showing people that you can do more than get straight As. That you can actually, you know”—he takes a step back, maybe worried that I’m going to smack him, and whispers—“have fun.”
I glare at him. “I do know how to have fun.”
“I know that,” says Jude. “But even you have to admit that it’s a pretty well-guarded secret.”
FIVE
Jude leaves, and I try to focus on my paper. I only have a few more sentences to wrap it up, but it’s slow-going. Jude’s words are in my head and, to my endless annoyance, so are Quint’s. Loosen up. Have fun.
I can feel Ari giving me the occasional uncertain look. She’s the most empathetic person I’ve ever known and can always tell when someone is upset. But she also knows that I’ll talk when I’m ready, and to nudge won’t usually get her anywhere. So we work in silence—me finishing up the paper, and her jotting words down in her notebook. Well, silence is a relative term, given the various levels of singing prowess that continue to assail our ears. Some of the singers are actually pretty good. One guy performs the newest Bruno Mars single, then one of the women from the next table does a jaw-dropping Cher impersonation. But other performers are less than stellar. There’s a lot of mumbling and discomfort and staring awkwardly at the screen projecting the words.
I have a theory about karaoke, one I developed way back during our family karaoke nights. No one in the audience is expecting the next Beyoncé to show up onstage, but if you’re going to get up there, you have to at least try to be entertaining. If you have a great singing voice, awesome. Belt it out. But if you don’t, then you have to make up for it somehow. Dance. Smile. Make eye contact with the audience. Look like you’re having fun, even if you’re terrified, and it will carry your performance a lot further than you’d think.
“There,” I say, shutting the computer. “Last assignment of the year. Check.” I take a swig of my Shirley Temple, which I’ve been neglecting. It tastes a little watered down, but the rush of syrupy cherry deliciousness feels like a well-deserved reward.
I’ve barely been paying attention to Ari, but I can tell she’s gotten some new ideas. I’m about to ask her if she’s working on something new, or perfecting something old, when I hear her name being called.
“Next up: Araceli Escalante!”
We both look up, startled. Trish Roxby is looking at us, holding the microphone. “With a name like that, I think we’ve got our next superstar coming to the stage. Come on up, Araceli!”
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