Rachel Harris

In the spotlight, my shirt feels too tight, like a second skin. My skirt too short, too revealing. I tug on the hem, confident I’m about to lose the lasagna I just wolfed down all over the makeshift stage, and draw a shaky breath, waiting to see what song Brandon could’ve possibly chosen for this embarrassing spectacle. When the opening notes of “Summer Nights” from Grease begin, my mouth tumbles open.

Brandon grins, then silently mouths, “Trust me.”

He goes first, and his unnecessary falsetto is so off that I can’t help but laugh. Then, it’s my turn. I sing the lyrics on impulse. He turns so he’s facing me, not the audience, and sings the next line in a register so deep and opposite the first that I fight back another laugh so I can sing mine. And so it goes, me keeping my eyes on him, following his lead, and something—or someone—takes over.

Brandon’s horrifically bad singing helps me relax. Soon it feels like it’s just the two of us, alone and goofing around in my living room. He hams it up playing Danny Zuko, complete with snazzy John Travolta dance moves, and I do my best to match with my wholesome Sandy impersonation.

Talk about an original Commitment girl.

The audience cheers along from the very beginning, even joining in for the background “tell me more”s. Singing with Brandon is so much fun that, before I know it, the song is over, ending on the impossibly long note that he totally murders, but in the best way possible, grin on his face, eyes crinkled, finger extended high in the air.

For one short moment, it’s silent. That short moment feels like a lifetime. Then, to my utter amazement, we receive a standing ovation.

We did it.

I stare at the crowd, stunned, unable to comprehend what just happened, and sense Brandon watching me. I look over, and he smiles. Grabbing my hand, he lifts it in victory, resulting in even more whooping.

My cheeks burn and I bite my lip, but nothing can hold back the smile splitting my face. I feel incredible, blissed out more than I ever thought possible.

Chin lifted a little higher than before, I take a step off the stage and feel my ankle roll in my strappy, platform shoes. A gasp comes from the girl in the front row, and a vision of me smacking my head on the cold, hard linoleum floor in the world’s worst encore plays in my mind. But then Brandon’s hands are there, circling me, halting the ground from meeting my face. Saving me like he always seems to do.