"I can't sing tonight," Rhenda croaked on the phone. Mr. Barrossa said something loudly and Rhenda held the phone away from her ear. "I'm sorry, sir, but I lost my voice."
"HOW?!" Mr. Barrossa screamed.
"I went to a concert last night with my boyfriend," Rhenda shrugged. "I guess I was screaming too loud." There was more chatter from the other end. "Well, I don't know. You'd have to ask her, now wouldn't you?" Rhenda thrust the phone in my direction. I took it gingerly.
"He-Hey, boss," I smiled nervously. "What's going on?"
"I want you to do Rhenda's act tonight," Mr. Barrossa ordered.
"WHAT?!" I exclaimed. "I can't do that! I'm not like Rhenda! I'm not alluring!"
"Nonsense!" Mr. Barrossa chuckled. "You're practically Rhenda's…Rhenda's twin!"
"Yeah, right!" I snorted. "Have you even noticed the fact that I'm a blonde?"
"Always," Mr. Barrossa flirted playfully.
"Well, have you noticed that Rhenda's got black hair?" I asked sarcastically. "Or how 'bout that I have brown eyes and she has blue eyes? Or! What about the fact that her chest is rounder than an elephant's tushie and I'm as flat as a pancake?!"
"Redge, calm down," Mr. Barrossa chuckled. Obviously, he was more interested in my image of an elephant's tushie than in my plight. "Just sing the act tonight. I'll promise you anything."
"Like what?" I pouted.
"Like…the rest of the week off?" he offered.
"Keep going," I grumped. "You have my attention."
"Um…bigger dressing room?"
"Mmhmm. I'm listening."
"Better fitting costumes?"
"Yeah. Yeah. You're almost there!"
"WHAT ELSE DO YOU WANT?!" Mr. Barrossa spazzed. I thought a bit.
"Give me a twenty-two percent raise and I'll sing for Rhenda tonight," I coughed.
"TWENTY-TWO PERCENT?!" Mr. Barrossa sputtered.
"Fine. Since you're such a wonderful employer," I reasoned, "I'll lower it down to fifteen percent."
"That…You…I…Fif…Ugh! Fine!" Mr. Barrossa gave in. I smiled smugly. "Just be in costume by eight," he whined.
"I'll be there in no time," I grinned. I hung up and turned to Rhenda. "Well, sis," I smirked, "I just got more money, cash, moola, dough, smackers…" Rhenda clamped her hand over my mouth.
"Don't screw up your voice," she rasped, winking playfully. "I want to sound good tonight." I glared at her, teasingly.
(-)(-)(-)
"C'mon, Redge," Mr. Barrossa pleaded. "You have to go on in five minutes!"
"I look ridiculous," I whispered hostilly. "There is no way I'm going out like this."
"Aww, girl," Mr. Barrossa rolled his eyes, "c'mon out and let me see you."
I yanked open the door and revealed myself. I was wearing a black, tight-fitting leotard with black high-heels (at least five inches). My top layer of hair was swept up into a bun, which was hidden under a black, leather biker's cap. The rest of my hair fell around my face in the same kind of dishevelment one would expect to see on a person who just emerged from a half-an-hour make-out session. All-in-all, I looked like a biker-slut.
"You look amazing," Mr. Barrossa chuckled. "Just like your sister."
"That's what I was afraid of," I groaned, starting to close the door. But, Mr. Barrossa pushed his way into the dressing room.
"It's a good thing, Redge," he rolled his eyes.
"Not in my opinion," I grimaced. I took off the cap and chucked it onto the makeup table. Then, I plopped down on the sofa, my face buried in my hands. "I look like a dang prostitute."
"Naw," Mr. Barrossa smirked. "You look like a biker-chick."
"Fine," I shrugged. "I look like a dang, dusty prostitute. Either way, I can't do this."
"Even for your raise?" Mr. Barrossa coaxed. I looked up at him with daggers in my eyes. "Sorry," he muttered.
