, some of them wrote slash about us. That’s, like—”

  “I know what it is.” You can’t be in the Pop U fandom and not know about slash; every year there’s at least a few boys who get the fanfic treatment in the forums. Sometimes a few girls.

  Abel grabs the folder off the table and thrusts it into my hands. “I thought all the fic disappeared years ago, but turns out some girl reposted it on her blog. It’s all there. ‘Three Little Words,’ ‘You Can Drive My RV,’ ‘How to Repair a Mechanical Heart’…”

  His voice fades as I page through the printouts. Amorous phrases jump out at me: writhing with need, joined in heated communion. If Ava and I had both made the voting rounds, would people have written stuff like this about us?