“Well!” Charlie claps his hands together and beams. “Wasn’t that something, everyone? Our own Monica Turner! You can find her making your drinks behind the bar every Tuesday and Wednesday, but with a voice like that, I don’t think she’ll be sticking around for much longer.” He winks at Monica, who’s settled down off to the side. “You’re destined for fame, kiddo. Up next—” Charlie takes out a crumpled napkin from his hip pocket and straightens it against his thigh, “—up next is the ever-talented Felix Ruffins. Give him a hand, everyone!”
The crowd starts clapping again as a tall boy emerges from the back. His height and dreadlocks make him seem older at first glance, but after I get a good look at him, I don’t think he’s even a few years past puberty. He sets his instrument case down, pops it open, and takes out a silver saxophone.
Charlie smiles. “We’re in for a treat tonight. Live jazz, everyone!”
There’s more applause as Felix sets up his instrument. Charlie addresses the crowd while we wait. “Remember to cheer loudest for your favorite performer. Irene will be collecting votes at the end of the night. Irene, where are you hiding?”
Heads turn to search for her in the crowd. A plump woman about Charlie’s age with a pretty face holds her hands up and gives a little wave.
“Ah, there she is!” Charlie laughs and points. “She’ll be collecting votes at the end of the night. Write down the name of your favorite performer from our lineup. We’ll be tallying your votes and updating our leaderboard tomorrow morning. Remember, the name with the most votes at the end of the month wins the special privilege of opening for
The Cranberries
when they headline next months’ Fall-Fest in the heart of campus. So make your votes count!”
Charlie turns back to see if Felix is ready. When he sees that he is, he bows his head with a smile. “I won’t waste any more of your time. Here’s Felix, everybody!”
More applause sounds as Felix takes the stage. He looks incredibly nervous. He takes a few deep breaths, then addresses the crowd in a shaky voice. “How’s everyone doing?”
I take the opportunity to tap Spencer’s shoulder. “Did he say
The Cranberries
?”
Spencer smiles. “Yeah. Charlie used to be their manager, back when they first formed.”
My eyebrows go up. “Really? But that means he’s at least forty!”
“Closer to fifty, actually,” Spencer says.
I focus on the tall, handsome man again. “He doesn’t look a day over thirty.”
Spencer chuckles. “Love keeps a man young. He met Irene a few years back, fell hard, and stopped the rock gig. They opened this café together. Now it’s their mission to find great, unsigned talent from the student body.”
“Sounds like you know him well,” I say.
“Charlie and I were good friends before I stopped playing,” he answers.
I don’t have time to ask him why he stopped. Music from Felix’s sax takes over the room.
I turn and stare. I wouldn’t believe it if I didn’t see it with my own two eyes. The shy, bumbling young boy from before is a magnificent musician.
Felix plays with his eyes closed. The soulful, morose melody breaks my heart. His fingers dance over the keys, and such beautiful music comes from the saxophone that I am lost to my surroundings. I watch and listen, transfixed by the power of his music.
I’m not the only one. The crowd is so quiet you could hear a pin drop. Time passes as if in a dream.
Somewhere along the way, Spencer’s arm winds up around my shoulders.
The journey Felix takes us on is magnificent. It is filled with wonder and joy and tears. His music touches the whole range of human emotions, never focusing on one so much as to become overbearing, but never skipping the ones that are difficult to endure, either.
The crowd is hushed when he finishes. Felix opens his eyes, then blinks, almost as if surprised to find out that he’s not alone.
A tentative applause starts for him, quiet as the wind rustling through dry October leaves. It grows and grows until it overtakes the entire café. Felix smiles, proud, and his white teeth radiate his inner confidence.
And so it goes. One after another, performers and musicians take the stage. There is an amazing variety of talent. I would never have expected so much hidden here. The crowd cheers everyone on, young and old, talented and not-so-talented. There is no discrimination. Everyone gets a fair chance to win our hearts.
Even Charlie performs. I have a feeling his attempt is more of a way to please the crowd. He knows he can’t sing. But he goes up and does it anyway, offering a butchered rendition of his former band’s hit,
Zombie
.
