Page 45 of Don't Let Me Go
Jackson exhales in relief, looking like a man who was just pardoned from death row.
“I take it you’re not a fan of karaoke?” I ask as Audrey heads off to add our names to the sign-up sheet.
“Not really. I went once with Micaela for her birthday. Did not go well.”
“Ooh, tell us everything,” Duy demands, leaning forward in excitement.
Jackson lets out an embarrassed laugh. “So, have you guys ever seen one of those cheesy rom-coms where someone goes to a karaoke bar and at first they’re really stiff and awkward but then magically, after thirty seconds, they somehow get confident, and by the end of the song, the whole room is cheering for them and singing along?”
We collectively nod.
“Right, so picture that. Except in my case, I started off bad andthen somehow managed to get worse until some guy who worked at the bar came up onto the stage and took my mic away.”
Tala’s jaw drops. “They can do that?”
“Apparently, if you’re bad enough, yeah.”
“No way,” I say, trying to stifle my laughter. “You’re making that up.”
Jackson shrugs, which makes me laugh even harder. If my plan was to convince myself to like himless, it’s so far a total failure.
“I’m glad my pain and humiliation is so amusing,” Jackson teases, playfully ramming his shoulder into mine. “I take it you’re some sort of musical prodigy?”
“Me? No,” I protest. “I like singing, but Audrey’s the one with the voice. We all tell her she’s going to be famous someday.”
“Yes, my girlfriend isincrediblytalented,” Tala boasts. “But Riley here isalsotalented, whether he chooses to believe it or not.”
“I’m fine,” I say. “I can carry a tune.”
“Come on,” Tala insists, “you’re literally the only person Audrey has ever deigned to duet with. And she doesn’t like to share the stage with anyone.”
“Audrey likes singing with me because she knows I won’t question her artistic choices or steal the spotlight.”
“Oh my God, your low self-esteem is soboring.” Duy groans. “Can we please talk about something more interesting?”
“Sure.” I laugh, relieved to have the focus diverted from me and my supposed singing talents. As much as I appreciate Tala’s words of encouragement, praise makes me uncomfortable. I’d almost rather be insulted so I can get offended and tell someone off than receive a compliment that I don’t think I’ll be able to live up to.
“Okay, so, very important question,” Duy announces, looking across the booth at Jackson and me. “Do either of you have any plans tomorrow?”
Jackson and I shake our heads.
“Awesome. I need you both to come over and model for my portfolio.”
Jackson furrows his brow in confusion.
“Don’t worry,” Duy insists. “It’ll be super-fun.”
I roll my eyes at this whopper of a falsehood. “Allow me to translate what Duy means by ‘fun,’?” I say. “They want us to come over and stand in the hot sun for six hours wearing whatever elaborate outfits they’ve concocted while they sit in the shade with an ice-cold pitcher of boba taking seventhousandphotos and yelling at us to, ‘Look better!’?”
Jackson chuckles as if he thinks I’m exaggerating, but I know whereof I speak. One of the few perks of being as thin as I am is that most clothes look good on me, so over the years I’ve helped Duy build up their fashion portfolio for colleges by modeling some of the outfits they’ve designed.
The last time I volunteered, though, I almost got heatstroke, and I vowed never to do it again. Duy’s one of my best friends and one of the most talented people I know, but when it comes to their clothes and getting the exact right shot, they can be an infuriating perfectionist.
“Ha! Riley’s such akidder!” Duy laughs in an attempt to brush aside my all-too-accurate criticism. “It’s actuallyalotof fun. And the pitcher of boba is for everyone. You just can’t have any while you’re wearing the clothes.”
“So you just need me to model some clothes while you take my picture?” Jackson asks.
“Exactly.”
