Claire, Harper, and Nina: “Man! I Feel Like a Woman”
Hank looked at the sheet, then looked at her and nodded. He understood that every person who got up there was committing an act of bravery, whether the singer knew it or not.
“You’re up in four,” he said. “Good luck.”
“Thank you.”
“Oh, you’re going to need it.”
“Well, that was less encouraging than I had hoped.”
Hank smiled. “Everybody’s terrible. That’s the point.”
The four performances before them passed in a blur of nerves. Claire drank her wine way too fast, then ordered another.
Harper had switched to water because she was taking this seriously, which meant she was actually terrified, because Harper only got that disciplined when she was really scared.
Nina was peeling the label off her beer bottle in long, careful strips. This was a habit she’d had since college. It was a tiny slice of the old Nina coming back to life.
This was the girl she had met thirty years ago, nervous and quiet, and doing something with her hands to keep herself from running screaming out the door.
A man sang “Friends in Low Places” and brought the house down.
Then a couple sang “You’re the One That I Want” and forgot half the words.
A woman sang Patsy Cline’s “Crazy” so beautifully that the whole bar went quiet, and Claire thought, What is she doing in Walterboro, and why is she not on stage somewhere?
Then she thought, What am I doing in Walterboro?
And then she thought, I’m about to stand on a stage and sing Shania Twain, and I can’t carry a tune in a bucket, and this was a very, very terrible idea.
“Claire, Harper, and Nina,” Hank called on the microphone. “Y’all are up.”
None of them moved.
“We have to go up there now,” Claire said in a loud whisper. Her legs felt like they were made of lead.
“Yes, I’m aware,” Harper said, also not moving.
“That man said our names.”
“I heard him.”
Nina stood up. She said nothing, but she stood and began walking toward the stage.
Her back was straight. Her hands were shaking. She didn’t even look behind to see if they were following her. She just went.
Claire and Harper looked at each other.
The woman who had not felt anything for the last year and a half was walking toward the stage, doing it first, and she was going to do it alone if she had to. So they followed her.
The stage was smaller than it looked from the table, and the lights were way brighter.
The microphone was warm from the last singer’s hand. Claire took one mic. Harper took another. And Nina stood between them.
For a moment, the three of them just looked out at the bar. It was very full now, at least forty people, and most of them already had drinks.
All of them stared at the stage, waiting to be entertained, but knowing they would have to accept whatever they got. That was the magic of karaoke. Nobody expected Celine Dion. They expected Bubba from the mechanic shop down the road, drunk on too much beer and a misconception of his talents.
