Next up are a couple of Christian singers with ukuleles, followed by the old lady Greta has run into everywhere. She reads an original poem about feminism and the resistance that’s so powerful and so full of curse words even Greta is blushing by the end. Greta applauds madly and swears she sees the woman wink at her as she leaves the stage.
“So much talent on one ship,” Bobby says after pretty much every act. When it’s their turn, Mary and Davis scoot out of their row and walk up to the stage, where they launch into a medley of songs from the sixties—everything from Marvin Gaye to the Beach Boys—that gets the whole place clapping along. It’s been years since Greta has heard Davis play the piano, and Mary’s voice is clear and strong. The whole time, they never take their eyes off each other.
Afterward, a comedian does a too-long bit about fishing, and an old man gives a dramatic reading from Ulysses. Then it’s time for Eleanor and Todd, who glide around the stage to huge applause, so graceful it almost seems like they’re floating, and Greta realizes she’s actually enjoying herself at this stupid variety show on this stupid cruise ship.
Later, she’s so busy whispering with Mary about the eighty-three-year-old identical twins who did a scene from Much Ado About Nothing that when Bobby introduces the next act, she almost misses the announcement. But then she sees Preeti climbing the steps, an acoustic guitar already strapped over her shoulder, and she goes very still.
There’s no reason for her to be nervous. Preeti certainly doesn’t look it. She walks straight to the center of the stage, where she stands behind the microphone, adjusting the guitar. The excitement radiating off her is almost palpable, and when she looks up, it’s to beam out at the audience, all confidence and enthusiasm.
She takes the pick from between her teeth and leans close to the mic. “I’m going to play a song by one of my musical heroes,” she says, her eyes raking the crowd. “It’s called ‘Birdsong.’？”
Whether or not she expected this line to be met with applause, Greta doesn’t know. But there’s only silence, and a bubble of laughter in Greta’s throat. Because it’s her song, and nobody here knows it. Of course they don’t. Even her own group has no clue. Conrad scratches his ear. Mary digs in her purse for a mint. Todd yawns once, then again.
Preeti plays the opening chords, and Greta doesn’t know whether she’s more flattered or anxious. Probably a bit of both. The song is old by now, the fourth track on her EP, her very first recording, and one that she rarely even plays herself anymore. It’s more like a study of a song than a song itself; she was fiercely proud of it at the time, but she knows now that it’s too self-consciously flashy, full of complicated riffs and tricky sequences. It’s not a crowd pleaser, but it’s a hell of a lot of fun to perform, and she feels a twinge of pride as she watches Preeti—her eyebrows knit and her tongue sticking out—tackle the first progression, and realizes she’s having fun with it too.
“She’s pretty good,” Mary whispers, and all Greta can do is nod, unable to tear her eyes away. It’s odd to see someone else take such simple pleasure in something you conjured out of thin air, and Greta’s heart is lodged in her throat as she watches Preeti make her way across the too-thin tightrope of the song, her fingers moving fast on the strings, her head bent over the instrument.
It’s not until the second verse that it starts to get away from her.
At first, it’s just a wrong note.
She pauses. Readjusts. Plays a few chords, then pauses again, gears grinding.
It’s strange to watch it happen in real time, to know exactly what it is the girl’s heart is doing in her chest up there, to feel the sudden hollow where her nerve had only just been. It’s one mistake, then another, and then—just like that—the hesitation has moved in like a fog, and it’s hard to see past it. You start to overthink it, every piece of it, from the drilled-down elements of the song all the way to the energy in the room, which is falling flat all around you like the wind after a storm. And your fingers, which had just been flying, have now gone numb.
Preeti looks up. It’s only for a moment, not long enough to focus on anything, but Greta knows exactly what she’s looking for.
She’s looking for help.
She’s looking for her.
“Poor thing,” says a woman behind her, and someone else murmurs in agreement. The whole audience has begun to fidget. There’s nothing more uncomfortable than watching someone fail right in front of you. Greta understands this better than anyone.