But there’s no going back, now. The intro music to “Overdrive” has started.
We’ve never performed without choreography. Even years ago, when we were fifteen and performing together for the first time at the camp’s final performance, with Geoff watching us through calculating eyes in the audience, we had choreography. It was terrible choreography that we crudely put together by ourselves by watching YouTube videos of bands and altering the moves to fit our ability levels, but it was choreo. Without it, I feel naked onstage.
Valeria walked us through how to act onstage. Jon’s meant to flirt with the audience. Angel’s meant to keep his microphone on his stand, and to smile as much as possible. I’ve been instructed to take mine off and hover toward the back of the group, with an emphasis on moves like kicking off the floor to propel myself backward and running my hands through my hair. Zach’s meant to wave to the nosebleed section and reach out to them while crouching down.
But Valeria can’t make us do anything right now.
We scatter. Angel pulls his microphone away and heads straight to the edge of the stage, jumping as he sings, causing a chunk of the crowd to jump in time with him. Jon clasps his microphone in both hands, his stage presence strong as he rocks to the rhythm, but not a single thigh stroke or lip bite in sight.
Zach and I move to the center of the stage, a few steps back from Jon, and turn to each other as we sing. If Zach’s nervous, he doesn’t look it. In fact, he seems to be having the time of his life. His eyes sparkle as he catches my gaze, and he raises his eyebrows at me. As though he’s reminding me of our secret, and how it’s only going to be our secret for a few minutes longer. It hangs in the air between us, pulling me toward him like a magnet, and I do something absolutely forbidden. I throw an arm around his shoulder as we launch into the chorus.
Somewhere, members of our team are watching this. Definitely Valeria and Erin. Probably David. Maybe Geoff. Are they frantically messaging or calling each other? Is our grand punishment being planned on the other side of the country? In the tent fifty feet behind us?
If so, they’d be better served holding off. There’s no punishment big enough for what’s coming.
I’m riding high on adrenaline as I remove my arm from Zach, still tingling where we touched, and when my solo comes, I figure, screw it. Instead of singing it straight, I throw everything I have into it: fifteen years of professional vocal coaching, eight years of musical theater experience, and eighteen years of critical feedback from my mother. My voice soars past my high note, up another note, and another, my vibrato resonating perfectly in my throat as I engage my core and bend back. I can tell even before I hit the peak that I’ve got this, and I punch the air in victory as I finally, finally show them I can actually sing.
They scream and clap for me, and my gaze sweeps past several shocked faces in the audience. Onstage, Zach and Jon are both giving me thrilled expressions, and Angel’s encouraging the crowd’s reaction by mouthing the word “what” as wide as his mouth will allow him.
There. Now, even if I never get the chance to show my range again, the world knows what I can do if I’m not gagged. I’m not a stencil. I’m not rigid.
I’m fucking good. And now it’s on record.
The song ends, and we catch our breath. It might be a lot less demanding to sing without choreography, but damn, you get unfit fast after a couple months off. The light on my microphone flicks from green to red. It’s time for Jon to address the crowd.
I make eye contact with him. And we step into each other’s places.
Now I’m standing in the middle with Zach. And my microphone’s on.
I need to move quickly. Jon went over this with me last night as I shared my written speech with him. Get to the point. If Chorus figures out what you’re going to do, they’ll make them switch your mic off. If Good Afternoon United States realizes something huge is happening, they won’t obey that order. Don’t. Fluff.
“Thank you so much, everybody,” I say. The crowd roars in response, and I don’t wait for them to finish. We don’t have time. So I plow over them, against every instinct in my musical-theater-trained body to wait until they can hear the line clearly. “We’ve missed being onstage, being with our fans—with you—but today is particularly special. Not just because we have Angel back up and running.” Another cheer—damn it, I should’ve anticipated that. Get to the point, Ruben. In my mind’s eye, I can see Erin running from the tent up the stairs. Finding the blond technician. My heart gives a panicked thud. “But because today, we weren’t choreographed. And the thing about choreography is that in the wrong hands it takes something as expressive as dance, and it reins it in, to make you a cohesive group. It’s still a display of skill, and it’s beautiful to look at, but today we’re hoping that instead of seeing us as the group, you’ll learn more about the dancers.”