I may want to perform—and believe me I do so, so much—I’m afraid I’m no singer. I told Sebastian that already and he seemed cool with it. Believe me, I’m doing all of you a big favor here.”
“She doesn’t want to have to follow my performance. Do you, Emma?” Hayley says with the fakest sweet smile ever.
“I can well understand that,” Johnathan replies, “but the rules are the rules. Aren’t they, Mrs. Watson?” He’s looking for back-up now.
Mrs. Watson rises to her feet and glares at me. “You. Stage. Now.” Gone is the firm but polite language. It seems she’s going for straightforward orders now.
I chew on my lip as I look around the room. “Do I have to?” I ask, and yes, I know I sound like a whiny kid being made to eat her broccoli.
“You do,” Mrs. Watson replies.
I let out a defeated sigh. “Okay.” I make my way over to the stage like I’m walking the line. I don’t want to perform, and I haven’t practiced anything either.
I scramble around in my brain, searching desperately for a song in my range. Which is basically about four notes, all of them flat, if my car singing skills are anything to go by.
“Miss Emma? We’re waiting,” Mrs. Watson says tersely.
All eyes are on me. Johnathan is watching me warily, Sebastian is looking somewhere between concerned and amused, and there’s no way I’m going to look in Hayley’s or Camille’s direction right now.
I’ve got to think of something, stat!
When I don’t do anything, Mrs. Watson barks, “Sing!”
Out of pure shock, I open my mouth and begin to sing the first song that comes to mind. It was playing in the car as I was driven here what feels like a lifetime ago, even though I think it was only a matter of days. Days? Really?
Lil Nas X’s voice is in my head, and I sing along with it. I’m taking my horse down to an old road, and it takes all my willpower not to bob on the spot as though I’m on that horse myself. When I get to the Billy Ray Cyrus part, I notice a few of the contestants go from controlling their mirth to openly sniggering. It puts me off my game. Not that I had much of a game in the first place.
I fudge some of the words and replace others with the word “horse,” which seems appropriate, given that it’s a song about riding one. Or is it a metaphor? All I know is this is about a gazillion miles from being my finest hour, and I wish more than anything it was over.
When I finally get to the end of the song, I stop abruptly, clamp my mouth shut, and wait for the inevitable laughter to roll around the room. I’m not disappointed. Camille is doubled over, shaking with laughter, Hayley has tears rolling down her cheeks, and even Phoebe and Kennedy are snickering, although I can tell they’re working hard to hold it in.
I glance at Sebastian. His face is alight with amusement, but his eyes are surprisingly soft. “Nice work,” he mouths, and I shoot him my most withering look, which is a little hard to muster when you’re up to your neck in a lake of humiliation, your cheeks hot enough to scramble eggs.
“Thank you, Miss Emma, for that, uh, very interesting song about a horse,” Johnathan says. I can tell he’s also working hard at keeping a straight face. “It was quite, err, unique.”
“In my defense, I never said I could sing,” I say as I take my seat next to Kennedy.
“We all have our talents,” Johnathan replies kindly, and I shoot him a small but grateful smile.
Next up is Camille. When she stands on the stage she looks intensely nervous, and as she begins to sing Amazing Grace, her voice wobbles like it’s a bowl of Jell-O in an earthquake.
We work our way through the list of contestants, and I learn that Kennedy can actually sing when she performs an Adele song, that Marni’s voice is very sweet, and that Reggie is so good, she could have fronted a band.
The final to perform is Phoebe. As she said she would, she sings the impossibly high and utterly kitsch Loving You. Her voice is so angelic and sweet I half expect the room to fill with puppies and kittens and all things adorable.
Finally, Johnathan thanks us all for our efforts and hands over to Sebastian to make his decision