Perfect Fifths_ A Jessica Darling Novel - Megan McCafferty [94]
“That’s today,” Marcus says, pointing at a T-shirt with 1/19/2010 across the chest.
“Yes,” says 1/19/2010. “That’s the … It’s his … I can’t even say it!” She drops her head on the table.
“Get over it!” snaps Worldwide Symphony Tour ′84. “The last show is tonight, and we’re gonna miss it! Hmph!”
Barbara has finally lumbered up onstage.
“Maybe it is time for Barry to end it once and for all,” says Lola.
The table gasps at this act of sedition. “Nononononono!”
The BMIFC respectfully settles down for the opening horns and the first line of Barbara’s ballad. “There you are, looking just the same as you did last time I touched you …”
But a few members will not stand for this kind of talk.
“He’s got another decade in him!” shouts True Blue with a raised fist.
“Maybe two!” chimes in Let It Shine, Let It Shine, Let It Shine.
“Sinatra kept it going into his eighties!” adds True Blue.
“I think we should just trust Barry to know what’s right,” Lola says. “Maybe he wants to go out while he’s still on top.”
“Hmph! If that were the case, he would’ve never sung another note after 1977. Hmph!”
More gasps.
“How can you say that?”
“I say trust Barry,” says Lola. “He’d never intentionally let us down. Maybe he’s got something even better up his sleeve. And even if he doesn’t, shouldn’t we be grateful for all the magic he’s made for us already?”
They all concede agreement on this point.
“All I could taste was love the way we made it …”
“You’re up next,” Lola says, pointing at Marcus. “If you can get up there and sing the chorus, I win the bet!”
“I don’t really sing,” Marcus says, slurping up the last of his Barrytini.
“Neither does Barbara, but that doesn’t stop her!”
The table earthquakes in laughter as Barbara painfully modulates between one chorus and the next.
“LOOKS LIKE WE MADE IT!”
“I haven’t sung in public in a very long time.” It’s a halfhearted protest. Whether it’s the Barrytini, or the strangeness of the situation, or rather, the strangeness of how this entire day has unfolded since he first heard Jessica Darling’s name over the Clear Sky Airlines public address system, Marcus is ready to take the stage and win this bet not just for Lola but for Barry Manilow fans the world over.
“We MAY-ee-YAY-ee-YAY-ee-DIT …”
Another standing ovation! Marcus has just learned a key lesson of Barry-oke: A spectacularly delivered last line can make up for the previous three minutes and thirty seconds of caterwauling, especially if it is spectacularly awful, as Barbara’s last line was, as opposed to just boring awful.
“And now, singing ‘Can’t Smile Without You,’” the DJ booms, “we’ve got… Who do we got?”
“What’s your name?” asks Lola.
“Namesmarcus.” Marcus is slurring. He is teetering on the borderline between tipsy and shitfaced.
“Nieman Marcus? Like the department store?”
Without a formal introduction to the crowd, Marcus shakily pushes himself into an upright position and wobbles toward the stage. Marcus has not been onstage like this since prom night 2002, when he sang his song for Jessica. He had hoped it would be like the depictions of such heartwarming novice-takes-the-stage scenes in movies, when the bright spotlight blinds the nervous singer and he can’t see the audience so it’s easier to pretend that he isn’t onstage in front of a roomful of strangers, oh no, but that he’s really alone in his own bedroom, singing into a hairbrush microphone as he has so many times before, and this little delusion tricks him into being the show-stealing rock star he has always been but until now has been too shy to show the world. However, in Marcus’s case, (a) there is no difference between the lighting on the karaoke stage and the bar, so he can see the BMIFC’s every wrinkle, mole, and flesh roll, and (b) he has never, ever sung into a hairbrush microphone,