“We’re going alphabetically, so we’ll be starting with A. Coincidentally, I’m first. Don’t worry, I’m not competing, just showing solidarity.”
The lights dimmed, and a spotlight lit him so he seemed to be the only person in the room. He cleared his throat. “Okay, I am already having second thoughts, but I promised someone I’d do this.” He lifted his eyes and looked in the direction of the bar, where I was sitting. He took a breath and blew it out roughly through rounded lips. “My only excuse here is that I wrote this a long time ago. It’s called ‘Raging.’ ”
He dropped his head for a moment, and everyone in the room quieted, anticipating, encouraging maybe. Alfie straightened and put the mic back on the stand before holding out a piece of paper that wavered, giving away a tremor of nerves. My heart went out to him.
Then he began to read in a clear, confident voice.
“She reaches her hand across the never-ending sea
Toward mine extended
But a storm rages within, without
And with a touch she’s apprehended
The damp of my palm, the tremor of my fingers
She’s heard the unintended
Thunder in my heart
The lightning that sparks between us
And as the rain hits my face
She turns toward the sun.”
For longer than a heartbeat, the room remained utterly silent. My chest grew tight from the breath I’d been holding. I exhaled at last with a whispered wow. Then the crowd seemed to realize he was done and clapped appreciatively.
Alfie took a small bow and said, “Miranda, take it away.”
Nobody laughed at him, but as he stepped away from the mic, several people elbowed him, chided him. Had they failed to hear what I heard?
I blinked away tears that had welled up. How silly.
The woman who’d been working with Alfie behind the bar stepped up to the mic and said, “Big round of applause for our fearless leader. My name is Miranda, and I’ll be taking over moderation duties for the rest of the evening. I hope you’re ready to go as I’ll be calling your names without much fanfare. Our very first casualty is Bryce Lieberman. Let’s give him a warm welcome.”
Alfie slid behind the bar and began quietly taking orders from the people holding their money out, waiting. I didn’t know I was staring until he flashed me a smile and asked, “How bad was that?”
I wanted to tell him it was beautiful, but would he think I was dumb for appreciating his words when he found them so lacking? “You did great.”
He filled my glass with club soda. “Promise me you’ll take your turn. Please?”
My mouth went dry at the thought, but the club soda helped settle my stomach. “I’m thinking about it.”
Aida nudged me. “Shhh.”
People were laughing, and I tuned in to Bryce, who was midway through his performance. He held the mic, like a stand-up comic, journal in the other hand.
“I already said yes to Jodie. I don’t like Jodie, but Tobin does, so I knew he’d be mad if I took her to Homecoming.”
Bryce performed with all the sullen attitude of a petulant teenager. A little whine, a lot of entitlement.
“But now I can’t ask Patrick, and what if he goes with someone else and then they fall in love and get married and I never had a chance to let Patrick know I liked him?”
Bryce played up the dramatics of his dilemma, and he was rewarded by snickers. I suddenly worried my journal was going to be too boring. I opened it up to the marked page and read it, looking for anything that might generate laughter. But my writing was flat and cowardly. I scanned the next page, then the next. By the end of the first week of class, I’d started actually journaling. It was there I found pay dirt. A real confession of late-teen infatuation. And it was actually pretty funny, or so I thought. It might do.
A girl named Dana followed Bryce and read a passage about how thrilled her thirteen-year-old self was to get her first period. I began to understand how everything was funnier because the author of the diary was Dana, but not current-day Dana. She was able to poke fun at herself because there’d been time to gain perspective, and although what she was reading wasn’t exactly funny, everyone laughed along because her adolescent struggle felt somehow universal. At least all the women could relate.
Suddenly the phrase tragedy plus time equals comedy made perfect sense.
A guy named Gary told a story about attempting to have sex in a train bathroom that was so outlandish, I had to wonder if it was even true. But I was crying with laughter when he said, “That’s when the train conductor knocked on the door and said, ‘Ticket, please.’ ”
When Heather was called up, I excused myself to go to the bathroom. All that club soda wasn’t playing well with my growing nerves. I took my notebook into the stall and whisper-read my entry aloud, wondering what I’d gotten myself into.
When I came back, another girl was up on stage. I asked Aida what I’d missed. “Nothing. That’s Hillary.”
I was counting as each contestant went up. The sixth person’s name was Mike. I tried to anticipate when I’d be called, but there was simply no way to extrapolate from the names. I could be last if the rest of the contestants all had names beginning with R. Or there could be eight guys named Steve, waiting their turn.
But seven and eight were Porter and Quinn. I spaced out completely on their readings, scanning my page again. What if I offended someone?
Nine was a Ray. Ten was Rosemary. I shot a glance at the door, wondering if I could bolt before they called me. Aida laid a hand on my knee. Maybe I should go back to my bland original selection.
Eleven was Shannon. I had to be next. I shook out my hands because I could no longer feel them.
When Shannon left the stage, I grasped my journal, knowing what was coming as Miranda said, “Remember Shannon was contestant number eleven. Please vote for contestant number eleven.” I was going to throw up. “Next up, please welcome Shawn.”
That was the moment of reprieve I needed. I shot off my stool and took two steps toward the exit.
“Hey.” Alfie’s voice caught my attention. “Sierra.”
I stopped dead, as my fight-or-flight impulses warred with each other. Alfie came around the end of the bar and faced me.
My adrenaline surged, and I wanted to cry. He’d made me promise I’d perform, but everything was closing in, and I needed to be outside.
Alfie laid a hand on my arm. “Take a breath. Now let it out.”
I did as he said.
“And again.”
I inhaled. I exhaled.
“Good.” He cocked his head. “I wanted to bail, too, before. I find talking in front of people to be the scariest thing in the world.”
“You?” He seemed to have it all together. He had to be lying to make me feel better.
“Fake it till you make it.”
I’d heard that one way too often. “That’s what my cross-country coach used to say.” He’d also said, “By failing to prepare, you are preparing to fail.” Words of advice that cemented my desire to flee before I fell flat on my face publicly.
Alfie inched a little closer and made direct eye contact. “Look, you don’t have to go up there. No obligation. But don’t leave, okay? I’ll still give you the free drink.”