Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 96471 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 482(@200wpm)___ 386(@250wpm)___ 322(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 96471 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 482(@200wpm)___ 386(@250wpm)___ 322(@300wpm)
“All right, then.” Marsha grins. “Let’s do this.” She hops off the barstool and grabs my wrist, raising my arm in the air. “Hey, everyone,” she shouts over the music. “My friend here can belt out a mean one. You all want to hear?”
I want to sink through the floor, but a few people in the crowd—mostly tipsy dudes—respond with a chorus of “hell, yeahs.”
“Come on.” Marsha all but pushes me onto the stage, where the band members look less than pleased to be dealing with an amateur.
Normally, I would slink away and yell at Marsha later, but between the alcohol loosening my inhibitions and my little performances for Peter and his men in Japan, I somehow find the courage to remain on the stage.
“Do you guys know ‘Karma’ by Alicia Keys?” I ask the guitarist, hoping I’m not slurring my words.
The guitarist—a ruddy-cheeked guy with a receding hairline—gives me a wary look. “Maybe. You going to sing as we play?”
“Do you mind?” I give him my prettiest smile. “Just one song, and I’ll be out of your hair.”
He exchanges a look with the other musicians, then shoves a mic into my hands and says, “Oh, what the hell. Go for it, girl. Show us what you’ve got.”
They play the first few notes, and I turn to face the crowd, my pulse quickening as I realize what I’ve gotten myself into. The last time I performed in front of so many people was back in middle school, when I got a lead role in a school musical. And just like then, I feel a swarm of butterflies in my stomach, a jittery kind of excitement.
Use it, I tell myself, and taking a deep breath, I begin to sing, letting my own lyrics mix with the familiar words of the song. Despite all the drinks, my voice comes out strong and pure, so powerful I can feel the vibration of the sound. All other noise in the lounge dies down, and I see both surprise and wonder on the faces looking up at me—including that of the undercover Fed who followed us from the club and is now nursing a drink in the corner.
Marsha looks amazed too, and I realize she’s never actually heard me sing on my own. We’ve done the “Happy Birthday” song for a couple of nurses as a group, and she probably heard me sing along with the DJ’s selection at that club outing a few months back, but never like this.
Never as a performance… especially with my own lyrics.
I almost choke up at that thought. I’ve never shared my lyrics with anyone but Peter and his team. However, I manage to keep going, and as I sing my version of the chorus, I notice people in the audience starting to sing along, slapping their palms on the tables and tapping their feet to the beat. The butterflies inside me expand, filling every crevice in my chest until I feel like I will float away on their beating wings, and I keep singing as my body starts to follow the music, my dancing training coming to the forefront.
I’m not conscious of feeling like I’m soaring until the song ends and thunderous applause erupts. Coming off the high, I see Marsha clapping and hooting madly at the front, and I beam as I turn around, wanting to thank the band. Except they’re clapping too, and it feels like a fantasy, like something my adolescent self might’ve conjured in a daydream.
“That was incredible. Do you have more songs like that?” the guitarist asks, and I nod, though the butterflies are now more like hummingbirds in my chest. In Japan, I composed and recorded dozens of songs, some to existing music, others to my own mixes, and I performed them for my captors as part of our evening ritual. Peter always told me I’m good, but I chalked it up to flattery and a lack of other entertainment. These people, however, are complete strangers; there’s no reason for them to flatter me.
If anything, the musicians should shoo me off the stage so they can get back to real music.
“I have this one other one,” I tell the guitarist breathlessly when the fantasy shows no signs of dissolving. “Do you know the tune to Bruno Mars’s ‘Just the Way You Are?’”
He grins. “Sure do. All right, let’s do it—what’s your name?”
“Sara,” I say and instantly regret it. My name is beyond ordinary, and this night deserves something else. Something like Madonna or Rihanna or SZA—
“Let’s get a round of applause for Sara!” the guitarist shouts, and I forget all about my ordinary name as the people in the audience clap and hoot.
The band starts playing “Just the Way You Are,” and I take a deep breath to prepare myself. As it gets to the words, I again use my own lyrics, and the soaring feeling returns as I see the reaction of the audience. They’re loving it. They’re genuinely loving it.