Lost in NashVegas Read Free

tongue.
    Yeah, knock ’em into next week. That’s my secret plan. All this quaking in my boots is to throw ’em off. I close my eyes and step back up to the mike. Since I’m not looking, I bonk my chin and send a loud thunk reverberating into the auditorium, followed by a very high-pitched s queal. Snickers ripple from the crowd.
    Run, Robin, run!
    Joe pssts me from the wings. “Don’t point your guitar at the monitor,” he mouths, motioning with his hands.
    Every cell of my five-four frame is trembling. Are the triplets upright yet? I glance back. They are but look rather stunned. Two of the men move broken boards from the stage. I hope Jude Perry from Freedom Rings! isn’t here. He prides himself in displaying other people’s tragedies on page one of our local paper, above the fold.
    â€œGo on, Robin,” Jeeter urges from the wings.
    Cough, clear throat, bonk my chin on the mike, again . Dern it all. All this stalling is only dragging out the nightmare.
    â€œI wrote this song about a friend of mine.” My voice sounds like a cassette tape on fast forward. I try to slow it down. “She was born with a cleft palate and hated to smile or have people see her face. But, uh—” I strum a chord and a little bit of courage creeps in. “My friend is beautiful. I hope someday she sees herself as others do. This is for you, Rosalie.”
    As I start the song, my heart thumps to the rhythm as if it’s the bass drum. It’s hard to sing when I can’t breathe. But somehow, by the time I finally hit the chorus, the words are flowing from some deep place where the music dwells. I feel like I did when I was ten, swinging on the old tire swing, stretching my toes to touch the fallen leaves.
    Smile for me, Rosalie,
    Let your heart dance, let it be free.
    Then it washes over me as if I were standing under a mountain waterfall on a hot day: God’s pleasure. My insides go all mushy.
    I sing through the chorus two or three times, feeling the moment, and then realize I’m not sure how to end and exit. Except for my voice and guitar, the auditorium is silent. I wonder if everyone figured the show was over once the triplets were upright and went home. I open one eye.
    The crowd is staring at me. In an instant, my knees buckle like weak wood, and I lose the peaceful sensation of God’s pleasure. Shoot. I play the last chord and let my vocal fade away as chills replace the warmth. Will there be a snort, a muffled guffaw, and fading tee-hee just like with the triplets?
    Coming up behind me, Jeeter catches me around my shoulders so I can’t leave. He grabs the microphone, wearing a big cheesy grin on his leathery face. “Freedom, Alabama’s own Robin Rae McAfee, everyone. Let’s hear it!”
    The auditorium explodes with applause. Whistles. Cheering. Some people even jump to their feet.
    Bumbling a bow, I whisper to Jeeter, “Can I go now?”
    â€œI told you, Robin Rae,” he slaps my back. “They love you. Sing another song.”
    He can’t be serious? “Isn’t one enough?”
    His face crinkles into an even wider grin. “If you’re a coward, I suppose so.” He sweeps his arm toward the crowd. They’re settling down as if waiting for more. “You have them eating out of your hand. Might as well go for it.”
    My sweaty little hand?
    Jeeter shoves me toward the mike and heads off, calling over his shoulder, “Sing.”
    My smile feels rather shaky as I stand there, rubbing my hands down the sides of my jeans, riffling through my mental song catalog.
    â€œSing something fun,” Jeeter hollers from the wings, his hands cupped around his mouth.
    â€œOkay, this is a song I wrote a few weeks ago. ‘Your Country Princess.’”
    The beat is chompy and fast as I hit the E string then belt out the lyrics with a strong and clear voice.
    You say you’re working late, again.
    To earn