Yolk's on Me (3)

Those twins are super helpful. Kendra, who I learn is two minutes older than Kennie, helps me find a working microphone. There are like two or three wire microphones tangled on top of a back table, but the silver one is the only wireless. I play with the weight in my hand.

I turn it on and tap it a few times. Little thumps let me know it’s working but not enough to grab anyone’s attention or stop a million side conversations.

Here we go!

“Hey everybody! Excuse me, where’s Rashonda?” I say loudly. Heads start turning my way. Who’s this random girl with the microphone? It’s me, Mauve Fredricks, a girl who is about to redeem herself. I can see Brenda stop mid-pose for a photo with Rashonda. I don’t know when she got here, but I knew she would come. Brenda’s other friends are sprinkled throughout the crowd as well. Gracie, wearing a black skull cap and skirt, gives me an encouraging nod. Joel’s not far from her and he gives me a thumbs up.

Brenda’s eyes widened for a second before she waves. Unlike Dawn, she doesn’t seem surprised to see me.

I move from the back table and strut (yes, strut!) to the snack bar counter. It’s in the middle of the lobby, so I’m smackdab in everyone’s focus. Ms. Williams gets a wrinkle on her forehead. She doesn’t know me. She didn’t hire me, and I wasn’t on any guest list either. Maybe she’s trying to decide whether or not to ask me to leave. The movie theater clerk leans on the counter, trying to figure me out too. Obviously, I’m encroaching on a lot of people’s space right now.

But I’m not easily spooked.

“For those who don’t know, I’m Mauve, and I’ve English class with Rashonda. Some people say the greatest gift of all is love, but I think it’s music.” I cue a finger at Dawn who actually knows how to work a soundboard. She’s near all the speakers and sound systems. I don’t know what’s she doing, but I haven’t heard any feedback or distorted noises yet.

I finally look at Rashonda. Her expression is unreadable, maybe confused, but not upset. I didn’t interrupt her selfie with Brenda, for no reason. I have to cement myself as likable, and Rashonda’s party is the way to prove it.

“I wanna sing happy birthday to the birthday girl,” I say, holding the microphone in my hand. My nails glitter and sparkle around the mic. I feel shiny and brand new all over. Lowkey and effortless. No dumb circus acts to mess anything up.

One thing about an impromptu performance: just do it! The longer you drag out anticipation, the less anyone cares.

When I sing the first few notes of my remix of happy birthday, though slightly too fast, no one can look away from me. Sitting upon the snack bar counter, I sing beautifully. My voice is strong, and my tone is smoky and raspy. My low notes are my signature, and I’m cursive writing my talent all over this place. The crowd is clapping! Rashonda is smiling, and her mom is wrinkle-free like her mommy makeover kits.

“Oh my God, I didn’t know she could sing like that,” Brenda unsuccessfully whispers. Or maybe my ears are thirsty to drink any drops of praise.

“Someone film this!”

“She’s so cute! You think she gotta a man?”

“She needs to be on one of those singing shows! I bet she would get through all the audition rounds.”

“I know that girl. She goes to my school!”

“I never heard such an R&B happy birthday before!”

The droplets of praise have turned into a flood now. I recognize camera flashes and phones recording me. I have managed to steal the show in the most selfless way possible, by serenading happy birthday to Rashonda. All my other plans would have been perceived as bad taste or show-offy like wearing white to someone else’s wedding.

I figured it out when I made my game plan. I have to look good while leeching off someone else’s attention. By myself, I’m not enough. That’s why I have to know girls like Brenda and keep people talking. At first glance, why would anyone care about me? I have to show them how interesting I am, to get people hooked.

I start throwing in vocal acrobatics, runs, and nayhoos and aah’s only someone naturally gifted or rich enough for singing lessons could perform. The happy birthday song has long left my mouth, and I riff on Rashonda’s name for a bit.

Rashonda’s cheesing hard now. I end the song because I don’t wanna overstay my welcome either. My forehead feels sweaty as if I were under stage lights. My heart pumps joyously, happy to be alive and bask in this moment. The crowd of teens and Ms. William’s guests erupt in praise. I have blessed the crowd enough, and I get ready to turn the microphone off. My phone is vibrating in my bag. I know it’s blowing up with follows and people tagging me and whatnot.

