Diva NashVegas (36 page)

Go out there . . . Sing in front of folks . . . Who'm I kidding?
Freedom, Alabama, and their
Nashville
tradition have haunted me for the last time.

I shift my guitar so it hangs down my back and dampen a wad of paper towels. Patting the sweat beads from my forehead, I wonder if I'll make it out of the Hall alive. Blue spots flicker before my eyes.

“Should've stayed home where you belong,” I scold my reflection in the mirror. “At twenty-five, you should know better.” Grandpa McAfee is right: if you can't run with the big dogs, stay on the porch. Drawing a shaky breath, I adjust my guitar strap so that it's not cutting into my shoulder and unlock the door. But before I can jerk on the knob, the door flies open, bonking me on the head.

“Ouch!” My hand goes to my forehead as Arizona Parish shoves her way inside.

“What're you doing?” She tilts her soft blond head to one side and props her hands on her skinny waist. I pop her on the shoulder.

“What are
you
doing? There's only room for one in here.”

“I came to find out what
you're
doing.” She looks down at me with her eyebrows pinched and her lips tight. “So, what are you doing?”

“Hiding. My palms are sweating, my heart's racing, and my stomach feels like the finale of the Fourth of July show.”

“Robin, it's just performance anxiety. Stage fright.” She grabs me by the arms. “Take a deep breath, say ‘Help me, Jesus,' and get on out there.” She gives me a quick shove toward the stage entrance. “Wow 'em.”

“Your sympathy is overwhelming.”

“I'm not here to be sympathetic, Robin. I'm here to tell you the time has come to face your fears. You sing like an angel, and your sappy lyrics have ruined my mascara more times than I can count.”

“Well, hot diggity dog for me. I don't care what my lyrics have done to your mascara, I'm not going out there.” I jab my finger toward the stage door. “I'm going home.”

My boot heels thud across Freedom Music Hall's ancient wood floor. The floor that has borne the soles of Garth Brooks, Tammy Wynette, Lionel Richie, and the great Billy Graham. Center stage, old Paul is plunking his banjo while the triplets clog on top of a three-tiered platform, shaking their ruffled skirts, shaking the entire Hall.

Arizona follows me to my guitar case. “How three pudgy girls move their feet so fast is beyond me.”

“They've been clogging and eating since they were born.” I settle my guitar in its case.

She sighs. “Got to admit, they have the best legs in Freedom.”

This makes me laugh. “Can't argue there.”

“Robin, don't lock up your guitar. Get out there. Beat this stage fright. If those triplets have the best legs in Freedom, you have the best voice and the best songs. Please. For me.” Arizona clasps her hands under her chin and bats her eyes. I stop buckling up my guitar case. Arizona Parish has a way of getting under my skin, forcing me to dig deep and dream big. She introduced herself to me a few years ago as “the girl from Miami.” Her journey to Freedom is still a mystery.

“There was a situation,” she said.

“Promise me the law ain't after you.”

“Promise.” She crossed her heart and flashed the Girl Scout salute. Now, backstage at the Hall, Arizona kneels beside me.

“Please. Go out there.”

Standing, I look toward the stage with a shake of my head. “Why I let Daddy and Granddaddy talk me into this every year is crazy. Plumb crazy.”

“You know why.” She pokes me in the chest with her bony finger. “Deep inside, you know.” Before I can rouse up a crushing reply, a loud crack comes from center stage. Followed by three very distinct thuds.

Elvira.

Elmira.

Eldora.

“What in the world . . .” My first glimpse of three whiteruffled bottoms shaking in the spotlight takes my breath away. It's followed by a
sppptt
as I choke back a laugh. “Holy clogging platform, Batman.”

The girls' three-tiered clogging platform has broken clean through.

For about ten seconds, there's a heavy hush over the auditorium and a collective holding of breaths. Are they all right? Then, a snort. A muffled guffaw. A fading tee-hee behind someone's hand.

But when Elvira—or is it Elmira—sticks her round hand in the air and says in a high-pitched voice, “We're all right, Papa,” it's over. Laughter explodes like water balloons and douses every one of us.

Arizona hides her face behind her hand. “This is terrible. Oh, the humiliation.” She ducks behind the stage curtain, pressing her face against the cold wall, honking and gasping for air.

“See?” I say, pointing. “This is what I'm talking about. What if that happens to me?”