by Sasha Dawn
As for what I’m about to drop . . . groan.
The Lyrically community seems to like it. But now I’m about to sing in front of a crowd, and there’s just too much that can go wrong.
Everyone who cares about me is here to see me perform tonight: McKenna, Brendon, Hayley, Nana, Ted . . . everyone but Mom, who’s not well enough to leave the hospital. Even the Sophias are at the next table. Probably getting ready to heckle the hell out of me.
When Dylan Thomas shows up—he promised he’d be here, too—I’m sure he’ll remind me that I’m a pessimist for assuming I’m going to bomb.
“Dad’s here,” Hayley says.
“What?” I look toward the Milwaukee Avenue entrance. My father and his wife are paying cover at the door. “Did you tell him about this?” I ask.
Hayley shakes her head. “I haven’t spoken to him since we were in Kenilworth.”
“So how’d he know to come here?”
She shrugs.
Karissa smiles when she sees me. Dad makes eye contact, but quickly looks away.
I wave. Karissa waves back.
But I don’t beckon them over, and they don’t come without an invitation.
The emcee takes the stage and welcomes the crowd. “So, here’s how it works. We’ll hear from twenty performers tonight. Each has a time limit of three minutes . . .”
I zone out as panic sets in.
I won’t be July out there, or Jane Banks, or Thoroughly Modern Millie. Tonight I’m taking the stage as me.
“ . . . so I’ll put my hand in the hat, here,” the emcee is saying. “And I’ll put out our first performer . . . Everyone, please welcome to the stage here at the Factory: Madelaine Joseph!”
The place erupts in applause, but I’m like a deer in headlights. I have to go first?
I’m numb as I grab hold of the handle on my guitar case.
Numb as I climb the stairs and lift my acoustic fender from its velvet bed.
Numb as I take a seat on the stool in the spotlight and strum.
I see Ted’s phone go up. He’s going to record my performance for my mom. He gives me a nod of encouragement.
I take a deep breath.
How am I going to play guitar with fingers that won’t stop shaking?
And, God, I wish I hadn’t worn a dress tonight. I’m certain I’m giving everyone a show of my underwear.
And there are so many people here, and more people coming in . . .
I can’t do this.
Shut the world out. My mother’s voice is crisp and clear. So vivid that I flinch when I hear it in my mind. It’s like she’s here. Just perform. This isn’t about anyone out there. It’s about you . . . you and that stage. You love it. Share your time with it, your heart with it, your soul with it, and it will love you, too.
I will.
You can do this.
“I can do this,” I whisper to myself.
I pull the microphone closer.
“This . . .” I clear my throat and try again, speaking into the microphone. “This is a song I wrote . . . for the bravest woman I know. She can’t be here. She’s battling another round with breast cancer. But she’s a survivor.”
The crowd erupts in another round of applause.
“For my mom.”
I strum the first chords, and a funny thing happens—the crowd really does fade away. I belt out the first words of my ballad: “Run, run, run to the ends of the earth . . . Run in silent rage . . .”
As I sing, I imagine my mother’s feet, clad in pointe shoes: entrechat, ronde de jamb . . .
And she’s really here with me. She’s here in my heart.
I sing as if no one else is here, as if I’m on the empty stage I reference in my lyrics.
By the time I strum the last note, awareness of the crowd begins to filter back into my consciousness, bringing me back to reality.
I drop my pick. The crowd roars.
Nana is on her feet, as are Ted, the Weekes twins, and Hayley. Even the Sophias are screaming and clapping.
I look to Dad and Karissa. I think Karissa is actually crying. Dad’s lips are in a thin line, as if he’s holding back tears, himself. He gives me a nod.
“Thank you,” I say. I don’t know if I’m saying it to the crowd, to my mother, to myself, or to whatever force in the universe smiled on me to make this go right tonight.
The emcee: “Madelaine Joseph, everybody.”
I picture the carving near my favorite seat at the cafe. Finally, it’s true: I was here.
Chapter 41
Dylan: Who says I wasn’t there?
Me: I didn’t meet you. So . . .
Me: You reneged on the deal.
Me: You were supposed to come clean.
I’m still tingling with the reverberations of tonight’s applause, but I can’t help feeling a tinge of disappointment about Dylan standing me up, letting me down, yet again.
Dylan: I would never miss your open mic.
Dylan: You were wearing a pink dress.
Dylan: You don’t usually wear pink. OR dresses.
Dylan: You dedicated the song to your mother, the toughest warrior in the world.
Dylan: You’re a mezzo-soprano
Dylan: but you have incredible range.
Dylan: And you didn’t know it, but you hugged me at the end of the night.
Dylan: I was there.
Dylan: And I’m pretty certain that I don’t want to miss any performance from now on.
What the hell? I mean, I hugged a lot of people after I got offstage. There was kind of a swarm and I was still in a state of semi-shock. But still . . .
He was there, he hugged me, and he didn’t introduce himself?
Dylan: But there’s something I haven’t told you.
Me: What?
Dylan: I told you I’m not a poet.
Me:
