somewhere.”
I was sure they were pulling my leg.
“You’re shitting me.”
“No shitting. Terrible going to gym that way. Stair-master. Terrible.”
“Oh, Yoya so shy,” teased Lili.
“Yoya so shy,” Yoya concurred. I couldn’t tell if she was being sincere or sarcastic. Maybe both. Maybe she was truly shy in her heart, but under the present circumstances it was comical to say so.
I didn’t need Yoya to tell me that the fulcrum of the room was Robin. Everything was a show put on for Robin, an audience of one. The men, even his closest friends, were his paid playfellows as much as the women were. But Robin didn’t seem to have any interest in me, so I turned my thoughts to audiences I imagined would have a greater appreciation for my talents. I drank champagne and studied the crystal prisms of the chandelier while I schemed about my acting career. How would I get the killer audition? How would I meet the right people? How would I make meaningful art? Where was that asshole Sean and did he miss me uncontrollably? Would he take me back when this was all over and done with? What was going on over at the Performing Garage? How was Penny’s show coming along? What would I wear while gracefully accepting my Academy Award even though I thought they were trite and gauche?
Eddie surprised me out of one such reverie by plunking himself down in the seat next to me and blurting out a question in the typically blunt Bruneian way.
“You will sing tomorrow night?”
It wasn’t really a question. If Eddie was asking me to do something it was because he had been told to do so by Robin. I looked over at Robin and saw both him and Fiona nodding at me with encouragement. I decided the two of them were having a little joke, but I was happy to be singled out for anything that proved I wasn’t just a piece of furniture.
“Of course. I’d love to.”
Eddie acted overjoyed. People around the parties, even the sensible ones like Madge, always behaved as if every little thing was so life-and-death. It was as if my refusal would have been followed by a summary execution.
They didn’t know that I was a singer of sorts. I’d grown up singing along with my father’s piano repertoire every night of my life. I’ll bet you a dollar I can sing any show tune you can name. And I can usually put on a show entertaining enough that you won’t even notice I don’t have a particularly good voice.
When I started out this grand singing career of mine, I was the One. Technically, there were two of us, but only technically. We stood in front of the other performers, making our own row. The rest of the seven-year-olds in group 5A wore top hats and carried canes that had been smeared with Elmer’s glue and rolled in red glitter, but ours had been rolled in gold. Randy Klein and I got the gold hats and canes.
I suspect we were cast as the Ones simply because we already knew the words. I had the albums from A Chorus Line, Cats , and Grease , and I could sing each score by heart. Every song had an accompanying dance number rehearsed to perfection for an audience of attentive stuffed animals lined up on my bed. Whatever I lacked in talent, I made up for in dedication and enthusiasm. If you asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, I responded that I wanted to be the white cat in Cats , the one with the spotlit dance solo at the top of the show.
As the camp talent show approached, a special period each day was designated for practice. Our counselor sat cross-legged in the corner of the basketball court and rewound a tape in a battered boom box again and again, chewing an enormous wad of Bubblicious while calling out the counts and the steps.
Canes out. And. Bounce up and down from the knees.
One. Singular sensation, every little step she takes.
And turn.
Dadadadadadada.
Bounce again.
I found the dance routine embarrassingly easy. We took a rest every five minutes, during which we drank apple juice from crumpled boxes and
I was sure they were pulling my leg.
“You’re shitting me.”
“No shitting. Terrible going to gym that way. Stair-master. Terrible.”
“Oh, Yoya so shy,” teased Lili.
“Yoya so shy,” Yoya concurred. I couldn’t tell if she was being sincere or sarcastic. Maybe both. Maybe she was truly shy in her heart, but under the present circumstances it was comical to say so.
I didn’t need Yoya to tell me that the fulcrum of the room was Robin. Everything was a show put on for Robin, an audience of one. The men, even his closest friends, were his paid playfellows as much as the women were. But Robin didn’t seem to have any interest in me, so I turned my thoughts to audiences I imagined would have a greater appreciation for my talents. I drank champagne and studied the crystal prisms of the chandelier while I schemed about my acting career. How would I get the killer audition? How would I meet the right people? How would I make meaningful art? Where was that asshole Sean and did he miss me uncontrollably? Would he take me back when this was all over and done with? What was going on over at the Performing Garage? How was Penny’s show coming along? What would I wear while gracefully accepting my Academy Award even though I thought they were trite and gauche?
Eddie surprised me out of one such reverie by plunking himself down in the seat next to me and blurting out a question in the typically blunt Bruneian way.
“You will sing tomorrow night?”
It wasn’t really a question. If Eddie was asking me to do something it was because he had been told to do so by Robin. I looked over at Robin and saw both him and Fiona nodding at me with encouragement. I decided the two of them were having a little joke, but I was happy to be singled out for anything that proved I wasn’t just a piece of furniture.
“Of course. I’d love to.”
Eddie acted overjoyed. People around the parties, even the sensible ones like Madge, always behaved as if every little thing was so life-and-death. It was as if my refusal would have been followed by a summary execution.
They didn’t know that I was a singer of sorts. I’d grown up singing along with my father’s piano repertoire every night of my life. I’ll bet you a dollar I can sing any show tune you can name. And I can usually put on a show entertaining enough that you won’t even notice I don’t have a particularly good voice.
When I started out this grand singing career of mine, I was the One. Technically, there were two of us, but only technically. We stood in front of the other performers, making our own row. The rest of the seven-year-olds in group 5A wore top hats and carried canes that had been smeared with Elmer’s glue and rolled in red glitter, but ours had been rolled in gold. Randy Klein and I got the gold hats and canes.
I suspect we were cast as the Ones simply because we already knew the words. I had the albums from A Chorus Line, Cats , and Grease , and I could sing each score by heart. Every song had an accompanying dance number rehearsed to perfection for an audience of attentive stuffed animals lined up on my bed. Whatever I lacked in talent, I made up for in dedication and enthusiasm. If you asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, I responded that I wanted to be the white cat in Cats , the one with the spotlit dance solo at the top of the show.
As the camp talent show approached, a special period each day was designated for practice. Our counselor sat cross-legged in the corner of the basketball court and rewound a tape in a battered boom box again and again, chewing an enormous wad of Bubblicious while calling out the counts and the steps.
Canes out. And. Bounce up and down from the knees.
One. Singular sensation, every little step she takes.
And turn.
Dadadadadadada.
Bounce again.
I found the dance routine embarrassingly easy. We took a rest every five minutes, during which we drank apple juice from crumpled boxes and
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