42
Lillian
I sign up right away.
“It’s going to fill up,”
I claim. Whether that’s true or not is entirely beside the point. No one will regret singing.
“Oh no,”
says Cyprus sarcastically, then five minutes later she leaves to sign up once she sees the list of all the songs the band knows.
“For general morale,”
she claims, but I think it’s just an excuse to belt out a sparkly pop hit from our youth.
There are lots of people here. It’s happy noisy. Everyone loves this karaoke night, and why not? The chance to sing your favorite songs backed by a real band who changes keys on demand. Uninhibited, cheered on by your friends. It doesn’t much matter how well you sing since no one cares or remembers.
“Do you sing?”
Sasha asks Quinn.
Quinn stirs his drink with a straw.
“Sasha, Sasha, Sasha, let me tell you a story about taking T and voice changes. I’m happy it’s hitting me that way, but singing in public? Big-time hiatus. But you should! Lillian says you’ve got chops.”
“Not my exact words,”
I say.
“I just said I liked your voice and that I’d love to hear you really sing. That’s all I said. No pressure. You always seem to be holding back, and I think it’s time you cut loose.”
“Footloose!”
sings Cyprus.
Sasha admits they’ve never seen it, and now a group viewing of the original Footloose is nonnegotiable.
“It’s basically the moral center of all eighties movies,” I claim.
“You said that about Heathers,”
says Sasha.
“Clearly we shouldn’t listen to you.”
I kick them under the table.
“Except about signing up to sing.”
“There’s not a chance,”
says Sasha.
“not even for you.”