We laugh with him through his mistakes and cheer loudest when he’s done. Whether it’s for his courage or for the merciful end, I can’t decide.
In the short breaks between performances, I hear Felix’s name brought up the most often in the conversations around me. If I had to guess, I’d say he’s leading the popular vote.
At least two hours go by when the final performer bows off the stage. Cries of “Encore!” echo through the room as Charlie walks up to the mike.
He holds out his hands and waits for quiet. “Now, now,” he says. “You folks know the rules. One performance per person each night, lest it get too crowded up here for the favorites. Now, then.” He looks at the scrambled napkin. “It seems we’ve gotten through everybody who signed up tonight. It’s almost time to cast your votes. I’m going to get all of our stars up here again in just a minute to help all of you remember who’s who.
“Before I do that, however, I’d like to make one final call for anybody who walked in late and didn’t get a chance to sign up.”
I grab Spencer’s arm. “You have to go!” I say. “You promised!”
He looks at me, his expression torn.
“Please?” I beg.
“…Anyone?” Charlie calls out. “Anyone at all?”
I look at Spencer, begging him with my eyes. “Please!”
“Oh, what the hell,” Spencer mutters. He surges to his feet. “I want to perform!”
I give a delighted gasp. Charlie shades his eyes, trying to pick out the volunteer in the darkness. “Who said that? Step forward, son.”
Spencer gives me a small wink and touches my arm. Then he struts through the crowd, tall and confident.
“I did,” he says when he reaches Charlie.
Charlie’s eyes widen for a split second. Then a great, joyous smile splits his face. “I don’t believe it,” he mutters. He turns to the crowd. “Spencer Ashford, everyone!”
Confused murmurs sound all around me. I hear Spencer’s name repeated as a question. “Spencer? Spencer Ashford? What’s he doing here?”
Spencer steps up to the mic and gives it a few taps. He sweeps his hair away from his forehead and chuckles lightly.
“I never thought I’d stand up here again,” he says. “But someone quite special convinced me otherwise.”
Spencer pulls the stool closer and perches on the edge. He looks at Charlie. “Problem is, I didn’t really think I’d go through with it tonight.” He leans into the mic and whispers, “I left my guitar at home.”
A few members of the audience laugh.
“So, the way I see it,” Spencer continues, looking right at home on stage, “I have two choices. I could either recite some long, boring poem for you that I’ve got stuck in my memory—” he pauses, giving a dramatic shudder, “—or, somebody very
trusting
could let me borrow their guitar for one quick song.”
Another murmur overtakes the crowd. Spencer sits back and waits.
I thought he told me he had his guitar in the back? Did he lie? Or does he just not want to use it? I remember him saying it was out of tune…
My thoughts are interrupted when
Irene
, of all people, appears next to Spencer with a beautiful instrument in her hands. Spencer smiles and accepts the guitar from her. Irene leans in to whisper in his ear. The mic picks some of it up. I hear the words, “She’s my baby,” and then, “Glad you’ve come back to us.”
“The lovely Irene, everyone,” Spencer says as she walks off. “A man could wish for nothing more than to have someone like her in his life. Charlie, you lucky bastard.”
I glance over to see Charlie wrap his arms around Irene as she returns to him, a smug smile on his face. Irene elbows him in the ribs and crosses her arms. Charlie laughs.
My attention shifts back to Spencer when he strums a chord. He lowers his head to the strings, adjusting them, then tries again. He smiles.
“Irene wanted me to mention that since I’m not performing with my
own
instrument, I’m not eligible for the vote tonight. I told her that with my level of talent, she has nothing to worry about.”
Laughter sounds from around me.
“Well.” Spencer strums the strings once. “I already said this, but I’m only up here because of one person.” He clears his throat and whispers into the mic. “This is dedicated to her.”
He starts strumming something exceedingly simple. I swallow in apprehension. I thought he was kidding when he said he wasn’t very good!
As the first few chords fill the room, I start to feel horrible. I should never have pressured him.
