by Sarah Kuhn
“There’s really no one here who resembles Celine,” I said, my brow furrowing as I scanned the photos.
“Not at all,” Evie said, frowning.
“Keep looking,” I said, waving a hand at the binder. “I’m going to see if I can find clues elsewhere.”
I pulled out my phone and brought up Celine’s Instagram. Maybe she had some snaps of her mother? My eye went immediately to that photo of her again, the #gsharp photo. It was just so striking. Her face was projecting so much intensity. I had a hard time looking away.
I forced myself to scroll down, perusing other photos. I clicked on one of her posing in front of what appeared to be the exterior of The Gutter. She was smiling brightly and gesturing to the dingy alleyway wall that contained the karaoke bar’s makeshift “hall of fame”—where various performers carved, spray-painted, or otherwise affixed their signatures. Mine was on there, of course. Celine’s Instagram caption said: “Someday!”
I clicked on the photo. There was a multitude of likes, but only one comment, from someone with one of those user names that’s a jumble of random-looking letters and numbers.
Or maybe someday you’ll come back, it said.
My brow furrowed as I clicked on the user name. It took me to that person’s account, which was scant on identifying details—no name or location. An avatar of a single generic daisy. The only pictures were of a young girl around ten, who appeared to be all dolled up for a Toddlers and Tiaras-style beauty pageant.
I frowned, scrutinizing the photos. Maybe they meant nothing. Maybe this was just a random follower of Celine’s with a pageant princess daughter.
And yet . . . there was something oddly familiar about the young girl. I found myself lingering on the only photo where she didn’t have a big, fake smile plastered on. Her mouth was downturned, her eyes ferocious. She looked deeply unhappy.
“Oh my god, Luce—look at this!”
Evie’s voice snapped me back to our album research. She was gesturing to a particular photo, her expression somewhere between shocked and amused.
I looked at the photo in question. It was of a young man who looked to be in his late teens or early twenties. Probably the latter, if Kevin was to be believed about Mr. Gregoire’s strict no minors policy. Golden brown skin, black hair arranged in an impressively voluminous pompadour. Onstage and singing his heart out, reaching out to the audience as if trying to convey the full beauty of music to them. And yet, there was something about his expression that was also undeniably sour. No, that was the wrong word. It was more like, even though he was presumably onstage by choice, he looked . . . extremely put out.
“Oh my god,” I said. “Is that—”
“Kevin!!!” we both shrieked at the same time.
“Wow,” Evie said, running her fingertips over the photo. “He looks . . . kind of exactly the same? He doesn’t do up his hair like this anymore and he’s not wearing the usual empowering message tee in this photo, but otherwise . . .”
“How old is he?” I said, my brow furrowing. “I thought he was around our age, but this seems to indicate . . .”
“Damn,” Evie said. “I need to ask him about his skincare routine.”
“So our dear Kevin was around during this era,” I said. “And apparently quite active on the karaoke scene. Why did he tell us he’d never heard of Celine’s mother, that he doesn’t remember Celine sneaking into the bar? Why did he act like he wasn’t even here?”
“Maybe he doesn’t want people to know his real age,” Evie said, cocking an eyebrow.
“You know . . .” I said, studying the picture harder. “It’s so odd. Kevin takes karaoke seriously, but he never actually performs. I always assumed he was so passionate about singing because of the bar, because the karaoke’s connected to that and lording over all the competitions made him feel powerful and such. But looking at this . . .” I gestured to the photo. “It seems he was, at one point, also invested in the performing aspect.”
“So what does this tell us?” Evie asked.
I paused and tried to think like should-be-girlfriends Scott and Bailey. “It’s always strange when someone tries to conceal something,” I said. “Especially something that, on the surface, is not particularly suspicious or indicative of some kind of nefarious doings. What if . . .” I zeroed in on Young Kevin’s put-out expression in the photo. “What if Kevin was Celine’s mother’s rival?” I mused.
“He lied about knowing her—maybe even removed all of her photos from the album?” Evie said. “So there’s no record of her even existing.” Her eyes widened as she contemplated that. “Wow. Stone cold.”