I should have realized it before. Being a circus clown doesn’t attract people, but being a superstar does!

I love this feeling.

All eyes are on me until Rox walks in.

She’s got a purple crop top and waist beads draped above her ripped jeans. Her skin is dark and shiny, so either she oiled her skin or stepped outside of heaven.

The sounds that come next are almost deafening. Roxy “Rox” Brittany is like an overnight star. She went from a girl making videos on the internet to one of the biggest rappers ever when her single blew up on the Ticking app. She’s on everyone’s “to watch” list now. Her trajectory is either A-list or a one-hit-wonder.

I swallow hard. I grip the microphone even harder.

“Hey y’all,” Rox calls, giggling. “I promised ya girl I’d stopped by and celebrate her birthday! I know lil’ bit over there already sang, but I’ve my own special happy birthday song for Rashonda Williams.” She has entourage around her and teens redirecting all their phones (read: attention) her way.

Rashonda is full-on grinning and makes her way over to Rox. For such a huge surprise, it seems she was expecting it. No wonder she looked so confused when I grabbed the mic. Rox was supposed to be the birthday entertainment, not me. At best, I was the appetizer, but Rox’s star power is the main course.

“Someone get her a mic!” the crowd begins to yell. They want Rox to spit a happy birthday freestyle.

I know her look.

Rox acts as if she’s all laid-back, but I can see it in her pupils. She’s drinking up all the adoration and praise. She’s me from ten minutes ago.

“Hey, can someone get her a mic, so everyone can hear?” I hear another person say. Eyes redirect to my hand.

I don’t know who it is (maybe the snack bar worker) that taps my shoulder and asks me, “Can you give Rox your mic?”

I’m dumb and irrational. For one thing, I like Rox, and I was one of the millions of listeners of her mixtape. But this is terrible timing. What makes it worse is she’s wearing purple. The color I thought had cursed me has blessed another attention-seeking girl.

I hop off the snack bar counter, looking a starstruck Rashonda and an effortlessly cool Rox in the face.

I have NO IDEA why I throw the microphone at her. I feel my arm going back, and I feel the ferocity of the throw. Logic sails out the window. I’m certainly no quarterback and Rox may not be a genius, but she knew to dodge that mechanical asteroid.

The microphone still turned on, makes a loud thump on the ground.

“Hehe sorry,” I stammer. The crowd’s eyes are darting quickly. Whispers arise. Have I lost favor that quickly? Jeez. “I wanted to give her the mic, so everyone could hear. Sorry, Rox.”

Rox waves me off. “Don’t worry about it. Now—” She clears her throat and starts to rap.

I try to sway to the rhythm Rox has got going now. Someone’s beatboxing in the corner, and everyone is applauding, dancing, or filming. I don’t feel a part of this anymore. Party-pooper should be on my forehead because nothing about this is fun.

Forgetting appearances for a moment, I maneuver through the crowd and walk out the movie theater door. I won’t force myself to be the center of attention, but I won’t pretend to be happy either.

----------

It’s so minor, but someone has put little LED lights—they look like crystals—in one of the few patches of grass in the parking lot. The blades of green grass give off a calming light blue glow. Wow. It’s taken an upcoming celebrity stealing my shine for me to recognize this detail.

Why am I wandering in the parking lot? I have been out here for 15 minutes staring at the ground. I’m ready to go home. I walk to my car to grab a handful of chips. I never did bring the family-sized bags inside. I crunch a few but put the rest away. Not really that hungry.

“Mauve!” I hear someone call. I shut my car door and turn in the direction of the voice.

“Wait up, Mauve!” Joel calls, coming out the movie theater. He ties his black jean jacket around his waist, breaking into a quick jog until someone stops him.

“Hey, you want some?” Someone offers Joel either some type of alcohol or weed. I can’t make out what’s in the person’s hand.

