Page 47 of 6 Clues Your Nemesis Loves You

“When I choose to make an ass of myself. No part of me chose this.” I may be past puberty, but singing is not my forte. E will call me worse names than Screech.

The sparse crowd is clapping and chanting my name. My feet have become cement blocks.

Maggie slips her hand in mine, linking our fingers. “You don’t have to sing. I didn’t realize you’d been this traumatized by karaoke. I really thought it would be fun.”

I’m not sure what happens to me. If I’m having some kind of upright seizure, or maybe this whole evening’s been a dream, one of those vivid alternate realities where you do and say the opposite of what you’re thinking.

My mind right now: No fucking way am I getting up there to sing.

My voice: “Whatever. It’s no biggie. Of course I’ll sing.”

Because Maggie organized this. Because Maggie thinks getting up there will be a good time. Because standing here, with her hand in mine, all I can think is yes.

She squeaks and pushes at me. “You’ll do great. So good. I’ll have a shot waiting for you when you’re done.”

The only shot I want is a taste of her, but I move toward my doom, my feet dragging over the sticky bar floor. Cheers echo. Whistles ring. Chants of my name turn this into my own personal Colosseum of hell. I’m in ancient Rome, about to battle to the death. Or in my case, until I achieve utter humiliation. I have no clue what song Maggie chose, but I’d bet my “Ironic” T-shirt it will be painful. If it’s Kelly Clarkson, I’ll just keep walking and hurl myself out the back emergency exit and run home.

I get up onstage, squinting through the bright lights. All saliva vacates my mouth as I read the song title and artist on the screen, then I start to cough. A hacking attack as I choke on nothing because, really? Eminem’s “The Real Slim Shady”?

Maggie certainly outdid herself with this choice. But I can do this. I’m the Bower Jokester. I thrive on laughter and uncomfortable awkwardness, when I’m the one in control of the narrative. At age twelve, my changing voice and I were shoved into the spotlight without our consent. Maggie pulled the strings to put me here tonight. For fun, but also to embarrass me, because that’s what we do. Push each other’s buttons. Tease and torment, all for a laugh or a smile. But I’m in control now. There are no karaoke rules saying I have to sing the lyrics on the screen. Mizhir and I used to listen to rap in his basement all the time, making up riffs on our own, rhyming stupid shit to make each other laugh.

Maggie has no clue what she just unleashed.

I strike a confident pose, hand on my hip, chest thrust forward, mic at my mouth. “Let’s do this.”

The room is only a quarter full, but wolf whistles sail from our friends.

“Screech is in the house!” E shouts.

I attempt not to grind my teeth. Maggie has one hand partially in front of her face, her expression all scrunched, like she’s watching a horror movie through her fingers.

Just you wait, Miss Mischief.

The music starts. I follow the first verse, but Eminem’s quickfire lyrics are a freight train barreling away from me. That’s when I start to improvise.

“Y’all don’t know Maggie Edelstein

Jaws impersonator and cold-shoulder queen

She’s a horror movie addict

Lover of screams and overlording

She’s a secret super villain

Who gets a monthly Brazilian.”

I don’t know her waxing regimen, but it rhymes, and the sparse crowd erupts with shouts and laughter. Maggie’s face burns you’re-so-dead red. I wink at her as I hit the chorus.

She’s Maggie Edelstein, the real Maggie Edelstein

But she loves being called Gingersnap

So won’t you call her Gingersnap

Just shout out the nickname and slap her back

’Cause she’s a fiery redhead with sass