“Which does sound like Kevin,” I said, tapping the photo. “But does that mean he’s somehow doing all this? He’s managed to harness and/or be in cahoots with a demon force?”
“To what end?” Evie said. “I mean, sure, I can understand a long-standing grudge. But going after Celine—who he’s pointed out over and over again is an exciting competitor—doesn’t seem good for business.”
“True.” I frowned into space, trying to puzzle it out. “But perhaps—”
Before I could complete that thought, an unmistakable bellow rang through the door.
“Valdez!” Kevin yelled. “Get your ass out here! It’s photo shoot time.”
Chapter Seven
I do not wear pants.
If you asked someone to disclose an important fact about me, this would most certainly be in the Top Five, right after “extremely good with nunchucks” and the whole karaoke champion thing.
In my line of work, it’s often expected that I will wear pants, because it is supposedly more practical—and also, feminine expression of any kind is a plague that must be squashed in order for any of us to be taken seriously. Apparently.
I still remember getting into ferocious arguments with my supervisor at the job I’d had prior to being hired by Aveda. I was a bouncer at UC Berkeley’s Greek Theatre, and I was damn good at it. I had, in fact, subdued so many overenthusiastic mosh pitters that I was named Bouncer of the Month (it’s a thing, look it up) twelve months running. We didn’t have a uniform, exactly—all the bouncers simply had to wear this hideous neon orange canvas vest over whatever clothes they felt most comfortable in. For me, that meant my usual ruffle-y dresses matched with granny boots or patent heels.
Our boss was a humorless white woman who insisted this kind of garb was “inappropriate” for bouncer duties, as my skirt could get easily caught in something (false, I always make sure the cut of my skirts allows for superior movement and I know how to sweep them along with me so they enhance my fighting rather than hinder it). She also contended the heel height of my boots made running fast “more of a challenge” (also false, I am much more comfortable moving in heels than I am in practically anything else, and the extra height brings out my confidence—not to mention the fact that my heels were occasionally the perfect weapon to counter rowdy drunkards).
But more than anything, Boss Lady felt my outfits simply “sent the wrong message” and didn’t make me look like a bouncer.
Well! First of all, what is a bouncer supposed to look like? And why did I have to wear boring clothes in order to be taken seriously? I was the best, I was happy to prove it repeatedly, and this woman simply had a very irritating, outdated, binary idea about what I “should” be wearing in order to do my job. So even though I enjoyed many aspects of bouncing, I was delighted when Aveda head-hunted me away.
But now, today, right here in this karaoke bar, it looked like my long run of never wearing pants was about to come to an end.
“Don’t you love it?” Shruti waved the jumpsuit in front of me, her eyes sparkling nearly as much as the sequins covering the thing.
“It is quite the marvel, darling,” I said, eyeing the jumpsuit up and down. And it was. It was all creamy silk covered in white and silver sequins, making it look like a fabu
lous mermaid tail.
But it was still pants.
“It seems more suited for our dear Aveda, or maybe Celine—didn’t I see you showing it to her earlier?” I continued.
“Yeah, you’re right,” Shruti said, deflating. “I thought it was exactly the look for Celine since she seems to love jumpsuits, but she wanted something else. Something more like . . .” Shruti gestured across the room, where Celine was emerging from the bathroom. She was wearing . . . wait a minute.
It was the dress I’d been coveting earlier, the floor-length concoction of chiffon and lace that was perfect for my frame. On Celine, it wasn’t floor-length—it hit her just below the knees. And it looked annoyingly glamorous.
“Sorry, Lucy,” Shruti said, sounding truly regretful. “You know how serious I am about matching each and every one of my vintage babies with its proper soulmate. But she really wanted that one. Or, I guess, she really didn’t want any of the other ones. She said something about having a ‘severe allergy’ to sequins, was adamant about refusing anything with even the tiniest bit of bedazzling. And that dress is the only garment I brought that doesn’t have anything like that.” She waved the jumpsuit around again. “This is what I have left for you.”
