9

Nikki

I dreamed of a familiar yet unidentifiable voice crooning a song softly in my head. I didn't see anything, but I felt. I felt enveloped in something, or someone, not too tight but not so loose that I could break free. Not that that was a bad thing. I woke up to my weekend alarm clock at nine fifteen and realized I could only remember the tune, not the words. I hummed it in the shower and as I took my vitamins and brushed my teeth, blow-dried my hair, trying to identify the voice. Commanding, soothing, intimidating, thrilling…awesome. Kind of like…Mr. Y's. I almost drove to his theater to ask for answers, but I then got a text from Nora that said she was there and waiting. That woke me up somehow. I went straight to the diner and parked next to a busty red car that bounced up and down. Lavon and Nora were jammin'. I got out of my car and opened the passenger door. Nora screamed at the top of her lungs and I cracked up. So did Lavon. "You…you, Nora, you're such a scaredycat!"

Hyperventilating, she got out of the car and pushed me out of her way. "You bitch," she growled, but her brain was cracking up louder than Lavon.

We were greeted by Joe himself in the quiet restaurant, who was there every time we went for breakfast on weekends, because the regulars, all old people forgot every week who Joe was and wanted to meet him. "Oh, great, my favorite teenagers," he said.

"Ah, we love you too, Joe," Lavon said. "Table for three, my good man."

"Need menus?" he asked before touching the stack of menus under the counter.

"No," the three of us said at the same time. We all had usuals—Lavon: Bacon, French toast and orange juice. Nora: Chocolate chip pancakes and coffee. Me: Banana pancakes, two slices of Lavon's bacon and chamomile tea. A lot of the time we would indulge in some pie after.

"Just tell the chef we're here," Nora said, waving a floppy hand.

"Pick a table. Breakfast's on the way."

We sat at our usual table in the quietest corner, the one with all the gum under the table that the old people avoided. When we sat, Nora took out two packets and gave one to Lavon. "We filled out the, uh, info packets…nothing Barry doesn't already know. My sister convinced me to sing I Dreamed A Dream because she was playing it on piano last night. Stayed up until Mom yelled at us."

"Cool," I said. "And your monologue?"

She smirked. "The Haitian speech from Clueless."

"Ooh, good choice!" Lavon exclaimed.

"That's awful short. Barry might demand a cold read," I warned her.

"Okay. Let's cold read," she said.

I narrowed my eyes at her. "Southern accent. Go."

"What's the point of that?" Lavon asked.

"Noob," Nora scoffed.

"Y'know, to see how she is under pressure," I said. "You're the king of pressure, muscly-armed Lavon, at least when it comes to moving couches within nine seconds. When it comes to learning to take constructive criticism or just plain bad reviews like a man, understanding stage directions, never acknowledging your mistakes on stage, acting, crying on cue, and making it or breaking it…Barry and I don't even know you."

Nora and Lavon stared at me like I was crazy. "Is that…from something?" he asked.

"Yeah. The show," I replied. "You'll memorize it the minute you read the first act. How about that cold read, Nora?"

Tammy, the waitress Joe and we adored torturing, came late with a little carton of orange juice and two mugs in one hand, a coffee pitcher in one hand and a hot water pitcher in the other, and a smudged red lipstick scowl on her overly made-up face. As she poured the hot water, trying not to make eye contact. Nora noticed she made eye contact with her, however. She slowly and seductively unzipped her hoodie, sighing and exposing cleavage. Tammy's half-threaded and half-drawn on eyebrows lowered with rage. She muttered something disdainful about Joe and walked away without giving us the drinks individually.

"Ah, we'll give her a nice big tip," Lavon said.

Nora scoffed. "That's up to you."

"How about that cold read?" I said.

"Okay, Southern accent," she muttered.

"Nope," I said, prepared to torture my friend. "Russian accent."

Her eyes widened. "Oh, hell no." Nora's father was Russian and had the awesomest accent ever, but she flunked out of Russian class and just wouldn't have anything to do with the language, culture or anything. But she could do it.

"Do it," I hissed.

She sighed, took a big sip of coffee, swallowed and cleared her throat. She closed her eyes and then recited an excerpt from the classic 90s movie Clueless. She did this by overdoing the R's and maintaining one tone. She sounded like Apu from The Simpsons, except funny in a different way. In an epic fail way. When she was done, she took another eagar sip of coffee and said immediately after swallowing, "Please, Nikki, don't make me do that. Not for the actual audition. I wanna do it good."

I giggled. "Okay, fine."

"You're a cold bitch, Nicole Denise Lasalle-Jones," Lavon said.

Tammy came with the food and bothered to place them where they were supposed to be. I couldn't focus on the breakfast masterpiece, though. I never heard Lavon, who was my best dude friend since he said yo to me on my first day of Walker, call me Nicole. I've never heard my mother, my father, my aunt, my grandparents, my neighbors, my teachers, nobody call me Nicole. Only Mr. Y. Mystery. It sounded a little ridiculous from Lavon. It sounded right from Mr. Y. I tried successfully to remember how the plain, everyday name rolled off his tongue like no one else could. Beautiful.

"Hey, Nikki, aren't you gonna steal some of Lavon's bacon before he stuffs it in his face and has a heart attack?"

Nora's reminder woke me up from my daydream. Lavon noticed I was acting strange, so I quickly snatched two long pieces of bacon from the side dish.

"What's up your fanny?" Lavon scoffed.

"Nothing…" I murmured. "Just a little butt plug."

"Ah, there's my Nikki!" Nora exclaimed.

We ate, and during our normal teenage conversation, somewhere in the back of my head the song in my dream was playing and it was gloriously distracting.