It Looked Different on the Model - Laurie Notaro [44]
Therefore, I wasn’t too happy when I was handed the lyrics and Martha began to tinkle out some notes. I didn’t realize I was going to be expected to perform; the invitation certainly didn’t say anything about mandatory vocal contributions. In addition, I didn’t know why everyone wasn’t asked to join in, only a handful of victims. Why would you go and pick people like that instead of just plunking one note down on the piano and letting all of the guests who had the performer chromosome come running in seconds flat?
The young wife that I had met in the kitchen had also been picked and stood next to me. We exchanged similar glances of pity, each wondering what we had done to make ourselves stand out.
Martha finished her intro and launched jovially into the song, and I noticed that many of the singers possessed robust voices, like the librarian who was starring in the senior-center program. After pretending to get lost on the words of the first line, I feigned a laugh, acted a little goofy, and launched into the song myself.
Albeit silently.
But I was pretending to have a good time, even using my pointer finger to make sure I followed along with the right words, looking at the other singers, making my eyes smile thanks to Tyra Banks, and nodding my head when I felt the moment required an extra dash of jubilation to make it real. And, just for the record, this was new for me. No one practices Facial Song Acting in my family; we all just look pissed and hungry until the song is over.
But with “Jingle Bells,” I was starting to actually enjoy myself and feel that I was an active part of the choral community, when the music stopped unexpectedly and the lyrics came to a sudden screech, trailing off like water buffalo running off a cliff. The whole party got quiet. And when I looked up to see what had happened, I saw Martha, and Martha was staring at me.
I felt my face turn flame red.
“Laurie,” Martha said in front of everybody, “are you mouthing the words?”
If anyone didn’t know who I was before, they sure did now: I was now the Word Mouther. Song Ruiner. The “Jingle Bells” Liar. Everyone’s eyes bore down on me. The white-wine new friend next to me took a step aside and cast shame in my direction.
“Listen,” I wanted to say. “I didn’t ask to sing. I didn’t want to sing. You made that decision for me! You marched through this party and picked people at random, like a Broadway version of Dr. Mengele. ‘You sing!’ ‘You sing!’ ‘You just watch!’ I’m just trying to appease a hostess and not harm my fellow neighbors. There’s something that comes out of these pipes, all right, but it’s not the gentle tweet of a songbird. It is the sound of gears grinding the flesh and bone of inner ears.”
But I didn’t say any of that. Instead, I stood there, caught in the silent spotlight, with even my husband watching, and said, “Yes.”
“Oh, no,” Martha responded immediately. “This is a party, and we all need to sing.”
“I’m sorry,” I apologized.
“Jerry,” Martha said, as she pointed to an older man in a Fair Isle sweater and motioned for him to take my spot, “I need someone here who can deliver.”
“Laurie,” she added, looking back toward me as Jerry plucked the lyrics sheet out of my hand, and I halfway expected her to send me to the party principal’s office to wait there until they all decided how to deal with me.
“Come next to me,” she said, carefully thinking, then handed me a tinkly object she’d grabbed from the top of the piano. “You can be on bells.”
I smiled as if I had always