Page 43 of Changing the Playbook
“Youwrotesomething,” she repeats, and there’s something soft in her voice that makes my chest tight. “I’m impressed.”
“Save the praise until after you hear it. I’m counting on at least twenty people going before me so I can perfect my escape route. Maybe pull a fire alarm.”
“Afraid of a little public speaking?”
“Terrified. Last time I had to present in front of people—” I pause, debating whether I should be telling her this story or not. But she’s looking at me with those eyes, waiting, and I’m apparently powerless. “Fourth grade. Book report onWhere the Red Fern Grows.”
“Oh no.” She’s already grinning. “This is going to be bad, isn’t it?”
“I get to the front of the class, twenty-seven fourth-graders staring at me. Mrs. Henderson in her reading glasses looking expectant. I open my mouth to start and—” I pause for maximum impact. “—the only sound that comes out is the world’s most nervous fart.”
Sophie chokes on her drink. Actually chokes, coughing and grabbing a napkin while her shoulders shake. “No!”
“Scout’s honor.” I hold up three fingers. “The entire class just... frozen. Me standing there clutching my index cards about tragic hunting dogs.”
“Stop,” she gasps between breaths. “Please tell me that’s the end.”
“Oh, Pearson. Sweet, naive Pearson.” I shake my head sadly. “Mrs. Henderson waited about three seconds, wrinkled her nose, and handed me a bathroom pass. Didn’t even try to pretend it didn’t happen. Just pointed at the door with this look of profound disappointment.”
She’s bent double now, one hand pressed to her stomach. A couple at the next table glances over, probably wondering if she’s having a medical emergency. And I desperately,desperately, want the laughter to continue, because it’s just about the most magical thing I’ve ever seen.
“From then on, I was Mike Fartman. It stuck until middle school when I grew six inches and made JV hockey.”
“Fartman,” she repeats, wiping tears from her eyes. “That’s almost clever for a nine-year-old.”
“Tommy Fitzgerald peaked with that one.” I grin. “Anyway, that’s why I have a strict no-public-speaking policy in most cases, but I made an exception for you.”
“Well, Fartman,” she says, voice still shaky with residual giggles, “I have good news and bad news about tonight’s lineup.”
My stomach drops. “Bad news first. Always.”
“You’re going first.”
“Funny.” I take another drink. “Your comedy career starts never.”
“I’m serious.” She pulls out her phone, shows me a photo of the sign-up sheet. There it is, right at the top in purple ink:Mike Altman.
The beer turns to cement in my throat. “Sophie, no.”
“Mike, yes.” Her innocent expression doesn’t fool me for a second. “I may have arrived extra early specifically to ensure premium placement.”
“Premium placement is last!” I protest. “After everyone’s too drunk to form memories… or coherent sentences!”
“Where’s your sense of adventure?”
“Buried in Mrs. Henderson’s classroom with my dignity.” I run a hand through my hair. “This is sabotage.”
“This is friendship.” She raises her glass in mock solemnity. “I’m helping you grow as a person.”
“You’re helping me have a cardiac event.”
“Drama queen.” But her eyes soften slightly. “Hey. You’ll be fine. And if you’re not, I promise to start a standing ovation.”
Before I can respond, a woman with purple-streaked hair and enough facial piercings to build a small robot approaches the corner platform. The entire bar seems to pivot toward her as she taps the microphone, sending a shriek of feedback through the speakers that makes everyone wince.
“Welcome to Open Mic Night!” Her voice booms with the enthusiasm of someone who genuinely believes poetry can save the world. “Let’s give our readers the respect and attention they deserve. Our first brave soul tonight is… Mike Altman? Mike, you here?”
Every head in the bar swivels, scanning the crowd. Some faces show recognition—hockey fans or students who probably can’t reconcile the defenseman with poetry night. Otherslook curious, already composing their mental reviews. Sophie, helpful as ever, points directly at me.
