Page 74 of The Summer List

“This performance is dedicated to my sister.”

Priya lets out a squeak and then clamps her hand over her mouth.

“Who you just saw rock the hell out of the clarinet,” Shal continues. “My sister Priya is the coolest person I know, and this summer, she’s reminded me of what it actually means to be cool. This is cheesy as hell, but it’s true, people: being cool means being yourself.”

There are some shouts of agreement from the crowd. Shal grins, her voice getting more confident with every word.

“Sometimes it’s hard for me to be myself. Sometimes it doesn’t feel safe. Sometimes it’s just easier to be what other people want, but when I’m riding in the car with my sister singing at the top of our lungs or doing bad reenactments of Bollywood movies in our basement like we have since we were kids, I forget about all that. I’m just me. That’s what I want you to know, Pri. I’m always the most me when I’m with you.”

A chorus of ‘awwww’ fills the bar, and my eyes prick with heat when I look over and see tears are already streaking down Priya’s cheeks.

“So in honor of my sister and the true definition of being cool,” Shal says, “I am going to risk my dignity by doing a very special dance for you all tonight.”

“Oh my god,” Priya mumbles from behind her hand. “She’s going to do Badtameez Dil.”

The crowd whoops as Shal holds her sari with one hand and uses the other to set the microphone stand down off the edge of the stage.

“There are a lot of white people who have probably never seen a Bollywood movie here tonight,” Shal says, loud enough for her voice to carry without the mic, “so allow me to educate you. This is a hit song from the two thousand and thirteen blockbuster Yeh Jawaani Hai Deewani, titled ‘Badtameez Dil.’”

More whooping follows as Shal steps to the very back of the stage and turns her back to the crowd before striking a dramatic pose. A second later, the song starts thumping through the speakers, and Shal starts busting out moves that have my jaw dropping all over again.

She swivels and pops her hips in ways I didn’t know the human body was capable of, her arms flying through a series of complex movements that make the bracelets stacked on her wrists jingle and clack. The whole crowd has started clapping to the beat of the song as they shout their approval.

“Oh my god!” I yell over the noise, leaning across the table towards Priya. “I had no idea she was this good!”

Priya’s eyes are bugging out of her head, and she doesn’t look away from Shal for even a second as she answers. “Me neither! I’ve never seen her do that. Holy shit!”

That’s all I can think too as Shal whirls through the rest of her routine and winds up earning a thunderous standing ovation. Her face glistens with sweat as she beams at the crowd before taking a bow, her chest heaving with exhaustion.

The applause doesn’t let up as she makes her way over to our table. The four of us are still on our feet, clapping and stomping as we yell her name. She fights for her breath and then slams back half a glass of water as the audience starts to calm down and wait for the next act.

The raw joy now bouncing around the room makes me heart feel like it’s swelling in my chest. My body thrums with so much energy it’s hard to sit back down, but just as Shal and Priya are breaking apart from a tender hug that has my eyes stinging all over again, the MC announces Andrea’s turn.

I forgot she was the next in line.

Which means I’m the next next in line.

Adrenaline shoots through my veins, but I’m so high on watching my friends perform I forget to be terrified. We settle ourselves as Andrea pulls her guitar out of its case.

“Good luck,” I say as she steps past my chair.

She catches my eye, her expression blazing with an emotion I can’t quite read.

The copy of the poem in my pocket feels even heavier now—the copy I scribbled my own words beneath just before we left the house tonight.

Words I won’t be able to take back once I speak them up on that stage.

Andrea steps up to the stage and grabs a stool sitting off to the sidelines. The microphone stand has been returned to its place, and she sets the stool behind it before perching on the seat with her guitar resting across her lap.

She’s wearing jeans and a cropped black t-shirt, with thick black eyeliner and that same burgundy lipstick from our date. A few rings glint on her fingers, and as I watch her adjust the microphone to the right height, all I can think is that I want more of her.

More date nights in cute dresses. More late night chats in the hot tub. More cuddles under the same blanket while we listen to each other’s hearts race and forget all about the movie we’re supposed to be watching. More tossing our ice cream cones aside because we can’t wait a second longer to kiss each other.

More moments. More stories. More us.

“Hey, everybody.”

I feel her voice reverberate through my bones when she speaks into the microphone, even though the sound system isn’t nearly loud enough for that.

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