Page 27 of Born to be Wilder

“Sylvie,” Alice said slowly, “you hate karaoke.”

“I know.”

“You have said, on multiple occasions, that you would rather have dental surgery than sing in public.”

“I know.”

“You told me once that you made a vow—I believe your words were ‘a sacred and binding vow’—to die without ever having done karaoke.”

“I know what I said.” I looked at them through the darkness of the RV, only the faint lights of the town revealing the shadows of their faces. “That’s why we’re doing it. My time as captain isn’t over yet. I wanted to bungee jump because I wanted to face my greatest fear. I wanted to prove that if you can face the scary stuff, it loses its power. Well, I can’t throw myself off a bridge today. But I can do this. And if I can stand on a stage and sing in front of strangers without dying, then we can face anything.”

Marge looked at the bar, then at me. A slow, wicked grin spread across her face. “Oh man, if you’re comparing singing to jumping off a bridge, you’re going to be terrible, aren’t you? What is your voice like? Fingernails on a chalkboard or cat in a dryer?”

Bile lurched up my throat. “Ugh. Probably both.”

Her grin spread. “Well, I guess watching you embarrass yourself on stage will make up for this crap you just pulled making me think I was going to prison for mowing over some pedestrians.”

“I know,” I whispered. “Let’s go.”

Marge put Bertha in drive and found a large enough parking spot in a nearby gas station.

We filed off the RV, and when Alice stepped down, my mouth fell open.

“What?” she asked, her perfectly groomed brows pushing together.

I stared at her face… and the giant smear of lipstick starting at the corner of her mouth and heading up toward her cheek.

“Uh…” I knew if I told her, she’d throw a fit, yell at me that it was my fault for screaming at Marge to stop the RV while she was applying her lipstick, then stomp back inside to redo her makeup from scratch. So, instead of telling her, I just smiled. “Nothing. You look beautiful.”

Her face softened. “Oh. Thank you, Sylvie.”

Marge turned to look at us, and immediately her eyes bulged when she saw Alice’s marked-up face. I kicked her to get her attention, nonchalantly pointed to my lips, and shook my head.

Her eyes ignited with pure delight.

“You look amazing, Alice,” she said, grinning.

Alice smiled bigger. “Wow. Thanks, Marge.”

Doris was too busy fussing with her purse to notice, so as we started down the street, Marge grabbed her and pulled her aside, whispering something in her ear. I walked beside Alice toward the bar, listening to Doris and Marge arguing behind us, Doris no doubt wanting to run up and save Alice from embarrassment. But then Marge threatened something about raccoons, and Doris whimpered once before going silent.

“What are you two fighting about back there?” Alice asked, her stiletto heels clicking across the sidewalk as we reached the door of the bar.

“Nothing,” they said in unison, and I struggled to suppress my smile.

We stepped inside, and the place was packed.

Not just a few people at the bar packed—genuinely, thoroughly packed, every booth full, people standing along the walls, a little stage at the back with a mic stand and a DJ setup and a monitor screen. Currently a man of about fifty-five was absolutely shredding “Don’t Stop Believin’” to the enthusiastic approval of the entire place.

He was good.

Too good.

My legs suddenly felt like Jell-O as I realized eventually, and soon, it would be me up there.

The Neon Moon was exactly what a dive bar should be: dim, smelling of stale hops and floor wax, and packed with people who looked like they knew their way around a pitcher of beer. Three songs in while we waited for a booth, I had heard good, excellent, and show-stopping, in that order.

I sat with my menu in front of my face and tried to remember how to breathe normally.