A waitress comes by and asks each of us if we want something from the bar. To be heard, she leans in so close she could kiss each of us. Her words tickle my ear, and I wince and answer, “Vodka tonic, please.”
I wouldn’t have thought it possible, but as the day turns to night, the noise grows even louder. It is so deafening in here that I feel pressure against every wall of my skull, as if it’s being invaded by an army of sound and every cell in my body works to defend my cranium castle, resisting the swarm. I clutch my head at one point, convinced that my brain is being rattled inside by the noise.
After three vodka tonics and a round (or was it two?) of tequila shots that the others insisted we do, the noise doesn’t bother me at all.
“Oh my god, y’all,” Victoria slurs, giggling as she leans into me. We’ve all traded positions over the past hour and now she’s nearly sitting in my lap. “I’m gonna need another one of whatever the fuck that was. That shit was goooooood.” Eric shouts the name across the table. “Huh?” Eric shouts it again. “What?”
The guitarist finishes his song, and the half of the bar who are actually paying attention applaud noisily, a chorus of hooting and whistling cutting through the room. “Thank you, thank you,” the musician says with a wave of his hand. “I’m taking a ten, then I’ll be back. Peace.”
When the guitarist makes his leave, Victoria leans into me. “Confession: I want to have his babies.”
I giggle, though I’m not sure if it’s because of what she just said or because the room’s spinning and that somehow tickles. “There’s nothing sexier in this world than a singer,” I blurt back into her ear.
“Oh! I want to hear your audition piece!”
I stare at her through foggy eyes. “You already did, silly! Thirteen times in a row, remember?”
“I mean your song, dummy!”
“Ooh, right, yeah.” I laugh. Flecks of saliva dust the table in front of me and I slap a hand over my lips, inspiring Eric to laugh at me. “Shush! I haven’t drinked anything since—Uh, haven’t drunk anything—Uh, what’s the word? Drank? Drink, drank, drunk?”
“You should drink more often,” Victoria shouts into my ear. “You’re so much more fun.”
“Are you calling me boring?”
“No! You’re just … less boring when you’re drunk!”
“You are calling me boring!”
“No!”
“You think I’m boring? Hey, Other Eric!” I shout, squinting across the table at him. “Am I boring? Hey, Chloe! Am I boring??”
They shout back answers I can’t hear. I slap my hand on the table, causing the drinks to jump.
“Alright, then,” I say, assuming their answers. “I’ll prove to you how very not boring I am. I’ll prove you all wrong right now.”
I push myself up from the table and stumble to the stage. Victoria’s laughter trails me along with a few words I obviously can’t make out. When I’m on the stage, the pianist greets my eyes with worry. “No, no,” I tell him with a dizzy wave of my hand. “Don’t worry. I’m an actress. I have training in these sorts of things.”
I have no idea what I mean by that, but I say it.
“Excuse me!” I call into the microphone, then give it five solid taps that cut through the cacophony of collegiate banter and screaming and laughter.
To my utter surprise, dozens of pairs of eyes turn to meet mine on the stage. I see every pair even through the haze of smoke and light. The noise cuts in half.
Holy hell, I actually did get their attention.
“My friends think I’m boring,” I explain to the room, inspiring even more silence and attention from them. “And I’d love to prove my friends wrong. So while our sexy guitarist is taking ten, I’d like to sing you all a lovely little song.”
Three guys cheer from the back of the room. Some girl shouts, “Let’s hear it!” followed by a chorus of roars. My friends at the table near this tiny stage wear looks of astonishment, their eyes sparkling with pride and alcohol.
“It’s a song I wrote about myself,” I tell the room. “A song about how we close ourselves up. A song I hoped would inspire me to break free from my own … from my own proverbial palace. A song …”
Suddenly lost in the emotion of said song, I stop explaining and let the music speak for itself. Gripping the microphone, I bring my lips to its black, puffy head, then close my eyes.
And I sing.
The room, which was only a moment ago packed with the deafening noise of so many voices, is now filled with only one: mine. My voice reaches through the room. My eyes search, a strange desire to touch every person in this room gripping me by the throat.