One Night That Changes Everything

Chapter Seven

My heart sinks as I realize one of the things I wrote about in my purple notebook is how I wish I could get up and sing karaoke. Shit, shit. shit. Why did I write that? Why, why, why? I have no aspirations to be a singer. At all. In fact, I'm a horrible singer. Which I guess is why I always thought it would be cool to sing karaoke. I mean, it take a lot of self-confidence to get up and do something that you know you're no good at. And that's the thing about karaoke- it almost doesn't really matter how good a singer you are- people care more about how much you get into it. If you get up there and act like you're really excited and think you're a rock star, people love it.

"I am?" I croak out.

"Yeah," Justin says.

"Here?" I look around at the crowd. This is definitely not the kind of place that loves hearing the latest Britney Spears song belted out at the top of someone's lungs. This place would scoff at such a thing. This place wants you to sing Tori Amos and Celine Dion and bands people have never, ever heard of and never will again once they leave here.

Right now, for example, two girls are over at the folder pouring through the songs, and I totally just heard one of them say, "Ooh, Fiona Apple, that is so nineties perfect."

"So did you get his number?" Justin's asking.

"Whose number?" I ask.

"The guy you were dancing with," he says.

"Jason?"

"Oh, you know his name now?" Justin narrows his eyes and takes another sip of his coffee.

"Why wouldn't I know his name?" I ask.

"He just didn't seem like the kind of guy who would take the time to ask you your name, if you know what I mean."

"Justin we were just dancing. Of course he asked me my name."

Justin snorts again and takes another sip of his coffee.

"Not everyone," I say, "is a sex-crazed maniac." Not that Justin's sex-crazed. Although I wouldn't necessarily say he isn't sex-crazed either. I'd put his sex-crazedness at a normal level. Of course, that could just be for me. His sex-crazedness level for Isabella Lancaster could be through the roof.

"I'm not a sex-crazed maniac." Justin looks shocked and offended.

"No one said you were," I say, wrapping my hands around my cup of coffee and enjoying his obvious discomfort. "I was just saying Jason isn't." Which isn't exactly true. Okay, it's not even close to true. Jason was sex-crazed enough to take a girl home from the club with him and then never call her again. Is this enough to make someone a maniac? I'm not sure. Either way, Justin totally doesn't need to know about the girl at the club or the fact that Jason was dancing with me only to get away from her.

"You said, 'Not everyone is a sex-crazed manic' which implies that I am," Justin says. "Which I'm not."

"If you say so," I say, and shrug. "But it sounds to me like maybe you have a guilty conscience."

"I don't have a-" Justin clears his throat and leans across the table. "Is this about that night in the pool?"

Oh. That night in the pool. I'd totally forgotten about that. One night, when Justin's parents were out, he invited me over for dinner. We grilled hamburgers on the deck and ate them on paper plates, and then we went swimming and we started making out, and Justin was totally pushing it, trying to get it pat third-base territory, but I wouldn't let him.

"Why do you care anyway?" I say. "That's ancient history."

"I don't," he says. His phone starts vibrating, and he picks it up and checks his texts. "They want to know if you're karaokeing."

"Can't you . . ." I try to act like I don't care and avert my eyes. "Can't you just tell them that I am? That I did?"

"Valerie," he says. "I can't," I see pity in his eyes, which really, really pisses me off. Actually, I'm mostly mad at myself, for even suggesting to Justin that he help me. So before I can stop myself, I'm getting up and walking over to the corner where the woman is setting up the karaoke machine.

"Do you have any Britney Spears?" I ask.

9:01 p.m.

This is horrible. This is beyond horrible. I mean, talk about rubbing salt in my wounds. Is it not enough that I've been dumped and left brokenhearted? Now I have to be completely humiliated as well? Just because I wrote something totally dumb on a ridiculous website?

The woman behind the karaoke table has a British accent and crazy curly gray hair, and she's looking at me nervously, like she can't figure me out. Which makes sense. I mean, everyone else in here is wearing hemp, and I'm wearing platform heels with studs on them. 

"I think I left all the Britney back at the office, love."  She starts flipping through the binder that lists all the songs, like maybe some rogue Britney might have slipped in there somewhere.  "Um, will Christina Aguilera do?"  she asks hopefully. 

"I guess so," I say glumly. But then I remember all those people who try out for American Idol  and sing a Xtina song and end up booted, and everyone in the audience shakes their head sadly and thinks, "Oh my God, what a fool. Why would anyone choose Christina? That is such a mistake."

"Actually, uh, no," I say. " Do you have anything else?"

"I think I have an old Justin Timberlake song in here somewhere." She pulls out a disc and holds it up.  "It's a compilation." She smiles at me proudly. 

"Great," I say. I write my name down on the list and then turn my back on Justin and sit down at the table in the corner.  I never should have asked him if he would lie for me. I mean, yes he is a liar, but his lying is obviously exclusive to me, and to think otherwise shows a certain level of insanity on my part. 

I look around. I guess the good thing about this place is that no one's really paying attention to the Fiona Apple girls who are singing right now. They're all, you know, way too cool to be interested in karaoke. Even karaoke that is supposed to be ironic and hip. 

Justin crosses the room in three long strides and site down next to me. 

"Ugh," I say, turning my seat away from him. I pick up a magazine that someone left on the table and start flipping through the pages. "Stop following me."

"I have to," he says. "To make sure you're doing what you're supposed to." 

"Just shut up," I say. "If you have to follow me around, fine, but don't talk to me." I don't want him to talk to me because obviously I hate him, but also because I don't trust myself around him. His closeness is making my stomach do flip-flops, and I really don't want to cry in front of him, or bring up our breakup, or .  . . just, yeah. Being close to Justin is not a good idea. 

Justin reaches into his pocket, pull out his phone, and take a picture of me. 

"What was that for?" I ask. I hold my hands up in front of my face like he's a paparazzi stalker, which really makes no sense, since, you know, he already took the picture.

"So I can show Ryan," he says. "They need to know you're here." He looks apologetic. 

"They don't trust you enough to tell, them the truth?" I ask, grinning. "They need photographic evidence?"

"I guess so." He looks like this just hit him. I grin some more. 

"Thank you, Helena and Rose," the karaoke woman is saying. "And now we have Valerie, performing "Sexy Back" by Justin Timberlake." A giggle ripples through the crowd.  Hmmmph. I guess they're not too cool to make fun of others. And they're definitely not too cool to scoff at Justin Timberlake. Damn. I really should've used a fake name.