Prologue
Devon
Lesson 1: Mind the cord.
I can separate that night into two equally awful halves, the sum of which makes a rotten messy whole. I could also get away with blaming the entire shitshow on my little sister, Tara, but that would be unfair. Convenient, yes. Partially deserved, absolutely. But ultimately, unfair. The brunt of the blame fell on me. I spread my wings knowing full well I was more penguin than eagle. And sure enough, I landed flat on my face in a puddle of Midori.
But there was a piece of me that needed that sister trip out to Chicago—that wanted to escape the comfortable routine of teach, eat, sleep, repeat back in South Jersey. A small, needy, unrelenting part of me that craved something new and begged to step on that sticky stage and wrap my fingers around that spittle-covered microphone. I needed to break my rules. Throw cautionto the windy city. Prove to myself that I was more than lesson plans and take-out with mom.
Or maybe I just did it to shut Tara up.
Either way, it was time for some attention-seeking behavior. That’s what we’d call it in our classroom when a child wouldn’t stop calling out or blew his nose four times in a class period like an amplified tuba. All excusable when you’re in middle school, mapping out your identity slowly and painfully, like an American driving in Britain for the first time. But as an adult—a semi-sober adult? Aw. Hell. No.
None of this knowledge changes the fact that I let Tara write my name on a little scrap of paper beside a splash of tequila and a stick-figure cartoon she drew of me making out with the perpetually annoyed DJ. I couldn’t blame the man for that scowl. I’d be perpetually annoyed too if I had to listen to dozens of people murder the same songs every night with their booze-beats on. Karaoke MC was not a profession for the faint of heart.
“Misssss G!” he bellowed.
I looked at Tara, her honey-colored hair still floating in impossibly perfect waves around her face despite the heavy dancing and drinking she’d been doing for the last two hours.
“That’s you,” she said, sliding a shot of tequila my way. I downed it despite the fact that I’d blasted through my four-shot rule.
“No shit.” I stood slowly. Kept my focus straight ahead as the DJ repeated the name only my students used for me. Just before the clapping and cat-calling could drown out my voice, I turned to Tara again and reminded her.
“No videos!”
Her hands went up, showing me that her weapon of choice was not in her grasp. Like her beautifully manicured fingers couldn’t pull it off the table by the time I hit the first note.
“I know the rules,” she said, rolling her heavily lined eyes.
Of course she knew the rules. She’d been breaking them to drive me crazy since she was five, mixing up my hair-color-organized barbies and leaving toothpaste all over our shared sink. I gave her one final warning look and turned back toward the stage steps, mounting them slowly to avoid a Jennifer-Lawrence-Oscar-fall moment. I kept my eyes on the black cord that ran the length of the stage like it was a live wire, tiptoeing alongside it as it twined up the microphone stand and disappeared into the bottom of the metal cone that I wrapped my sweaty fingers around. A thousand scenarios flashed through my mind. What if I tipped over in my heels? I slid my feet over the wooden planks to remind myself I was in my sensible teaching flats—much to Tara’s dismay. What if I forgot the words? My eyes focused on the huge screen beside me. Right. Words on screen. The key mechanics of karaoke. Besides, how could I possibly forget the words to “Black Velvet” after hearing my mother belt it off-key every morning on the way to school?
Familiar music began to drown out the chatter around me as I squinted against the spotlight and let out a deep breath. I sang all the time—much to my students’ discomfort. But this was different. These weren’t my people out in the audience. These were adults. Full-on, coffee-drinking, bill paying, grown-ass adults and anyone over the age of fourteen made me itch. I found Tara’s Cheshire grin in the audience and shook my head. See, Tara. I can let go. I can still have fun.
The title of my song flashed across the screen just as I recognized the beat of what certainly wasn’t the opening chords of “Black Velvet.” I looked to the DJ, expecting him to see his mistake in my wide helpless eyes. He didn’t blink. I shielded my eyes and glared at Tara. Sneaky, sneaky, sis. She had her arms up as she did the opening moves to the routine we’d rehearsed every day for six months in preparation for her 7thgrade recital. The neon red exit sign glowed behind her and I calculated thechances of making it out before she reached me. She was small, but scrappy. Years of her pinning me took the wind out of my sails. There was no escape.
I looked down the barrel of the microphone and caught the lyrics, my voice soft and shaking.
This here’s a jam?—
A few people in the back started to cheer and dance while I gained momentum through the first verse of “Bust a Move”—a classic that predated my existence but was played ad nauseam in our living room in the early aughts. I let my shoulders loosen as my hips moved to the bass. Tara was now right in front of the stage doing her full routine like she was still twelve in a fluorescent leotard. I sang louder as the second verse hit—used my teacher voice.
I crossed my arms in time with Tara as I rapped and did a little kick-step to mirror her own. Adrenaline coated my nerves and I let myself go—a mistake I rarely made. My eyes remained on my little sister and time blurred. We were back in front of her mirror, laughing like morons with our backwards hats and tinted sunglasses.
Next day’s function–
I was working the stage, the words coming so confidently that I didn’t even need to look up. Two slides left. Four steps right. Who needs a lyric screen?
I was Young MC, bitches.
Everyone was dancing now. I was killing it. I held the microphone out so Tara could sing the “ah ah yeahs” and the people behind her leaned in to sing along. My hands were suddenly free of the burden of the microphone and I took the opportunity to do what the moment called for—the running man.
But the man did not want to be running.
Not that night.
That cursed black cord betrayed me—reached out and coiled around the toe of my left shoe like a hungry python—causing me to teeter back once and then lurch too far forward. I reached out to the microphone stand with the desperate hope that it was cemented to the stage. My fingers closed around the silver pole, my ankle choked by the black tentacle, and I fell into the space in front of the stage. I hit the ground. And somehow, laying in the puddles of spilled mixed drinks and shoe bottom residue, dangling from that cord like a newborn still attached to its mother, I wasn’t even close to rock-bottom. Rock-bottom was coming hard and fast, because the universe wanted to prove that humiliation, like the number line, is infinite.
Chapter One
