“She’s the daughter of a man with averyextensive vinyl collection,” Lauren says. “She’s like a human jukebox, just wait.”
We make our way into the theater and find a group of seats together near the back. My sisters and Lauren graciously slide in first, allowing me to sit next to Hope on the aisle. The lights dim right away.
The band steps out on stage, dressed in tight, shiny black pants and white blazers. They’re followed by two backup singers in shimmering gold dresses who take their places behind microphones on the other side of the stage.
“I wasn’t aware Elvis impersonators traveled with a full entourage,” I say to Hope.
“We’re not in Reno anymore.”
“Do you spend much time in Reno?”
“Oh, sure. It’s the Monte Carlo of America. Can’t keep me away.”
“You’ll have to take me some time.”
“Only if you let me blow all your money on the slots.”
“Do you have a gambling addiction?”
“Yes.”
“I know a great rehab.”
A spotlight shines on the stage, and a heavily tanned middle-aged man with a mane of dyed-black hair steps into it. He’s wearing a bell-bottomed onesie with gold boots and a heavy gold chain.
“Oh myGod,” Hope whispers. “I think I’m in love.”
“I must say, I was hoping for rhinestones.”
“Maybe he does costume changes.”
We can’t talk further, because without preamble, he launches into “Hound Dog.”
“Whoa,” Hope whispers. “His voice is amazing.”
“Shockingly so. And he has the hip-swivel down.”
“Is it wrong that I’m attracted to him?”
“The heart wants what it wants.”
Elvis hits the bridge, and the backup singers encourage us to stand and clap along over our heads. The audience leaps to their feet. Despite the mature demographic, they’re surprisingly spry.
Hope grabs my hand to pull me up. “Listen, you’re not too cool for fake Elvis,” she shouts into my ear above the music.
“I’m actually not coolenoughfor him.”
But I get up, because I’ll do anything to keep holding her hand.
Elvis strikes up “You’re the Devil in Disguise,” and Hope bops along with the music, mouthing the words. I smell her perfume again, and the magnolias are much nicer than whatever the women were doused in on the lift. She bumps me with her hip.
“Dance with me,” she says.
“Glutton for punishment?”
She takes my hand and does a cute little twirl into my arms, rocking her hips toward mine.
This, I can get into without lessons.