“Surely there are other dresses?” I said, my eyes going to the colorful racks of Shruti’s vintage finds.
“They’re all too long,” Shruti said, her brow furrowing in frustration. “I could probably do a quickie hem, but I don’t think the hang would be as perfect on you as it needs to be and—”
“No, no, it’s all right.” I took the jumpsuit from her. Shruti had such a kind heart; I hated to upset her. Even if said kind heart had resulted in her giving away my perfect dress to my competitor. “You know, perhaps I should be expanding my fashion horizons anyway.” I gave her a valiant smile.
“Try it on,” Shruti encouraged, returning my smile. “I really do think it will look fabulous on you.”
I swept off to the bathroom, changed, and re-emerged. It was . . . fine, I decided, shimmying around in the jumpsuit. It just wasn’t me. It was, you know, pants.
“Valdez!” Kevin snapped. “Quit fucking around and get up onstage. I’m paying this photographer by the hour.”
I exchanged a look with Evie as I ascended the stage. We’d agreed that she would try to question Kevin about his sordid karaoke past. Meanwhile, I was going to see if I could get anything more out of Celine about her memories of the place and her mother’s potential rivals.
I positioned myself on the stage next to Celine, who was already posing away. The photographer—a meek-looking man who mostly seemed like he just wanted Kevin to stop yelling in his ear—snapped shot after shot while Kevin called out various unhelpful suggestions about finding the light and “smizing.”
Celine did look amazing in the dress, I thought, casting a sidelong glance at her as she tossed her ponytail over one shoulder and beamed. The glowy sheen on the chiffon made her look like a fairy princess. I sighed. Maybe it was for the best that she’d gotten such a top-tier costume—that would really make Rose notice her.
I shoved aside the vicious surge of jealousy that shot through my entire being. That was not productive, I reminded myself.
“Tyra always talks about smizing—do none of you watch educational programming?” Kevin sniffed. He moved closer to the stage, waving his confetti cannon around. “Come on, let’s get festive up in here!” He pulled the trigger and a new swarm of tiny black paper music notes swirled around us. I batted them away.
“So, Celine,” I said, cocking my hip out in a sassy pose. “It must be quite odd to be back here as an adult, hmm? How was this place when you were a child?”
“Oh, it just seemed so much bigger when I was young,” she said with a laugh. “So much grander.”
“Funny, Kevin seems to think he’s made it grander since those days,” I said, my eyes following Kevin as he moved back away from the stage area and returned to tormenting the photographer. “While he respects the legacy of Mr. Gregoire, he believes it’s really his vision that’s made The Gutter such a hit.”
“Mmm,” said Celine, her tone non-committal.
“How would you compare and contrast Kevin and Mr. Gregoire?” I pressed. “You know, owner vs. owner.”
“I didn’t see Mr. Gregoire very much,” Celine said. “He wasn’t really around when I was here.”
My brow crinkled. “That’s odd, because it sounds like he was around all the ti—”
“Valdez! No wrinkles!” Kevin bellowed, tapping his forehead. I cast a gaze his way and noticed Evie, desperately trying to get his attention. But Kevin was one hundred percent focused on the photo shoot. Lucky us.
“Hey, let’s try something with a prop—grab that mic,” Kevin said.
“Are you sure you want to be that up close and personal with a microphone again?” I asked Celine as she pulled the mic free from its stand.
“Mmm, good point.” She cast a suspicious look at the long, black cord snaking its way from the base of the mic, across the stage to the amp. “But at least now there are multiple people keeping an eye on the thing if it tries to jump me.” She nodded at the bar area. Evie was still trying to get Kevin’s attention. Shruti was fiddling with some of the extra costumes on her rack, and Rose . . . Well. Rose was watching the stage, her expression unreadable.
“You grab a mic too, Valdez,” Kevin commanded. “Let’s get some of that good diva rivalry shit going. I want to see Brandy and Monica in ‘The Boy is Mine.’ Beyoncé and Gaga in ‘Telephone.’ Get in there and out-fierce each other.”
