43
Sasha
So I’m onstage at Initialism.
This is, in short, all Lillian’s fault.
Indirectly, inadvertently.
It’s her fault for existing.
I shouldn’t have cuddled with her or paid so much attention to how she takes care of her friends or fights for what she cares about.
I definitely shouldn’t have focused on how she said she’d love to hear me really sing and then secretly signed myself up and chosen a song that pushes the edges of my range and singing ability.
A song that shouldn’t be a karaoke song.
It’s too hard.
It doesn’t hold up well when it’s sung badly, but it doesn’t get funny either.
There’s a microphone in my hand for the first time in months.
Even dented and chipped with a smudge of lipstick on one side, it has that familiar weight.
The bandleader is asking me if the original key is okay.
I nod yes.
It’s hard, but I can manage it.
Below me, a couple tables back, I can see Quinn and Cyprus and Lillian.
Quinn gives me a thumbs-up.
Lying low, zero stars out of ten.
Maybe I get half a star for insisting that Cyprus doesn’t record it.
When I signed up, I told myself that I’d sound very different singing this emotionally fraught song than Admirer’s peppy music, that none of the handful of people who can recognize me will ever be at Wednesday night live band karaoke, that Initialism makes me feel safe and I can’t stay in the Channel’s cage.
But really, my reason is Lillian, who’s been barely containing a grin since Christensen called my name from the list.
At the microphone, Christensen says.
“It’s time for Sasha Weaver with a weeper. Best of luck with that bridge.”
The band’s counting in.