Any Red-Blooded Girl by Maggie Bloom Page B

inappropriate and offensive.
Whatever he was saying, though, it was taking a while.
    I leaned over sideways to catch a glimpse of
what looked like Mick giving the Wild Acres girl advice on song
titles to ban. But honestly, it was rather ironic that a blatant
face-sucker like him was trying to censor karaoke performances. I
mean, who’da thought?
    As another miniature starlet finished a
less-than-accurate rendition of Oops!... I Did It Again, Mick stepped onto the stage and took the microphone, which brought
a rumble of complaints from the peanut gallery. But as soon as my
sweet, sweet boyfriend opened his mouth, the crowd settled. I, for
one, was riveted.
    “Hi, everyone,” Mick said in a rich, velvety
showbiz voice that made me swoon. And unless I was imagining
things, the rest of the room was swooning too. “I won’t take much
of your time,” he told the audience with a wink, “but I do have
something I’d like to say.”
    Huh? Was he actually going to rag these kids
out in public? I was so mortified I could barely even watch—which
was probably a good thing, since instead of embarrassing one of the
precocious preteens, he took aim at an unexpected target: me!
    With a twinkling movie star grin, he said,
“I’d like to wish a very special girl a happy birthday.”
    Was he insane? This kind of embarrassment
could kill me.
    “She’s sixteen today, and her name’s Flora.
And she’s right over there in the back row,” he announced, pointing
straight at me. He encouraged the audience, “Let’s all wish her a
happy birthday, okay?”
    So while I turned a hundred shades of pink
and red and probably even purple, fifteen complete strangers bid me
a joyous sweet sixteen. Then, like a sound effect from an action
movie, Mick’s voice boomed out again. “Happy birthday, sweetheart,”
he said, topping the spectacle off with a pair of air kisses.
    On that sappy note, the crowd groaned in
unison. I, on the other hand, vowed to get the boy checked for
rabies at our earliest convenience. Yes, rabies was a definite
possibility.
    But as blindsided as I’d been by the Happy
Birthday ambush, I was still woefully unprepared for what came
next. Because before I could even wrap my mind around what was
happening, Mick launched into a love song in my honor. He was
singing. To me. In public. I was completely blown away and so
freaked out I felt like I might actually have ants in my pants.
    Still…
    There was no denying that my sweet, gorgeous
boyfriend was to die for. I mean, even in my near panic, I could
appreciate his guts. Plus, his voice was quite good. And the song
he’d chosen— I Swear —was akin to a marriage proposal. All
things considered, I really couldn’t complain.
    “Thanks for doing that,” I said—stifling a
sob—when he returned to my side. “You’re amazing, you know. And
you’re a great singer too, by the way. Is there anything you’re not good at?”
    He just laughed. “Of course you think
I’m great,” he said. “You’re wearing love goggles.”
    “And you’re not?” I challenged. “I
mean, I hate to break it to you, but you’re the first guy who’s
thought I was special enough to sing to.”
    “Well, I can’t help it if they didn’t know
what they were missing,” he joked. “Hey, who are they anyway?”
    The truth was, I hadn’t really had any
serious boyfriends before Mick. I mean, sure, there was this one
guy, Brian Moore, who’d pretty much strong-armed me into being his
girlfriend in seventh grade. But other than that, I’d spent my life
in the romantic desert. Of course, this information would never
penetrate Mick’s ears.
    “There’s no they. There’s only you,” I
said, snuggling up to his chest and resting my head on his
shoulder. “I love you.”
    If I did say so myself, I was getting pretty
good at this mushy, lovey-dovey girlfriend stuff. I guess it was
another way Mick had changed me: He’d turned my jaded negativity
into visions of sunshine, rainbows, and