“Who was it?” someone yelled.
Bryce leaned toward the microphone. “That, ladies and gentlemen, was the day I went to live with my dad.”
And with that bomb blast still detonating, he turned and walked off the stage to deafening silence. Nobody seemed to know if they should laugh, applaud, or surround Bryce in a mob hug. As he sat down, Zane reached over and rubbed his back. I wanted to stretch a hand over to him, but we’d just met and I didn’t want to be weird, so I caught his eye and smiled awkwardly. Miranda called out for everyone to applaud, and we all did, but it wasn’t the raucous reaction he might have gotten if he’d chosen a safer route, if he’d finished on a comedic note. But I was awed by the raw honesty, and it made me feel a bit ashamed of my frivolous diary.
But then Bryce winked and grabbed his bottle of beer, and the world moved on.
Poor Dana had to follow that. I zoned out on her and her ill-fated audition for a school play. I watched Zane and Bryce whispering with each other and felt a stab of envy for their relationship, their obvious friendship. I longed for that kind of ease with someone I cared for.
When Gary was called up, I headed toward the bathroom to calm my nerves. I emerged as Heather was telling a story about a swimsuit malfunction. I went back to the bar to look for Alfie. The crowds from earlier had thinned almost completely as everyone had taken a seat or leaned against a wall.
Alfie stood behind the counter, listening as Heather swam in the deep end, searching for her missing bikini bottom. His smile widened as I approached.
“Club soda?”
I nodded.
He set the glass down, and we both applauded as Heather left the stage, and Hillary took her place.
“I loved what you read,” I said in a stage whisper.
“Thank you!”
I made a show of glancing around the bar. “Looks like you’ve found a way to keep yourself surrounded with friends.”
He laughed. “Very observant of you.”
“I was wondering.” I bit my lip. This felt intrusive. “Do you know who that girl was?”
“Why do you ask?” He pulled a towel off his shoulder and began to wipe down the completely polished bar.
I noticed that wasn’t an answer. “It’s strange, is all. I had planned to read something about a day when I happened to drop my notebook in the same class.”
He shrugged. “Happens, right?”
I narrowed my eyes at him. “You sure you don’t remember?”
“That was a long time ago.” He sighed. “If you’re asking if it might have been you, it might have been you.”
I’d have to live with that answer. “Well, it was a very sweet journal entry.” I said, “And if it had been me—” at the same moment he said, “Actually . . .”
We both stopped, and I prodded him. “What were you going to say?”
He held out his hand, palm up, like he was offering me a chair. “You first.”
“Just . . . if it had been me, then I should have paid more attention. I should have noticed you. And I should have thanked you.”
He twisted his lips into a half frown. “If that was you, you were embarrassed and I understood.”
“Yes. I was embarrassed.” And smitten and entirely focused on another guy. “I’m still sorry, and I wish I would have said hello.”
His smile returned. “Hello.”
“Hi.”
Our eyes locked for a beat, his dark and mysterious, mine no doubt wide-eyed and curious. I wondered why I hadn’t noticed him when he’d clearly noticed me. I started to say as much when Miranda’s voice broke in, like a reminder of missed opportunity.
She thanked Hillary and introduced Mike, and the awkward silence that had grown between me and Alfie was shattered when Mike said, “I shit my pants in fourth period.”
I raised my eyebrows at Alfie, who was blinking in overexaggerated shock. We turned our attention back to the stage for the horror that would follow.
Mike’s disgusting story met with more groans than laughs and kept me preoccupied. I nearly forgot the buffer before my turn was running out. But when I heard Porter’s name called, my body became an alien creature to me, and I had no more control over how the nerves in my fingers or the gasses in my stomach or the cells in my brain would behave.
How could my hands be cold and numb, while my ears were so hot and my heart pounded so painfully in my chest? How could I need to pee again so soon? What was that taste in my mouth? Copper?
Porter was replaced by Quinn. I threw a trapped-animal glance at Alfie, calculating how disappointed he was going to be if I left. How disappointed he would be if I stayed. I couldn’t compete with any of these people. My diary entry wasn’t funny. It wasn’t sad. It was boring. Like me.
My bag was still hanging on the chair next to Zane, so I’d have to retrieve it, and then I could sneak out. They’d call my name before they realized I was gone. Then they’d carry on without me. I wound my way back around, and as I picked at the strap of my bag, Tristan reached over and grabbed my wrist. “Oh, good. I thought you might have left.”
“I’m considering it.”
“You can’t. I told you, you’re gonna like what I have to read.” His eyes were puppy-dog saucers of gentle begging.
I dropped into my seat. “Fine.”
When Shannon was called up, my hearing ceased to work because my pulse had gravitated to my ears, and everything was blood! blood! blood! But I smiled when everyone else did. And I applauded.
Then Miranda called my name.
I was going to shit my pants in front of the whole room. That would beat Mike’s story.
Zane leaned over. “It’s just reading, right?”
Bryce nodded. “And that”—he pointed at my journal—“is no longer you. It’s a fiction. Okay?”
God, that was great advice, though even presenting a dry and impersonal demo in front of friends was murder. But knowing I had a few allies in the room now, a few people who were urging me on, who were behind me, and most importantly had all bared some scary secret from the past, gave me the courage to take one step, then two. I reached the small platform and turned to scan the audience before moving into the spotlight. And along the wall, for the first time, I noticed Reynold, leaning back, drinking a beer.
Mother fuck.
Maybe it was a good thing. I’d started this entire farce to win his approval. Maybe I could convince him I could do this.
God, I hoped I could do this.
Chapter 12
The microphone sat in the stand, ignorant of its menacing significance. I hated it, but I reminded myself it was just a tool to project sound. Since I didn’t want to endure the additional embarrassment of being told to speak up again, I approached. As soon as I stepped into the spotlight, I was practically alone. Other than the muffled chatter and the occasional cough, I could have been in an empty room.
I closed my eyes and imagined myself in a void. When I opened them, the bar no longer existed. Only me and this cursed microphone.
With the journal opened to the page I’d marked, I began to read.
“I tried a thing today.
“I nearly talked myself out of taking the chance, but I remembered what Mr. Shepherd always said: Success comes to those who show up. I could at least show up.