I was nervous.

The restaurant wasn’t packed to the brim, but there were a fair number of people filing in. Couples and small families, ordering food and all facing a small stage that had been set up at one end of the dining space. I peered through the velvet curtains and quickly retreated before any of them could notice me. If they felt the same way, the guys didn’t show it. They were joking and talking like always.

Maybe I was just a complete pushover – forget picking a fight with two pick up artists in the street. I could understand why they wanted me to do it though. And for the club, I had something of an obligation to play along with them every now and then. I’d made my own fair share of selfish requests over the past year or two. It wouldn’t be right for me to just cross my arms and tell them that I’m not getting involved.

That didn’t mean I had to like the idea though. I’d had more than enough of the undue attention, that had been lavished upon me because of a street fight. My mind ran through a thousand doomsday scenarios where somebody in the crowd recognized me and kickstarted a riot in the restaurant. Or the two men would come back for revenge and storm the stage.

I wasn’t on an instrument, so I couldn’t dull my mind with some tuning or practice either. I just had to sit there and wait for the inevitable. Johnny noticed. “You look like you’re at funeral.”

“Is it not? Marching me out to the mourners. They’re weeping already.”

He rolled his eyes, “Come on, this is your big debut. Show a little energy!”

“This was meant to be your big debut.”

“What’s so big about it?”

“Oh, so now it’s not so big anymore?”

“Take the comedy act to Osaka,” Matoi interrupted, “We’re here to play a gig.”

“Why do you always compare us to a manzai act?”

“Because you always go on these long, stupid arguments about nothing.” Matoi straightened out his shirt. “You all cleaned up nice at least.” Indeed. Johnny had decided to err on the side of caution this time and had followed our informal dress code, instead of looking like an eighties biker gang member. His usually wild hair was slicked down, and he’d forsaken his usual jacket and jeans punk look.

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

I’d asked Reina to give me a go-over before I left. I was wearing a white blouse and black shoes, and my hair was left free like hers usually was. The rest of the band has broken out similarly untouched formal wear for the evening. We looked almost presentable for once. “Are we ready to start?”

“All tuned up and ready to go. You wanna’ give them a speech or something?”

“Hell no, let’s get this over with.” We filed out onto the stage. All the bravado taken away in the face of actually preforming in front of an audience.

The eyes were all on us. My arm was being poked with a thousand needles of anxiety again. I hadn’t felt like this since I first went to school as Miyako. No introductions, I didn’t need to stumble over my words in front of everyone and make an ass of myself. We quietly sat down at our assigned spots. Everything had been checked and double checked twice over. The only thing left for us was to play.

Tap, tap, tap. Hitting the ridge of the drum. Matoi’s fingers slid over the keys of the keyboard. A jazzy number to set the tone for the rest of the night. I took a deep breath and started to sing. My entire focus was on making sure that I didn’t do anything too horrible. Before I knew it the first song had ended, and the audience had given us an applause that was a bit more than being polite.

“Thank you, thank you,” I bowed my head slightly. We transitioned straight into the next song. And then the next. People came and went, but we continued to receive their attention and admiration for the duration of the show. An hour later it was time for your spot to end. Time flies when you’re having fun.

Was I living vicariously? Being an attractive women with a good signing voice? I was being gifted with a freshly wrapped lease on life. Would I be in the same position if my Grandmother hadn’t died when she did? I looked down on the crowd with a smile. I had to ask myself something new. Was it hurting anyone? Was God’s mercy on demand? Did he have to recharge afterwards?

We stepped back into the small backroom. Matoi seemed very excited. “That was great! Our first real gig.”

Johnny slapped him on the back, “Alright! Record deals and superstardom are just a day away. Even though Miyako has a head start on that superstar part…”

“Being famous for getting in a street fight is a different animal to being a singer Johnny,” I sat down on a cheap plastic chair and rested my legs. “And it’s not like a record producer is going to burst through the door and sign us on the spot.” The man dared look at said door with an expectant look on his face. “Johnny, are you stupid?”

“What? There’s nothing wrong with aiming high.”

“You’re aiming at the moon.”

We packed up our own equipment and hung around for the next set. But closing time was soon upon us, so we went our separate ways and headed home. It was late. I quietly slipped off my shoes and snuck into the house. My heart was still pounding from the experience. If I wasn’t careful, I’d end up getting addicted to it. Maybe this was the buzz that motivated a lot of live performers. The fear had turned into elation.

I slipped off the blouse and got into my bed clothes. I had a lot of time to stew over my own thoughts. It was school again tomorrow. I silently hoped that the story surrounding me would die down soon. I knew how short the attention span of the general public was. Radio silence from me and the school would eventually smother it out.

Of course I was wrong. But I wouldn’t realize why until the next day.