I refocus on the stage, fingering the pearls around my neck. The way the spotlight lands on Rosie, it’s like little pieces of confetti dance behind her. She taps a tambourine against her leg, in perfect harmony with the piano’s melody—a cluster of twinkling stars that fall one at a time before tumbling all at once.
Rosie motions again, more urgently this time, giving me the encouragement I need to step onto the stage. The trumpet’s sudden deep notes fill the room, making it feel as if that moment was made for me, welcoming me.
And then Rosie’s singing, “No one to talk with…”
I step up to the second microphone, fingers tightly interlocked, not yet touching it.
“All by myself,” she croons.
I stand there, the words I’ve sung to myself so many times stuck in my throat.
A deep breath settles me. I lick my lips, clear my throat, and stare at the many feet on the dance floor.
She sings another line. I subtly bob my knee to the beat, waiting for the chorus, a place to make my entrance. This feeling of anticipation is the most alive I’ve felt in days, weeks, maybe even years. It rumbles through me, and I lean ’til my lips touch the cool metal of the microphone.
I swallow. Then I’m singing, “Ain’t misbehavin’…” I pause, and the piano carries me to the next note. “I’m savin’ my love for you.” I stretch the last word, my voice strengthening, deepening to become sultrier. The way the song is intended.
This earns me hoots and hollers from the people on the dance floor and from those sitting at the tables, but I don’t dare look up from their feet. I unclench my fingers, lace ’em ’round the microphone stand.
Rosie bumps me with her hip, my body falling into a natural sway. I count down the beats ’til the next verse. Three, two, one. “I know for certain the one I love,” I purr, enjoying the silkiness of my voice. “I’m through with flirtin’. It’s you that I’m thinkin’ of. Ain’t misbehavin’. I’m savin’ my love for you.”
The lyrics pour out of me, ones I’ve heard here at Doc’s, ones I’ve secretly heard at home on our radio, ones I’ve hummed in the time in between. Line after line, I sing, my voice melding with the song’s rhythm ’til the drums pick up, like rain pinging on a roof. The piano matches it, and then a cowbell, and finally trumpets, the instrumental solo creating a frenzy of feet on the dance floor.
Mary Janes and men’s dress shoes move at lightning speed, hopping, skipping, tapping. Men swirl the women ’cross the dance floor. My eyes trail up the bodies to hands that join and unjoin. People are thrown smoothly from side to side, between legs, into arms.
Their faces: enthralled and without a care in the world.
I smile, relaxing my shoulders and loosening my grip on the microphone stand. Rosie glances at me, shimmying her shoulders to the beat. I match her movements, reveling in how free I feel.
The instrumental solo is beats away from ending, and anticipation courses through me again. I feel the words bubbling from deep within me before they slip out, aligning ’em with a dip of my hip. “I don’t stay out late, got no place to go. I’m home ’bout eight, just me and my radio. Ain’t misbehavin’. I’m savin’ my love for you.”
I repeat the line, the chorus, leading to the song’s end.
“Savin’ my love for you … for you, for you”—my gaze bounces playfully ’round the room, from face to face—“for you.” I let the word hang with the remaining few beats.
It’s as if my curtain of inhibitions falls with that last note and is swept away by the boisterous crowd.
Freeze.
I close my mouth, lick my lips, brush aside a strand of hair. This moment is one I’ll forever relish. The cheering crowd. The sound of clapping. The way I feel alive.
Gulping in a breath of air, I hold it in my lungs—a last-ditch effort to savor this moment—then slowly blow out. Blanche clutches a glass behind the bar, her head shaking back and forth ever so slowly. But her face … her face looks proud. Astonished, even. With a playful tilt of her head, she lips, A-ma-zing.
“Thank you,” I whisper back. And I mean it. Not just as the appropriate response to her compliment, but—I’ll admit—for bringing me here, the place where this moment happened.
“Bonnelyn,” Rosie says. “Sing with me anytime.”
I nod, but the response feels inadequate. I step closer, but she’s already turning to the pianist, preparing for the next song.
I sigh. An enormous part of me wishes my feet could grow roots in front of this microphone. Another glance toward Blanche, swarmed by patrons at the bar and visibly in need of a second set of hands, tells me another tune will have to wait.
The pianist starts a new song, and I reluctantly step from the stage. I take those few beats with me, humming to myself while I blindly navigate toward the bar.
Someone moves in front of me.
I sidestep. “Excuse me.”
The body shifts again, blocking my way.
I look up into a confident face that instantly quickens my heartbeat.
“I’m flattered,” Henry says.
“Why?”
“It’s sweet of you to save all your love for me.”
“What?” His words catch me off guard. I swallow. It was Roy I thought of while I sang. Not Non-Roy. But, if I level with myself, I’ve been hoping yet dreading to see Henry again after our all-night hideout. Thinkin’ maybe he’ll look at me in that same hungry way.
The way he’s watching me now.
The trumpet roars to life and he leans closer.
I lean back, instinctively, ’cause this is wrong. Wrong. But curiosity gets the best of me when I notice the darker skin beneath his eye. “What happened to your face?”
He rubs his swollen cheekbone. “It was difficult to get into Doc’s tonight. But it sure as hell was worth it. I needed to see you.”
I think of the rules: only four men per hour.
“You fought someone for his spot?” I ask incredulously, trying to push the I needed to see you out of my head.
“Of course. It was a gamble. I wasn’t sure you’d be working tonight. But here you are. And may I say, Wow. That performance…” His hand cups my cheek before I can stop him, and my knees buckle. “How is it that you make me so crazy, Bonnelyn?”
I stumble away without answering, only my feet moving. My name coming from his lips sounds too familiar, and I need to get away. I need to see the boy I’ve really been saving all my love for. I weave ’cross the dance floor, and the entire time Henry’s gaze is heavy, oh so heavy.
“I have to go,” I shout to Blanche as I rush past the bar.
“What? Where?”
But I’m already pushing through the crowd, my eyes locked on the exit.
12
I’ve never ridden through the streets of Dallas at midnight before, my legs moving so fast that my feet slip from the bike’s pedals. I’ve also never had this overwhelming desire to see Roy before, ever.
I fly ’cross the tracks, violently shaking with each bump, continuing to thump as the road turns to dirt. The air is cool, twisting my short hair ’round my face. It’s invigorating. And Blanche was right: tonight’s been epic. And I don’t want it to be over yet. Not ’til I’ve seen Roy.