She waves a hand at him. “I’ll be fine. Go explore your goblin-infested dungeons or whatever it is.”

“Kobold-infested, actually,” says Jude, sliding from the booth. “And I’ve got some great ideas for booby traps in this campaign, too. Plus, you know, there will probably be a dragon.”

“Can never have too many dragons,” says Ari, still scanning the songbook.

I consider asking what a kobold is, but I’m not sure I have the brain space for one of Jude’s over-enthused explanations, so I just smile. “It’s not called Dungeons and Dragons for nothing.”

“They have it!” says Ari, swiveling the book around and pointing. “I know you know this song.”

I’m expecting her to have picked something by the Beatles, but instead she’s pointing at the title of a song from John Lennon’s solo career: “Instant Karma! (We All Shine On).”

“Oh yeah, that’s a good one,” says Jude, leaning over the table to see. “You could pull it off, Pru.”

“I’m not singing.”

Ari and Jude both raise their eyebrows at me.

“What?”

Ari shrugs and pulls the book away again. “I just thought maybe you’d want to prove Quint wrong.”

I lift an angry finger. “I have nothing to prove to him.”

“Of course you don’t,” says Jude, slinging his backpack over one shoulder. “But there’s nothing wrong with showing people that you can do more than get straight As. That you can actually, you know”—he takes a step back, maybe worried that I’m going to smack him, and whispers—“have fun.”

I glare at him. “I do know how to have fun.”

“I know that,” says Jude. “But even you have to admit that it’s a pretty well-guarded secret.”

FIVE

Jude leaves, and I try to focus on my paper. I only have a few more sentences to wrap it up, but it’s slow-going. Jude’s words are in my head and, to my endless annoyance, so are Quint’s. Loosen up. Have fun.

I can feel Ari giving me the occasional uncertain look. She’s the most empathetic person I’ve ever known and can always tell when someone is upset. But she also knows that I’ll talk when I’m ready, and to nudge won’t usually get her anywhere. So we work in silence—me finishing up the paper, and her jotting words down in her notebook. Well, silence is a relative term, given the various levels of singing prowess that continue to assail our ears. Some of the singers are actually pretty good. One guy performs the newest Bruno Mars single, then one of the women from the next table does a jaw-dropping Cher impersonation. But other performers are less than stellar. There’s a lot of mumbling and discomfort and staring awkwardly at the screen projecting the words.

I have a theory about karaoke, one I developed way back during our family karaoke nights. No one in the audience is expecting the next Beyoncé to show up onstage, but if you’re going to get up there, you have to at least try to be entertaining. If you have a great singing voice, awesome. Belt it out. But if you don’t, then you have to make up for it somehow. Dance. Smile. Make eye contact with the audience. Look like you’re having fun, even if you’re terrified, and it will carry your performance a lot further than you’d think.

“There,” I say, shutting the computer. “Last assignment of the year. Check.” I take a swig of my Shirley Temple, which I’ve been neglecting. It tastes a little watered down, but the rush of syrupy cherry deliciousness feels like a well-deserved reward.

I’ve barely been paying attention to Ari, but I can tell she’s gotten some new ideas. I’m about to ask her if she’s working on something new, or perfecting something old, when I hear her name being called.

“Next up: Araceli Escalante!”

We both look up, startled. Trish Roxby is looking at us, holding the microphone. “With a name like that, I think we’ve got our next superstar coming to the stage. Come on up, Araceli!”

Ari gives me a nervous look.

“When did you put your name up there?” I ask.

“When you were working,” she answers. “Here I go.”

She slides out of the booth and approaches the small stage, her movements stiff and robotic. She hasn’t even taken the mic yet and I’m already cringing for her. Now I’m wishing I’d told her about my karaoke theory.

Most of the singers have chosen to stand during their song, though there is a stool by the monitor for those who want it. Ari takes the stool, pushing it closer to the mic stand. I think it’s the wrong choice—you have more energy when you stand, more movement—but I know it’s a comfort and right now she’s probably just wanting to get through this without her knees buckling under her.

Her song pops up on the television screen attached to the back wall: “A Kiss to Build a Dream On” by Louis Armstrong. It’s not a song I’m familiar with, though that’s not saying much.

