Carbonation stung my nose as I snorted and choked trying to hold in my laugh. Without time to turn my head, I sprayed vodka club and saliva across the front of Crazy Hair's shirt.
Awesome.
"Weak!" I heard from somewhere behind me.
I turned to see who had yelled, still coughing as I noticed a group of guys and girls at the high-top table behind me. Shaggy blond hair bounced against one guy's forehead as he snickered. The dude next to him held his fist in front of his mouth in a horrible attempt to hide his laughter. A brunette in a tight red sweater didn't look amused. At all.
Crazy Hair threw the guys not one but both of his middle fingers.
"That girl's a fucking smoke show. Why'd he use a shitty line like that?" the blond one said.
Smoke show? I bit down hard on my lip to fight back a smile. The last time I'd heard that phrase was in high school from my hockey-playing best friend, who'd informed me that "smoke show" was player lingo for "hot girl."
Unsure of how to recover any semblance of cool after spitting my drink across Crazy Hair's muscular chest, I spun around and shuffled back to the table my friends occupied in front of the karaoke stage.
It felt weird to drink in public, though we'd been to Canada on multiple occasions. As lifelong residents of Detroit, Michigan, we thought of Windsor--the Canadian city connected to Detroit by a bridge and a tunnel--as the next town over, rather than a foreign country. Nineteen was the legal drinking age in Windsor, so it made sense for underage Americans like us to cross the border for some legit cocktails.
My butt had barely brushed my seat when I heard my name, and my name alone, called over the speakers. I lifted my eyes to the outdated popcorn ceiling, as if the voice resonated from the heavens beyond, rather than the karaoke host.
"Why is he calling my name?" I asked Kristen.
"I picked you a song," she responded, taking a swig of her beer.
"You picked us a song, you mean?" Emphasis on the us, because I'd never sung alone in my life--not counting the shower and car, of course.
"Nope. Just you." Kristen placed both hands on my back and pushed me toward the stage. "You need to sing it out. Keeping shit bottled up never works."
I had no problem singing it out if I was singing with other people, but not when it was just me. Hadn't I been embarrassed enough today?
My short-lived "smoke show" happiness vanished, and the embarrassment of making a fool of myself in front of Crazy Hair returned. I tried to reverse, but Kristen's trampoline-like hands propelled me back toward the stage.
Climbing onto the stage, I snatched the microphone out of the host's hand. I almost felt bad about taking my anger out on him until I saw the lyrics to "Proud Mary" light up in white against the teleprompter's blue screen. Fuck.
What the hell? I exhaled and lifted my eyes to Kristen.
"Girl power!" She saluted me with her glass.
Was "Proud Mary" a girl-power song? I thought it was about a boat.
"Do you have 'Good Feeling'?" I asked the karaoke host. He was around my age, with big brown eyes matching his neat, trimmed beard and his shoulder-length hair.
"Flo Rida?" he asked, as disapproving wrinkles formed on his smooth forehead.
"Oh, no," I said. "The Violent Femmes."
A smile spread across his lips, and he nodded. "Give me a second."
While waiting for my song, I took in the scenery at Mickey O'Callaghan's Irish Pub. The space itself was cozy; small and narrow with red and beige brick walls and mahogany overkill. The dark wood was everywhere: the long bar, the wainscoting, the narrow beams on the ceiling, even the tables and chairs. Evidently Mickey's was the place to be for Friday-night karaoke, because bodies occupied every seat, and the bar was two people deep all the way across.
Instead of looking toward the table that Crazy Hair had thrown double birds to, I watched the karaoke host fiddle with his machine. After a minute, the screen glowed with the lyrics to my request.
My face burned when my voice cracked delivering the first note. My eyes stayed glued to the teleprompter, even though I knew the words by heart. After the first few lines, I got my vocals on track, and I heard some clapping, which surprised me. Halfway through the song, I raised my eyes to see people on their feet, people other than the friends I had come with, although my friends were on their feet as well. By the time I finished the song, the crowd was hooting and whistling. Someone yelled for me to sing again, but I just smiled as I refastened the microphone to the stand.
"You were amazing, Aud!" Kristen squeezed me when I got back to the table.
"I didn't know you could sing like that." Lacy raised her hand for a high five.
"I didn't either," I admitted, skimming my palm against hers, sure I'd zap her with the electricity tingling through my limbs. Being on stage felt like overtime at a soccer match: exhilarating and exciting.
"Hey," someone said, tapping my shoulder. I spun around to see the karaoke host.
"Greg." He thrust his hand at me.
"Auden," I said, taking his outstretched palm. "Thanks for switching songs."
"Tina Turner didn't seem like your thing." Greg might've had a cute face hiding under his beard. Still not my type, though. Too monotone. Even the plaid flannel hanging off his lean frame was brown. His style screamed Eddie Vedder, nineties grunge rather than today's hipster cool.
"Oh, I can rock some Tina. Just wasn't feeling 'Proud Mary' without my backup dancers." I pointed to Kristen and Lacy.
Greg laughed. "Need a drink?"
"I already have--" I searched the table for my drink, spotting it in Lacy's boyfriend's hand. "Actually, I do."
Ignoring Kristen's megawatt smile, I followed Greg to the bar. She better not have set him on me to boost my spirits. She knew he wasn't my type. Douche bags like Crazy Hair and the guys he'd flipped off got my motor running. Douche bags and I were on the same wavelength. Neither of us wanted more than the other could offer.
Greg moved to the side so I could order. "Club soda with three limes, please."
"And a Steam Whistle." Greg pointed to a beer I didn't recognize in the stand-up cooler behind the bar. The bartender nodded and extracted a bottle.
"You've got a killer voice," Greg said.
"Well, there're no Tina Turner-type vocals in that song." I blew off his compliment.
"No, but it's hard to sing that soft and keep your key." His mouth curved into a wide, kind smile. "You from around here?"
"Detroit," I said, nodding. "But I go to Central State."
"Are you kidding?"
I shook my head and picked up the drink the bartender had placed in front of me.
"So do I. That's crazy." Greg held up a few bills, waiting until the bartender saw the money before setting it on the bar. "My roommates and I have a band and we're looking for a singer right now."
"You're in a band? That's awesome," I said, focused on mashing the limes in my drink. I raised my glass to him. "Thank you, by the way."
"No problem." He picked at the label on his beer bottle. "Any interest?"
"In what?" I asked, looking at Greg over the top of my cup.