Ugh. Why did Kevin have to encourage the whole competitive diva thing when I was trying with all my might to avoid that?
I gave the photographer my most dazzling smile, tilting my mic rakishly so it looked like I was getting ready to sing my heart out. “What if we go for camaraderie over competition—do a little Charlie’s Angels?” I said to Celine, motioning for us to stand back to back.
“Oh, I don’t do profile shots,” she said, giving me an overly sweet apologetic smile. “Perhaps if we had a third, I could be in the center, facing outwards, but—”
“No, that’s okay,” I muttered, wondering why she automatically assumed she would be in the center.
“Why don’t we sing?” she said, waving the mic around. “Give Kevin some action shots. Can you do a cappella style? I know not every karaoke person can because you have to carry the melody without accompaniment and it’s extremely challenging, but—”
“Of course I can do a cappella,” I said, bristling.
“Wonderful,” she said, that simpering smile never leaving her face. “How about Mimi’s ‘Emotions’?”
I hesitated. Of course she wanted me to do her song. The one with the high G-sharp I couldn’t possibly hit. I toyed with my mic, scanning the bar, trying to figure out how to respond. As I scanned, I happened to catch Rose’s eye.
She was studying me with that extra level of seriousness that made me feel like she could see right through my skin. Like she saw all of me. Heat flashed low in my belly, and I shook my head, trying once again to rid myself of all thoughts of what had happened between us in the back room. I couldn’t help but notice that her gaze also had an overall tinge of . . . sadness. Like her heart had just developed a crack right down the middle.
I needed to fix that. Immediately. All other thoughts fled my brain.
Then, in the spirit of all great British murder detectives who have their biggest revelations when they’ve exhausted every other thought . . . an idea began to take shape.
“Darling,” I whispered to Celine. “Do you know the song ‘Faith of the Heart’?”
“Of course,” she said, raising an eyebrow. “Retitled ‘Where My Heart Will Take Me’ when they reworked it so it could be used as the Enterprise theme song, which—”
“Yes, yes,” I said hastily, remem
bering the rundown Rose had given me a while back. Even more proof that their two adorably geektastic hearts belonged together. “That’s the one. Let’s sing that!”
“Okaaaay,” she said, giving me a puzzled look.
I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. True, the song was not exactly a diva classic designed to show off her incredible range. But it did have its fair share of good belting passages. And perhaps if Rose saw Celine belting out one of her favorite songs, she would finally be smitten.
“You start,” I suggested.
Celine opened her mouth and let loose with the opening notes of the song, her sweet bell of a voice ringing through the air. I came in with a harmony, adding dimension, our voices coming together to become more powerful.
I chanced a look at Rose, hoping to see her happier and googly-eyed over Celine. Instead she looked . . . confused. Her head was tilted to the side, her brow furrowed. Perhaps it would take another verse or two to really win her over.
Celine cocked an eyebrow at me as we cycled out of the chorus, and I picked up on her cue, launching into the bridge—into the lyrics I knew all too well because I’d listened to this song so many times after hearing Rose enthuse about it. Celine picked up on the melody, throwing in showy flourishes and embroideries that weren’t particularly necessary.
My gaze went to Rose again. She looked . . . sad again. Blast. Why? This beautiful girl with an angel voice that could hit notes only heard in heaven was singing one of her most favorite songs to her. Why hadn’t she turned into a heart-eyes emoji, already?!
We sang toward the song’s grand climax. Our voices soared, our harmonies twined together. It was glorious.
But then . . . Celine threw back her head, raised her diva arm, and let loose with that G-sharp. That G-sharp that belonged nowhere in this song, that sounded totally out of place, that she was just throwing in because she could.
Bloody hell.
I heard an audible gasp from the audience. And I’m not sure what possessed me to do what I did next. There was no rational thought process behind it. I was singing purely on instinct. And, okay . . . the jealousy I’d been trying so valiantly to shove down was surely involved as well. Rose’s brilliant smile after Celine had hit that note the night before flashed through my brain and even though I was actively trying to get them together, I was suddenly overcome with a big, toxic bubble of bad feelings.
