I’m fine. Really. I am.
“Sammy?”
“Yeah?”
“You can do that sexy hat-turn move, right?”
“Lu Lu.” His brows knit together with a look of utter betrayal. “It’s like you don’t know me at all.”
I grin up at him, feeling good that we’re on the same page. We work well together. We’ve just never applied it to anything quite like this.
“Come here, Smalls. Let’s pray.”
He drops his big arm around my shoulder and leans down to say a rather unconventional prayer.
“Dear Heavenly Father. Please give us insane energy, intuition to make the perfect song choices, memory of all the right notes and lyrics, and good vibes to encourage everyone here tonight. Also keep us all safe and please, please, please, let Lu Lu have fun and for the love of Skittles, not throw up. In Jesus’s name, Amen.”
“Well. Amen to all of that.” I laugh.
“Give me your phone.”
“What? Why? I’m going to monitor the requests,” I insist.
“Trust me. You get ’em up, get ’em movin’, and get ’em loud. I’ll take it from there. The tablet will be at the keyboard if we need help with lyrics, but I want you to focus on me and them.” He tilts his head toward the crowd. “I can manage requests and loop rhythms in seconds, so let me handle it. I don’t want you lookin’ at comments or messages. Just follow me. Please?”
“Okay, Moose. You’re the boss.”
“Good. Just like Tuesday night. I’ll flirt. You’ll smack me. We’ll dance and have fun. Nothin’s different.”
“Yes, sir.” I mock-salute him as he takes my phone and drags me forward to kiss my head. I push back, shooting him a look.
It’s not the same. It’sweird.
“I’m following orders,” he says apologetically. “You ready?” He puts his hand out, and we slap our hands back and forth, doing the long version of our handshake, then jump up and down a few times. He reaches around me to a table and grabs the black cowboy hat he’s wearing in the picture on the vinyl poster.
“Remember, I’m the boss,” he says, dropping the huge hat on my head as he pulls his Braves cap low over his eyes. He strums the first song quietly, giving me the pitch.
Let the record show I didnotfight him on the hat.
His show. His rules.
As soon as Carla finishes her spiel, I jog out with one hand holding the hat until I reach the microphone at center stage.
“Good evening, beautiful Tennesseans! How are we tonight?”
It’s just like radio. Just. Like. Radio…except they can see me.
I’m fine. No reason to throw up. I just need my inner voices to play nice tonight.
Everyone in the crowd whoops and cheers. This is good, right?
Their exuberant response is encouraging, so I grab the mic and walk over to Sam’s life-size sign, pointing out the code. “I feel like y’all were expecting someone taller. Is everyone following Sam Haynes on social media? He’s feeling a little shy tonight, but Sammy loves making new friends. If we work together, I think he’ll come out to play his favorite game.”
I give them brief Requesto-Rando participation and prize rules and recruit Carla to get us started.
“Come on, Carla, whatcha got? Person, place, or thing? Let’s get Sammy to come out and play.”
I don’t know how he feels about me calling him Sammy on stage, but it’s a risk I’m willing to take.
