Skylark Read Online Free Page A

just smile back. The big guy gives me a clipboard. My hand trembles as I add my name to the list. I think of my dream—our family name climbing that list for public housing. But here, it’s not Kilpatrick. It’s just me, Angie.
    â€œGreat, we’ve got two dollars for a night of fun,” Clem hisses as we find a table at the back. “And how are you going to get your name off that list?”
    â€œI’m not. I’m performing.”
    â€œNo way.”
    â€œWait and watch,” I say. “And clap when I’m done.”
    Clem rolls his eyes. “I don’t believe you.”
    â€œI’ll just have water,” I say.
    â€œWe could share a tea,” Clem says, scanning the menu. “Wait, here’s something…I’ll be right back.”
    Clem heads to the counter to order. His jeans are baggy, and his band T-shirt—something overblown from Walmart—hangs from his shoulders in a way that makes me hurt. It’s as if it’s hanging from a hanger. Clem has gotten bony. Maybe he’s going through a growth spurt. Stretching out.
    I rehearse my piece in my head for the hundred-thousandth time. Last week, only one performer read from the page. The rest had their stories in their brains—whole paragraphs, whole pages. A few times, people got stuck. They forgot their words. They’d look up at the ceiling, then at the audience, and smile sheepishly. After ten seconds or so, the people in the audience would start snapping their fingers. It was a way to offer support—they were holding the beat of the piece. It’s neat to hear a dozen people snapping their fingers. It’s warm and low, like rocks knocking under the waves at the beach. Or maybe it’s the sound moths make to themselves when they bat their furry little wings. The finger snapping really seemed to help—the performers came around. They’d break into smiles and raise a finger— Right, got it! —and they’d dive back in. The snapping would fade away.
    If I forget my words, I don’t think I’ll find my way again. It took me three days to write my poem or whatever it is. The next three days, I recited it over and over, fixing little mistakes here and there, cutting a word or choosing a better one. I was mostly laying the track though, burning it into my brain so it wouldn’t fall apart while I slept. I wanted to get to a point where the words were all mine, forgettable as my own fingers, forgettable as my tongue, so I could then perform them—bend them, whisper or shout them without getting muddled.
    I didn’t imagine that I’d be feeling this fevered with nerves. I’ll have to take my cheat sheet up to the stage with me after all. I wish Clem would hurry back. I need him to hide me a little. Twig Girl approaches the mic. The café goes quiet.
    â€œGood evening,” Twig says. “A full house. New names on the sign-up list too. We’re trending, I guess. Going viral. Contagion of the spoken word. And there ain’t no vaccination. No shot, no potion, no pill, no serum. No cure. You’ll be stained, you’ll be spoiled. You’ll also be cleansed, mended, glorified, even blessed. Yes! You will be freed.”
    Twig smiles mischievously. She dips her head, and the crowd applauds. The first performer is an older guy in his twenties with a goatee. I don’t hate a lot of things, but goatees look like pubic hair. Pubic hair on a person’s face is not a good thing.
    â€œRemember these?”
    Clem’s finally back. He’s carrying two little cups of hot chocolate.
    â€œKid size. A dollar each. You don’t have to be a kid to order them.”
    Clem doesn’t seem embarrassed at all. But then he raises an eyebrow at me, quick and light, and his smile turns sad. I know what he’s saying. He’s asking me, Is this going to end? How long can we live on kid-size hot chocolate?
    I force a smile.