The lights dim and the Australian man who took down our names comes onstage and introduces himself as Theo, our host for the evening. He kicks things off by performing his own number, “You’ve Lost That Lovin’ Feeling” by the Righteous Brothers.
He kills.
“I find this ethically dubious,” Hope whispers to me. “It’s not fair we should have to follow up a Broadway singer.”
“If you’re losing your nerve, I’m happy to do my song alone,” I whisper back.
“Yoursong? I’ve loved Kate Bush since my tortured adolescence.”
“I’m a year older than you, so I’ve loved it longer.”
I am not trolling her. Kate Bush is one of my top five artists of all time, and my ability to do justice to her anthem is my best hidden talent. Ialwayssing it at karaoke.
Theo receives a standing ovation, and introduces the next singer as Mark from Plymouth, Massachusetts. Mark is a portly seventy-something who does “(I Can’t Get No) Satisfaction” by The Rolling Stones. He’s fine. No Theo, but fine. Nevertheless, we all cheer as though he’s Mick Jagger himself. Karaoke is about building up your fellow man, and ignoring when he’s slightly pitchy.
Next we get “9 to 5” by a very, very old woman who uses her cane to conduct us for the chorus; “Mr. Brightside” by the lone teenager on the boat, provoking the confusion of the audience averaging fifty years his senior; and “Jagged Little Pill” by Pear. Pear is an absolutely godawful singer, but the crowd hoots and applauds her bravery.
Theo introduces “Colin from Ireland” to come up. He’s a handsome, barrel-chested guy in his forties. He begins by dedicating his number to “the dazzling Lauren”—yes, Hope’s Lauren—and then proceeds to perform “Pour Some Sugar on Me” by Def Leppard. He not only does it well, he does it filthily, thrusting his hips and getting down on his knees in front of her to throw back his head and wail out the final chorus. She eats it up, rewarding him with a kiss that is far more sloppy than I would have expected of her.
Then Theo announces it is his pleasure to introduce “Hope from New York and Felix from London.”
“Last chance to back out,” Hope says to me.
I stand up. “Nope. You’ve made your bed.”
“I meant you.”
“I’m not worried about me.”
The crowd obviously is though. From the second the piercingly high-pitched opening notes begin to play, I see people glancing at me with bemused looks.
Hope meets my eye as we mentally count through the bars of the preamble, waiting for the opening line of the first verse.
We nod at each other and start perfectly in tandem.
And, thank you very much,perfectlyon pitch.
Hope’s eyes nearly bulge out of her head as she realizes I was not kidding about being able to hit these notes. This is one advantage of going to an all-boys school with a very competitive choir: someone has to be the soprano.
That someone, when he was not playing the tuba, was me.
Something beautiful happens. Hope’s whole face glows. She doesn’t take her eyes off me as she throws herself into the song. She’s amazing, though that isn’t surprising based on her performance with Elvis. What is surprising is the way we’re able to communicate telepathically, trading every other line until we reach the first chorus, at which point we both belt out together: “HEAAAAAAATHCLIFFFFFFF—”
There are literal gasps, and then clapping and laughter, as we fucking nail it. We sing to each other with all the unhinged drama of a woman beckoning a deranged man to dig her out of her grave. We give gothic. We give desperate pining. We give agonized wailing through the windswept moors.
When we reach the last verse we take each other’s hands and circle each other as we head into the final chorus. Hope sings to me. I sing to her. We sing to the audience.
And then the music tinkles off, and it’s over.
No one in the room will ever be the same again. We have changed them. They, like the Cathy of the song, are ghosts now.
I dip Hope back and she kicks up her leg in triumph.
Lauren, who is recording this with her phone, puts her fingers in her mouth and whistles. The crowd whoops along with her. They love us.
With one exception.
A man whose face I only now notice frowning in the back of the room.
