When I walk over to give the board back, my stomach flops like a tadpole drowning in air, making me wish I hadn’t eaten so many Pop-Tarts for dinner. The eyelash girl is perched on a stool, hunched over a paperback she’s holding very close to her face. It’s so dark I don’t know how she can even see the words. She must be one of those people who can read no matter what’s going on, because I stand next to her and hold the sign-up sheet out for a whole minute before she realizes I’m there.
“Thanks,” she says, dropping the book in her lap without marking her place. She takes the clipboard back. I hope she doesn’t notice the way my hands shake. “Have a seat. It’ll be a while.” She looks out at the audience—little cafe tables, four chairs around each one. There’s like eight tables out there and every chair is filled. I figure I’ll just sit on the floor against the wall, but Eyelash Girl stands up on the middle rung of her stool. “There,” she points to a table up front, “there’s a seat right there.” She nods at me, waving her finger toward the chair. She expects me to take that seat and I can’t think of an excuse.
I weave my way around the tables, knocking my guitar case against knees and chair backs, whispering sorrys as I go. Cat’s Cradle guy finishes. Everyone applauds politely. He takes a breath we all can hear and says, “Here’s a little ditty I think you guys know.” His first few strums are sour but familiar.
I try to make eye contact with the guy sitting next to the empty chair. He’s too busy talking to the other people at the table to notice me, so I tap the chair leg with my boot. Nothing. I put my guitar case down and fumble with one of the clips, catching his glance in the corner of my eye. But when I look up, he’s back to talking, so I have to sit down and lean over to tap him on the shoulder to ask if it’s okay if I sit. I feel like an ass, since I’m already sitting, but he says, “No problem,” and offers his hand. “Jim.”
“April,” I say, meeting his grip firmly, the way my father taught me—a good “seal the deal” shake. I pull away to position the guitar between my legs so no one can take it. Right before the chorus I realize the guy on stage is trying to play Free Bird. When I look up to check Jim’s reaction to the acoustic crucifixion of Lynyrd Skynyrd, he’s already turned around, busy talking to the woman sitting next to him. His hair is a brown horseshoe with wiry strands spread across the shiny skin in the middle of his head. The remaining total comes together in a long skinny ponytail wrapped in a plain rubber band at the base of his neck. The woman he’s talking to has grey hair like steel wool, braided and not even fastened at the ends, left to unravel over time. She looks like Mother Nature, and the man on the other side of her could be King Neptune with his long white beard and tattered navy cap. They must have come here together and I’m cutting in on their party of three.
I wish, just a little bit, I’d come with someone. I told Matty I had to study for math. I don’t want him to see me play until I’m sure I’m not going to get up there and choke.
“I’ll help you study,” he said, giving me the toothy grin that usually gets him everything he wants.
“We never study when we study,” I told him. “I’m totally failing.”
His eyes flashed with hurt when I sent him away, but I couldn’t stop thinking about what his face would look like if I got on stage and my voice croaked and my fingers wouldn’t move.
I wish I’d brought my dad, but he’s always with Irene and the boy now. It’s his guitar anyway. “Your inheritance,” he said when he handed it to me on my sixteenth birthday. “Music is in your blood, Ape.” I know really he forgot it was my birthday, but I took it just the same. I should have told him about this. Made him drive me. When it’s my turn to go on stage he could whistle with his fingers in his mouth like he used to at my elementary school plays. But I’m sure the boy is busy wetting the bed or picking his nose and Dad and Irene have to be there to watch.
People applaud again. That guy walks off stage. I clap because he’s leaving, and I wonder if that’s why everyone else is clapping too.
Jim turns to me and says, “This is Wisteria and her life partner Efrem.” He leans toward Mother Nature and King Neptune and says, “April,” pointing at me. They wave and I wave back. Wisteria’s cheeks dimple like crab apples when she smiles, and Efrem’s eyes are crinkly and kind.
Before anyone can say anything else, this skinny scarecrow man in a worn out brown fedora gets on stage and reads off the clipboard. His voice is low and whispery. “Next up, Luke Barstoldt from Cheektowaga is here to sing Sweet Baby James, by James Taylor, and Teach Your Children, by Crosby, Stills and Nash, or was that when they were Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young, I can never remember.” He shifts around awkwardly, holding his hands out at his sides like a bad stand-up comedian. “Geez, isn’t anyone playing originals?” He looks at the audience like he’s waiting for a response, but everyone is dead silent. “Well, in any case, let’s give it up for Luke.”