Chapter 7 #3
But this time, I don’t just recite the words, I perform them. I juggle the three limes with the kind of practiced ease that only comes from years of having nothing better to do while waiting for your parents to finally let you get a cell phone.
The audience oohs and ahhs. When I reach the last line of my poem, catch the last lime, and bow slightly, the bar breaks into applause. Honestly, I know it’s probably more for the juggling than the poem, but I’ll take it.
When I get back to the table, Zach grabs my hand and squeezes it lightly.
“That poem was . . . really good,” he says quietly. “And I used to feel like that, too. Like . . . who I wanted to be and who I actually was didn’t line up.”
I freeze, his hand is still resting on mine.
That’s exactly what my poem was about but nobody’s ever articulated it that clearly before.
I was expecting him to make a comment about my lime juggling and not even mention the poem—which sounded like the painful epitome of an awkward teenager. “Thanks,” I say softly.
“No worries. And Lexi?”
“Yes?”
“You didn’t need to juggle. Your poem was beautiful the way it was. You didn’t need to add anything else to impress people.”
I suck in a sharp breath and let that statement settle in. I haven’t shared any of my writing with anyone for years and to have a practical stranger saying he gets it and that it’s enough without the added effects . . . ? It gives me a fluttering sensation in my stomach.
“The way you sang that song was incredible,” I say. “I had goose bumps, actually.”
“Really? Goose bumps?” Zach studies me thoughtfully. “No one’s ever said that to me before. Thank you.” Under the table, he bumps his knee lightly against mine and I’m not sure whether it was intentional or not.
My face heats up. Why did that little gesture make me feel like a zip of electricity ran through my body?
Before either of us can say more, the MC steps back into the spotlight. “Let’s vote for our winner!” she calls out and starts weaving through the crowd.
She raises her hand above each performer’s head, waiting as the crowd responds with varying degrees of clapping and cheers. When she reaches me, the applause is solid and honestly a lot louder than I expected.
Then she steps toward Zach.
The beach bar erupts, louder this time, undeniable. Cheers, whistles, even a few people clanging spoons against their glasses the way people do at weddings when they want the bride and groom to kiss.
“We have our winner!” the MC declares with a grin. She reaches into her back pocket, takes out a small white envelope, and hands it to Zach.
“Thanks to all our performers tonight!” she adds brightly as a catchy pop song bursts from the speakers, and I feel my heart rate slowly returning to normal. Hopefully there won’t be any more forced guest participation this evening—or better yet, for the rest of my life.
“How much did you win?” I ask.
Zach peeks into the envelope and his eyebrows shoot up. “Check out Mr. Benjamin,” he says, proudly holding up a one-hundred-dollar bill. “That’s the most I’ve made for a gig in a while.”
“Congrats. How are you going to spend your winnings?”
Zach runs a hand through his hair, thoughtful, then smiles. “Maybe I’ll use it to bribe someone to help us with our mission.”
I blink quickly, realizing that it’s been a while since we discussed the situation that brought us here in the first place.
“Yeah, good idea.” It might be the drinks, but I got kind of wrapped up in this whole experience and him reminding me about the reason why we’re really hanging out gives me a little pang of disappointment.
Totally weird, but everything about this week has been. Time to get back to business.
Zach pulls out his phone and his eyes light up when he catches sight of the message on his screen.
“I have a notification from Via Match,” he practically shouts, so excited that it probably seems to anyone sitting near us like he’s just heard back from the love of his life.
Little do they know it’s just him catfishing his own father.
“Read it,” I say, leaning across the table so I can see his screen.
“Someone’s eager,” he says playfully, then clicks on the message. “Okay, let’s see . . . my dad opened the message and wrote back. It says . . . ‘Sorry. I met someone and I’m really happy.’” Zach scratches the back of his neck and lets out a low whistle. “Well . . . shit.”
“Yeah,” I agree. “But we still have my mom.”
Zach laughs. “True. She might bite, knowing her.”
I set down my glass with a soft thunk. “What do you mean, ‘knowing her’?”
Zach stares down at the table. “Sorry. I thought we were both still a little bitter with our parents. I didn’t mean to offend you.”
“And I thought we were going to take it easy on each other’s parents. You said it yourself that you don’t want to get carried away. Maybe we should call it a night.”
Zach shrugs. “Sure, if that’s what you want to do, but it seems like a waste of the night when our goal is sabotage.
When I was in ninth grade, my best friend started dating my crush.
Believe me, I did whatever I could to end that relationship.
I think it’s time to break out some of my old tactics. ”