“No thanks, man. I’m good,” he responds kindly. The other guy nods and claps Joel’s shoulder as a goodbye. I wonder what those TV show producers obsessed with wild high schoolers and peer pressure would’ve thought if they had seen that. Every high schooler isn’t a jerk, dripping in debauchery and seeking innocents to devour.

“Mauve!” he calls again.

“Yes?” I ask, still standing and wishing I had worn a jacket. It’s not chilly, but putting on a jacket would give me an excuse to avoid his eyes. A part of me wants to run away, but I wonder what he wants to tell me. I reach through my car window to get a soda, a hot one, to delay the inevitable for a moment more.

“Let’s sit down here.” Joel gestures toward the theater sidewalk, right underneath the posters of current movies playing. Zombie Bats 24 Coming Soon looms above his head. Before my juggling mishap, I had never even talked to him one-on-one.

Joel huddles his knees together to make more space for me. I tuck my knees in at the side and try not to look bothered. We don’t say anything for a while, and let the sounds outside fill the space, cars beeping and friends chatting become like white noise.

He turns to me. “You don’t have to overdo it all the time. You realize the people who are for you don’t require nothing else.”

I blink. Is he trying to lecture me?

“I get that,” I finally say. I sip my soda because I might as well since I bought it.

“Look at Brenda,” he starts, “People genuinely love her. So that saying nice guys finish last is garbage. Besides, Brenda’s not even in a race with anyone. Now, she can get aggy sometimes, but I have never known her to try and be something’s she’s not.”

I nod and sip more soda. It’s gone a bit flat, so the bubbles aren’t as prominent. I rub the sidewalk. I’m not showing a lot of interest, but that doesn’t deter Joel.

“Y’know Pastor Taylor? Across the street from Mr. Rossell’s flower shop is this big church.”

“Not really.” I shrug.

“You’re probably the only one, heathen,” he teases. “Well, that’s my dad’s church. I’m a PK, so you know everyone from the congregation to my neighborhood to people at school have expectations for me. I’m either supposed to be some super saint or pure wickedness and mischief wrapped in a muscle shirt. It’s so dumb. I ain’t holding myself to that stuff anymore.”

“What do you mean?”

He smiles at the ground for a moment before meeting my gaze again. “Gracie. She never cared about stuff like that either. She’s always seen me. Everyone asks me when I’m going to take over the church. Man, I’m 17 years old, and I like film—no, I love it.”

I wonder if I should be surprised, he said film instead of gymnastics.

“And Gracie?” I ask because I feel like this is where his conversation’s heading. I should have figured these two are always on each other’s minds. They have only broken up twice this year. They might be one of the few high school sweethearts to make it out of school.

“That’s bae. She’s Proverbs 31.”

“Stop,” I groan. Joel’s cringy, but I love that he’s so in love. His eyes are sparkling, and he moves his locs out the way. His hair is shaved at the sides, but his locs drift over to the right of his head. He looks artsy, definitely like an aspiring filmmaker though there is no particular look.

Joel’s skin is light enough that I can see him blush. “Seriously, me and Gracie are always talking about films. I’m glad she gets me. She loves writing screenplays, and I love filming and editing them. I could talk about dolly shots forever, man.”

“Anyway,” he folds his hands in a gesture that reminds me of my daddy. “Don’t feel you have to put on a show all the time. Be you. If that’s a nerdy theater kid or a comedienne, be that.”

I roll my eyes at his impromptu soul-searching pep talk.

“Thanks, Joel. I’ll try.”

He stands up and dusts off his jean capris before extending his hand. I let him pull me up.

“For what it’s worth. You stole the show in my eyes. Whenever you want to hang out, come to our table again.”

“Yeah?” I ask. I can’t hide the way my voice gets higher.

He nods before his features morph into a smug smile. “No eggs this time, okay?”

“Ughhh, don’t remind me.”

“Like, what the heck was that?” he doubles over, laughing. “You legit told us your name then bust out juggling like some talent show.”

I sigh, but not from frustration. More so relief. I’m not hopeless. I can’t get everyone’s attention, but I have caught someone’s. At least, Brenda, Joel, and maybe Dawn are in my corner.