Page 23 of My Unscripted Life

“Do you sing?”

My head snaps back to Milo. “Do I what?”

“Sing,” he says. “You know, the moving-your-lips thing you were just doing, but with sound coming out?”

I feel my cheeks flush. “Oh, uh, not really. I mean, shower singing. Car singing. But not, like,singing.”

“I didn’t realize there was such a major distinction.”

“Says the professional singer.”

Milo throws his hands up. “Hey hey hey, I’m amusician.A songwriter on a good day. I’d hardly call myself a singer.”

“I didn’t realize there was such a major distinction,” I shoot back.

“Well, come on. I’m no Frank Sinatra. What people like about me, if they actually like me, isn’t my voice.”

“Okay. So I’m neither a singer nor a musician, then.”

“Yes, I know. You’re anartiste,” he says, twisting the ends of an imaginary Dalí mustache. I stick my tongue out at him, and I get a real laugh in return, one that sends a bolt of energy through me. Seriously, ever since I made Milo laugh the first time in the prop room, it’s been like a high I’m chasing. It feels like like it recharges me when my batteries are low.

Our food arrives, the bread bearing grill marks, with yellow bags of off-brand potato chips on the plate next to our sandwiches. I pop my bag and breathe in the salty, greasy smell of the chips, while across the table Milo bites into his sandwich. Sauerkraut and Russian dressing dribble down his chin, along with a string of melted Swiss cheese.

“Good, huh?”

“The best,” he says. He swipes at his chin with a napkin from the silver canister on the table. “But don’t let anyone from New York hear me say that.”

“I doubt anyone from New York haseverbeen in here, so you’re safe.”

We munch silently for a moment. Overhead I hear the sound of rain picking up, tapping on the tin roof. It’s light at first, but soon it’s coming down hard enough to drown out the music happening onstage. The trucker has finished up his rendition of “On the Road Again,” and is placing the guitar back in the stand. The piano player returns to his post and glances around, but no one moves to take the stage, so he pulls out a crossword puzzle and gets to work.

“I dare you to get up there and sing,” Milo says. The request comes out of absolute nowhere, and I can’t shake my head furiously enough. “C’mon. I double-dog-dare you.”

“Okay, I’m not five. Do you really think that’s going to work?”

“I was hoping.” He pauses. “Then let’s make this interesting. What do you want?”

The question floors me as my brain immediately starts answering it in a million inappropriate ways. As much as I want to follow Naz’s advice and be just friends, I can’t help my brain from wandering to the darkest corners. What do I want? From Milo? Good Lord. If I keep wandering down that path I’m going to have a hard time thinking of him as a friend. I fear the flaming tomatoes that are my cheeks may be giving me away hard-core. I give my head a slight shake, as if I can erase the damning thoughts like an Etch A Sketch, and quickly try to conjure up something else. Something less, well, blush-inducing. But of course the moment I tell myselfnotto think like that, it’s all I can come up with, and suddenly my imaginary make-out session is taking an R-rated turn. I squirm on the picnic bench, then blurt out the first thing that comes to my head that doesn’t involve the word “shirtless.”

“I’ll sing if you do!” I practically bark, and I’m lucky the rain is so loud, or everyone in the joint would be staring at me.

Milo takes another gander around the room, taking in the frayed jeans and faded ball caps, the half-empty beer bottles and the baskets of fries smothered in blankets of ketchup. Then he shrugs.

“Fair enough,” he says. For a moment I feel triumphant, until my mind puts together the fact that I just agreed to sing. In front of people. And Milo.

Especially Milo.

Because no matter what he says, the guy cansing.His voice is deep and soulful, with just a touch of a growl when he hits the high notes. And yet even with all the character, it’s still melodic and somehow beautiful.

But my voice? It’s probably something more like Broadway reject. Junior varsity church choir. I can carry a tune passably, but no one is going to sign me up for a reality show. Not good enough to make it to Hollywood, not bad enough to embarrass myself in the audition rounds, I’d be just one of the many screaming faces in the massive crowd scenes going in and out of commercial breaks.

I never thought he’d agree. He’s in deep hiding, after all. But Milo is gesturing toward the stage, and I realize my time has come.

I’ve only ever sung in public in a karaoke setting, usually with Naz and a big crowd, shouting into the mike. Never have I ever attempted to actuallysingin public, unless you count my solo during our “I Love Animals” pageant in the third grade. I sang a verse of “Don Gato” while wearing cat ears and a tail, and I was a hit. But I was eight. I could have been burping the alphabet into a microphone, and the audience still would have thought I was cute.

I climb over the bench and trudge toward the stage, trying not to look like I’m en route to the executioner. The piano man sees me coming and puts his crossword puzzle down on the bench. I walk over and ask him if he knows “These Boots Are Made for Walking,” a song that has the benefit of being shortandin a range that won’t frighten nearby dogs.

“Sugar, if I didn’t know that song I’d be dragged outta here by myownboots,” he drawls, and nods toward the mike. I reach for it, and after three hard tugs that nearly result in me clocking myself in the forehead with the old, heavy microphone, I’ve got it in my hand. I’m staring at my sandals, taking slow deep breaths, as the piano bangs out the opening chords. And within seconds, it’s time.

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