Ari closes her eyes as a jazzy piano melody rings out. She keeps them closed as she begins to sing. Her voice is sweet, almost fragile, and the song is so very her. Romantic. Dreamy. Hopeful. I can feel Ari’s emotions coming through as she sings, and it’s clear she loves this song. The words, the melody, they affect her, and she’s holding her feelings in a bubble, precariously close to bursting.

It’s lovely, listening to her, and I’m proud of her for having the courage to go up there, and to sing not for a reaction from the audience, but with her actual heart.

For some reason, my eyes dart to Quint. He’s turned away from me, watching Ari, while his friend is still scrolling through her phone. I notice that Quint’s hair is messy in the back, like he hasn’t bothered to comb it today.

Then Quint turns his head. His expression is sour. For a second I think he’s turning to look at me, like maybe he could feel me staring, judging. But no, he’s watching the booth next to ours. I crane my neck to see two college-age guys, one downing the last dregs of a pint of beer. The other cups his hands around his mouth and calls out, “Quit it with the boring jazz crap!”

My jaw drops. Excuse me?

His friends laugh, and the one with the beer raises his empty glass into the air. “Come on over here. I’ll give you a kiss to dream about.”

The other guy adds, “Maybe then we can play some real music!”

No way. They’re heckling her. What is wrong with people?

I return my attention to Ari. She’s still singing, but her eyes are open now and her voice has taken on an uncertain waver. Her cheeks are flaming red.

I think of how much this moment probably means to her, and my fist clenches under the table at how those jerks just tainted it.

I look back at the boys’ smug expressions. I imagine one of them choking on a tortilla chip. The other spilling salsa down his Tommy Bahama shirt. Honestly, universe, if you’ve ever—

Something small flies toward the booth, smacking the first guy in the eye. He yelps and clamps a palm over his face. “What the hell?” he roars. He reaches for a napkin, but doesn’t realize the edge of his own beer glass is on top of it. He pulls. The glass tips and falls, sending beer flowing over the table’s edge and into both of their laps. There’s a flurry of curses as they try to move away from the growing puddle on their seats.

Ari lets out a barking laugh. The chords of the song continue to float around her, but she’s stopped singing. Her mortification is gone, replaced with gratitude, and for a second I think it was me. Did I just…?

But then Ari looks at Quint, and I see his shoulders trembling with restrained laughter. He’s swirling a spoon around his glass, the ice clinking against the sides.

The boys in the next booth are still looking around, vainly rubbing their drenched pants with the shoddy paper napkins. One of them finds the projectile and holds it up. A cherry.

Carlos bustles over to them, trying to act the part of the concerned restaurant owner, though there’s a coldness in his expression that makes me think he probably heard their heckling earlier. He gives them a tight apology and slaps a stack of napkins on the table.

He does not offer to replace the lost beer.

Ari finishes the song and scurries from the stage like it’s on fire. She plops back into our booth with a sigh of relief. “Was it really terrible?”

“No, of course not!” I say, and I mean it. “You were great. Ignore those buffoons.”

She scoots closer to me in the booth. “Did you see Quint throw that cherry at them?”

I nod. As much as I don’t want to, I have no choice but to admit, “That was pretty awesome.” I roll my eyes dramatically. “I suppose he might have some redeeming qualities. But trust me. They are few and far between.”

We stay to listen for a couple more acts. It’s a lot of contemporary music that I know I’ve heard, but couldn’t tell you who the artist is. Ariana Grande? Taylor Swift? Then someone gets up and does a Queen song, so at least I know who they are.

“Next up, for your listening pleasure,” says Trish, checking something on the karaoke machine, “please welcome to the stage … Prudence!”

Ari and I both swivel our attention to her, but I just as quickly turn back to Ari. “Did you put my name up there?”

“No!” she says vehemently, lifting her hands. “I wouldn’t! Not without your permission, I swear.”

I growl, but not at Ari. I believe her. It’s not something she would do.

Could there be another Prudence in the bar? What are the chances of that? I have yet to meet another person with my name, and no one is going up onstage.

“Jude must have sneaked it in before he left,” I say.

“You don’t have to,” says Ari. “Tell her you changed your mind. Or that someone put your name up there without asking.”

My eye catches on Quint’s. He’s looking over his shoulder, surprised. Curious.

My pulse is starting to race. Ari is right. I don’t have to go up there. I didn’t put my name in. I didn’t agree to this.