"I don't think I can pull this off," I groaned. Mr. Barrossa's face lit up.
"But I went through all the trouble of getting your fans to come!" he exclaimed in a pleading tone of voice. My blood froze.
"F-Fans?" I stuttered. "You mean Mike, Peter, Davy, and…M-Micky?" Mr. Barrossa beamed at me with a fifty-watt smile. The room was spinning. I was starting to feel sick. Oh my God! I was going to throw up! I was just about to make a mad dash for the bathroom when my legs gave out from under me and I fainted.
(-)(-)(-)
"Reggie?" I heard Mike's voice call. "Reggie? You okay?" My eyes fluttered open and I blinked.
"Wh-What happened?" I breathed.
"You passed out," Mike said simply. I looked around. Mike and Mr. Barrossa were the only two people in the room besides me. I was now lying on the couch, a soft blanket covering me up. "Mr. Barrossa, here, wanted me to take you home. He said you could skip tonight and the bar would close up early."
"N-No," I managed to squeak. "I want to try."
"You sure?" Mr. Barrossa asked, his hand resting on my shoulder. "If you want, you can just go home and rest up."
"I want to do this," I confirmed.
"Okay," Mr. Barrossa shrugged. "I'll go out and introduce you." Mike and Mr. Barrossa got up to leave. Before Mike walked through the door, he shot me a thumbs-up and grinned. I stood up, bit my lip, and strode over to the makeup table.
I still didn't like the way I looked. But somehow, my singing that night became monumentously important. I picked up the biker hat and gently set it on top of my head. I took a deep breath and exhaled before walking backstage.
"The lovely Miss Rhenda Sullivan has seemed to have lost her voice," Mr. Barrossa was saying. There was an audible hiss from the drunken men of the audience. "Hey, now!" Mr. Barrossa shouted as glass shattered. "The good news is we have her sister, Reggina Sullivan, to take her place." There was another loud hiss, but I could hear some cheering from the front row. I blushed. I knew exactly who that was. "And now," Mr. Barrossa introduced, "the talented, beautiful Miss Reggina Sullivan!"
I pulled the curtains apart to be greeted with a saucy, red light. Several drunken men in the audience wolf-whistled and cheered. I tried my best not to blush. It wasn't in my character for the evening. So this was what Rhenda had to go through every performance. Talk about annoying! I began the routine, dancing around the stage in most obscene ways. I was never doing this again!
Towards the end of the act, I was to twirl around and look over my back at the audience before flipping my hair and walking backstage like a supermodel. I was dreading this because I wasn't really good at twirling. Spinning, I could do. But twirling was a completely different story. As I twirled around, my left heel got caught in the crook of the right one. My arms went flailing and I went tumbling off the front of the stage into the audience. I screamed a very high-pitched scream and the audience gasped.
"I GOTCHA!" someone shouted. I felt a pair of arms catch under my legs and around my shoulders. On instinct, I wrapped my arms around the catcher's neck. When my head stopped reeling, I looked to see who saved me.
"Oh," I sighed. "Thanks, Micky." Just my luck. I had to make a fool of myself.
"My pleasure," Micky smirked. The crowd of rowdy drunks had to put in their two cents by ooh-ing and ah-ing. I rolled my eyes.
"Mature, aren't they?" I giggled. Micky smiled.
"You know," he shrugged, "I feel kinda bad."
"Why?" I asked, a little shocked.
"I was kinda hoping you'd fall," he grinned. The crowd, once again, ooh-ed and ah-ed. A few of them made smooching sounds.
"You're silly," I laughed, kissing him on the cheek.
"And you need to tell him because…?" Davy smirked. Micky shot him a glare.
"Not now," he mumbled. He looked back at me. "Would this be a good time to ask you something?" I nodded. "Do you want to go out sometime?" Micky asked me. I have to admit, I wasn't really shocked by this question. I just smiled, giggled, and nodded again.