In a last attempt of desperation, I shoot Ria a look that’s a cry for help. All she does is shrug, though the smirk suggests she wouldn’t have helped me otherwise.
“Do it for me, Lene! It’s my birthday,” exclaims Tita Lucillia.
My mind desperately scrambles for a reasonable excuse that would convince Tita Lucillia and the rest of my family that I really can’t sing, but now I had both the birthday girl and my Lola piling up against me. If I went against their wishes, I’d just look like the bad guy. Especially against Marlon, who was already taking his place at the centre of the living room.
With no other choice, I heave my body from my safe place on the couch and toward Mum, who’s excitedly holding the microphone toward me. I take it, sighing into the mic, but the round of enthusiastic applause drowns it out. Hesitantly, I settle beside Marlon.
“This issoHigh School Musical,” he mutters, glancing at me.
I scoff, ‘This issofar from it, Marlon.’
“You know, this reminds me of when we were kids.”
‘What in the hell are you tal-’
A wave of deja vu passes over me. When we were younger, around 7 or 8, Tita Regina used to bring Marlon over for playdates, where he and I used to fight over the old karaoke machine all the time. We’d always battle for more solo parts in songs that weren’t even duets. The only time we reached a truce was when we used to duetDon’t Go Breaking My Heart.
We both really enjoyed the melody, not realising yet that we were singing a love song. We’d been feeding out Mums more reasons to ship us.
“Oh, I remember. You hogged the mic too much back then,” I state, sarcasm dripping from my words.
“Well, you always took the good lines,” Marlon counteracts.
“SingDon’t Go Breaking My Heart!” cries Mum and Tita Regina at the same time, and I imagine bursting through the living room walls and running far, far away from here.
Before Marlon and I could protest, Lola is typing the song into the search bar. The melody bursts through the speakers, and I brace myself.
I guess this is happening.
Marlon starts the song with Elton John’s line, and I follow along with Kiki Dee's verse.
I wince at the squeaky off-keyness of my voice, but soon the cheers of my family fills my ears, and the joy is so infectious that I can’t help but grin. The melody carries me away, andthe weight of my previous anxiousness lifts. I sneak a glance at Marlon.
His lips are all puckered up, eyebrows furrowed in a poor attempt of an overexaggerated smoulder, as though he was a superstar actually performing on stage to his adoring fans. The sight of it genuinely amuses me, and I find myself grinning larger. He catches my stare, and there’s a childlike glint in his eyes. He’s enjoying it too.
We continue the duet, and I even let myself harmonise with his voice (unsuccessfully). As we reach the end of the song, I almost,almostquestion why I was ever annoyed with Marlon in the first place.
I sing the final line, adding a little adlib that has my parents cheering for me and the adrenaline of performing pumping through me is palpable. I even smile at Marlon.
“Not too bad,” I admit.
He shrugs nonchalantly, suggesting that all of the singing came easy to him.
“Of course. Although, you’re a bit rusty there Garcia.”
The words dump over me like an ice bucket, and all positive feelings toward Marlon immediately drowns itself.
That, right there, is all but enough to remind me of why I willneverstand Marlon Salvador.
My brow shoots up, “Says you, Mr Can’t Even Stay On Tune.”
Which is totally untrue, because contrary to the insults I throw at him, Marlon can genuinely, annoyingly sing well, for as long as I could remember. He knows it too.
He leans forward, holding my glare.
“As opposed to Miss Off Key And Off Beat.”
“Okay my turn!”
