Oh no. This is not happening, not happening!
I wipe my hands over my pleated skirt, a painfully nervous habit. Sweaty hands are not attractive, or so Brad Macintosh said when he held them during couple's skate my seventh—grade year.
It is my first choir solo ever. Why couldn't it be our fall concert instead of our Spring Spectacular? I feel ridiculous standing in front of the entire school with my mouth gaping open, trying to find a middle C. Not to mention the fact that my mother, who is now standing up in the middle of the audience and waving with video camera in hand, forced me to wear a pleated skirt. Thus, the outfit is now screaming uncool on my lanky body.
Never am I this mean, but when I get nervous, I tend to snap at people. All week, I was at odds with my mom for taking pictures of me. She was literally documenting every day of my life up until the big solo or, as she put it, my discovery! Leave it to my mom to make a high school solo into the performance that will get her daughter discovered and a record deal all before her eighteenth birthday. Somehow, I don't think MTV is going to be knocking on our door anytime soon for the amateur footage my mom shot in order to do a diary on my life before I was famous.
Shaky and clammy, I begin my solo, praying I remember the words. When I finish, I feel like I've run the fifty—yard dash with the way my heart is hammering against my chest, but I then realize everyone is clapping. And the clapping? The cheering? All for me!
In fact, people are beginning to stand up and clap, and I actually feel famous, like I'm a pop star giving my first concert and people love me. THEY LOVE ME! I. Am. Awesome. Move over Britney Spears. There's a new princess in town.
I bow and do a little curtsy, just so they know I'm still humble, and wave like Miss America all the way back to my seat with the rest of the choir. Blushing, I try to avoid eye contact with the rest of the choir as they whisper, "Good job." I look humble, but I'm actually soaring because of how proud I am. I actually did it! Now if only my mom would turn off that ridiculous camera and sit down. My dad gives me a thumbs—up, and oh yes, my mom is wiping a stray tear from her eye. Looking at them, you'd assume I've never done anything exciting in my entire life. I mean, come on, pretty sure my birth was at least a Kodak moment, am I right?
****
Our choir director grabs the microphone and clears his throat. The entire audience falls silent like he's the president of the United States about to make his State of the Union address.
Our town is small.
And when I say small, I mean everyone knows everyone. I sneeze, and my parents ask if I have a cold when I get home. Just because our choir director used to be a somewhat—famous musician does not mean he should be elected mayor or given the key to the town; however, few agree with my practical assessment. After all, he did give me my starring solo, so I should probably act a little more thankful. So I, like everyone else, hang the stars in my eyes and listen intently for what he is about to say.
"Now, I know we normally end after the starring solo…" He turns and winks at me while I feel my face turn red and hot and hear people chant my name.
Naturally, the damn video camera makes another appearance. My mom waves behind it.
"But…" he says, holding up his hand, "we have a little treat for all of you today. Preston, why don't you come down here?"
Preston? Weird, I didn't know he was in choir. Poor kid. He'd be more attractive if he turned in the Star Wars T—shirts for some button—ups or at least a white shirt. Seriously. Hanes would do wonders for that boy. He's the only member of the Star Wars fan club; he refuses to acknowledge that George Lucas did in fact make more of the films. He says it's blasphemy to even speak of it. I think it's painfully clear why he's the only member of the club.
Rather than his usual uniform sporting R2D2 or Luke Skywalker, he's wearing an over—large sweater vest and Wrangler jeans way too short for his height. As I'm assessing his wardrobe, my eyes land on Peter Macintosh, my obsession. And I don't say that loosely. For the past two years I've scribbled his name on my Trapper Keeper in hopes that one day he'll magically look over and ask me to be his girlfriend. I'm a firm believer in hopeless optimism. Besides, what guy wouldn't want to feel more wanted, right? There was always a slight chance it would creep him out, but again, optimism. Say it with me.
I sigh and tilt my head to the side. It helps that he's gorgeous and talented. He's the best basketball player my high school has seen in years. I bet he'd get keys to the town too.
Hopefully, he asks me to prom. I stare longingly across the way, willing him to make eye contact. I mean, it's only natural for the starting point guard to ask out the soloist of the year, right? Deciding to be bold, I wink at him and notice a faint blush stain his cheeks as his eyes shift downward in nervousness. When he looks up, he lifts his hand in a friendly wave and winks. Wow! A starring solo and the most popular boy in school? Someone should give me a high five. No, really. I'm actually ready to nudge the girl next to me when I hear a screeching feedback from the microphone.
"Amanda Lewis!"
I hear my name; why do I hear my name? Turning, I see Preston staring at me then I notice the entire audience seems to be waiting in suspense.
"What?" I ask in hushed tones. The girl next to me tells me that Preston asked me to approach the front. Strange, but maybe I won an award? Without further hesitation, I walk up and smile brightly as people clap. The temptation to wave again is overwhelming, and I succumb, beaming as I receive another round of applause. Wow, I could get use to this kind of attention. Finally I reach Preston, but there's no trophy. Bummer.
He grabs for my hand, and before I can pull it away, it's already stuck to his. His thumb rubs over mine. This is awkward. I try to jerk away but he's stronger than he looks.
"Will you go to prom with me?"
He's kidding. I'm getting pranked. I try to pull away harder. His grip is so freaking firm it's like he's superman. This can't be real. Is this Candid Camera? Looking around, I notice that everyone in the audience is dead—silent. Even my friends in the choir are sitting there with their mouths gaping open. This is social suicide.
Social suicide, thy name is Amanda Lewis. Goodbye, Peter, so long, keys to the town, any future prom dates and or lunch—table buddies. Gone.
Taking the microphone out of his super strong hands, I feel the collective hush of people holding their breath. Somehow I manage to press on as gracefully as possible. "Wow, that's so sweet to offer," I say cheerfully. My mom still has the video camera trained on me. Curse her. We'll have words later.
"But," I say unsure, my voice wavering, "I already promised that I would go with my cousin. Maybe if you would have asked sooner…?" This is my peace offering, a pathetic one.
"Prom's in two months," Preston replies, defeated.
"I know," I say quickly. "But I wanted to get an early start. So sorry, Preston." I give him a quick side hug, the same hug I give my creepy uncle every Christmas.
He grabs the microphone and tries to smile. "It's okay. You're right. I should have asked sooner. Hey, let's give another round of applause to the soloist of the night!" He backs up and claps for me, but I can see tears in his eyes. Humiliation, and it's all my fault. All I want right now is for the floor to open up and swallow me alive. Unfortunately, sudden death doesn't seem to be an option, so I wave with little enthusiasm and find my seat.
A girl next to me nudges my knee. "That was close, huh?" Her eyes are laughing, like she's making a joke, but I just want to cry. How cruel can a person be? People around me are muttering words like, ouch, harsh, bummer, and I fight the tears as they start to blur my vision. My throat constricts with a sudden onslaught of emotion as I see Preston slowly move back to his seat and hang his head in his hands. I silently pray for him to lift his head and look in my direction. Instead, nausea overwhelms me as I watch a single tear slide down his cheek. It feels like I just shot Bambi, and the worst part is I can't seem to find the strength to get up, walk over to his seat, and apologize.