Then he stops. He places his hand over the strings to make them quiet, and shakes his head. “No. No, that won’t do,” he says. His eyes open, and I see that mischievous glimmer in them again. He brings the mic closer to his face.
“This song,” he says, “comes from my good friend Bryan Adams. It’s a song I’ve never performed in public before. It’s called, ‘Do I Have to Say the Words.’ Paige—” he looks right at me, “—this one’s for you.”
And just like that, Spencer starts to play.
He does not make the song his own, as Monica did. He does something much greater.
He makes the words his own.
Anyone can take a famous song and perform an artful cover. All that takes is talent and practice.
It takes more to do what Spencer does. He does not merely sing. He lays his soul out in the open with every beautiful line, each wonderful lyric. The harmony of his voice blends with the sweet music of Irene’s guitar, creating an intoxicating swell that lifts the spirits of the crowd.
Rescue me from the mire,
Whisper words of desire,
Rescue me, darling rescue me.
The song pierces deep inside of us because we know it comes from deep inside of him. The first verse goes by in a daze. Then comes the chorus. The chorus is where I get the sense I am witnessing true magnificence.
Do I have to say the words?
Do I have to tell the truth?
Do I have to shout it out?
Do I have to say a prayer?
Must I prove to you, how good we are together?
Do I have to say the words?
To match Spencer’s performance, there has to be a reason. A cause. The hint of reward that might come after taking so great a risk.
…I never needed anyone, like I’m needing you today…
That line reveals it to me. Now, I understand. I understand what drives him. I understand that the arranged words are so perfect that they might have been lifted from the depths of his soul.
He is not just singing. He is giving us a glimpse of his heart.
The distinction is almost imperceptible. Few will know his performance for what it really is. Few will sense the richer, more subtle layer hidden beneath the words.
The people around me will not know. It is through no fault of theirs. It does not mean they are immune to Spencer’s spell. All it means is that the song is not for them.
It’s for me.
Come to me,
Darling rescue me…
Spencer’s voice fades into a hollow silence. No one dares draw breath. No one dares be the first to break the spell.
This is a magic moment. It is almost as if, for a long, drawn out second, the entire outside world ceases to exist. And all that we know is the sweet aftertaste of Spencer’s golden melody. The first impression of a memory being formed, like the spots in your vision when you close your eyes after looking at the sun.
Next comes the applause. It’s just a trickle at first, from the few intrepid souls brave enough to venture back to reality. But it builds. Oh, how it builds. Soon, everyone in the audience is clapping. More enthusiastic members pound fists on tables or stand and stomp their feet. The very foundation of the building shakes. The sound overtakes the room like a rolling thunderstorm overtakes a parched desert.
The moment flutters away. Spencer looks up. And his eyes find me.
Let me say this. It was worth the whole uncomfortable experience in his bedroom just to be here tonight. It was worth every doubt, every awful insecurity. It was worth fear and uncertainty, shame and apprehension, just to feel my first tiny sting of love.
I doubt even I recognized it for what it was at first. But when Spencer’s eyes met mine, and he looked at me—at me, really
at
me—and took all of me in… I felt something change between us.
It was not bold. It was not dramatic. It was nothing like the crash of a wave on a pristine shore. It was not a thunderbolt.
It was more like the first spark of a match, just before the flame catches. It was the bit of necessary friction that is impossible to quantify but equally impossible to deny.
It was the first wisp of enchantment.
Charlie claps Spencer on the shoulder. People stand to give Spencer the ovation he deserves. And my line of sight is broken.
I jump and cheer, stunned by my exuberance and reveling in the unfamiliar feeling in my heart. I’m shorter than the people in front of me, so even though I’m standing, all I catch are glimpses of an excited circle clamoring around Spencer as he walks off stage.
My chest swells with pride. This is undoubtedly Spencer’s moment. But the fact that I contributed to it, in some little way, appeals to my vanity.
I see Charlie get on stage and hold his hands up to calm everyone down. The swell of energy that’s surging through the crowd is hard to control. Irene pulls Charlie down, saying something in his ear. He laughs. If I were a betting woman, I’d say she told him to wait out the storm.