Sorta Like a Rock Star(62)

“Yeah!”

“If the people in the house are feeling all right tonight, say ‘Hell yeah!’ ”

“Hell yeah!”

“I can’t hear you!”

“HELL YEAH!”

Stomp, stomp, stomp, stomp!

“If you’re ready to rock Childress Public High School tonight say, ‘Woo! Woo!’”

“Woo! Woo!”

Stomp, stomp, stomp.

I can’t think of any other cool empowering jazz to say, so I end with, “Bring it in for some love! Everyone put a hand in the middle of the circle.”

I quickly see that Das Boot is going to mess up the unity, so I say, “Scratch that. Everyone put a hand on Chad’s head!”

We all circle Das Boot.

We all put a hand on Chad’s head—well, most of us do, and the rest put hands on the shoulders of people who have their hands on Chad’s head.

“Watch the hair, people,” Chad says.

“Thank you for helping me pay my vet bill,” I say. “I love you people. All of you. On three, we say, ‘Go time.’ One, two, three!”

“Go time!” everyone yells.

And when they back away from Das Boot, they look pretty pumped up.

Suddenly, on the other side of the front curtain, the crowd is chanting, “Amber! Amber! Amber!”

And I think, Damn, I really am a rock star.

“You look good in that dress,” Ty says.

“Thanks, I made it myself,” I say, and then he returns to his laptop.

“How was the prayer?” I ask Father Chee.

“God was very pleased,” FC says.

“How do you know?” I ask.

“He told me!” FC says.

“Did He tell you if tonight was going to work out?”

“Yes, He told me that too.”

“What did He say?” I ask.

“He says it’s time for you to take the stage,” FC says, and then points to Franks, who is standing by the edge of the curtain waving me over. “Better hurry.”

I carry BBB over to Franks, who says, “Okay, Amber. Before each act, I give you a note card. You read the info on the card, and then you announce the act any way you see fit. Cool?”

“Cool,” I say.

Franks hands me a card, and then I walk out onto the stage with BBB in my arms.

A spotlight hits me.

The house lights dim.

I step up to the microphone stand.

The crowd hushes.

I see PJ and Donna smiling up at me.

I hold BBB up over my head.

“Cancer-free!”

People cheer.

“Now we have to pay the vet bill.”

The crowd laughs, but I’m not sure why.

“Thanks for coming out tonight.”

I scan the crowd. Packed house.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I have a special treat for you this evening. Backed by tonight’s house band—The Hard-Working Brothers—singing the old-time classic ‘Makin’ Whoopee,’ the best two men the Methodist Home has to offer—let’s give it up for Albert Linder and Eddie Thompson, better known as The Red Coats!”

The curtain rises, and The Red Coats start snapping their old fingers.

The Hard-Working Brothers start playing the old-time song, and Old Man Thompson starts to sing “Makin’ Whoopee” in this good but corny old-time singing voice.

With his oxygen bottle and all, Old Man Linder doesn’t really sing, but in a speaking voice sorta echoes Old Man Thompson—and it works.

The Hard-Working Brothers are a pretty good band too.

From offstage, I look out into the audience and I see some old people singing along.

Cool, I think.

After The Red Coats finish their number, the crowd claps, and I announce various other acts—some fellow classmates sing and play instruments, some do dance routines, the kid in the medieval jester costume actually juggles knives and flaming tennis balls, which gets Prince Tony out of his seat. PT tries to stop the juggling act, but gets booed so badly that he eventually allows the kid to finish.

When I announce the Mackin’ Mathematician, Ricky takes the stage and Franks throws a couple dozen or so cheap calculators into the audience. “Ladies and gentlemen, I have a genius here with me tonight,” Franks says.

“Yes,” Ricky says into his microphone.

“Anyone who caught a calculator can ask Ricky to multiply any number and he will do it in his head in less than five seconds—providing you with the correct answer. You are welcome to check his math using the calculators, although I assure you this will not be necessary.”

“Yes,” Ricky says, standing center stage in his tuxedo.

Franks hops off the stage and walks the cordless microphone into the audience. “Who’s first?”

Some regular-looking dude raises his hand and says something to Franks.

“Ricky, this gentleman wants to know what is one-hundred fifty-seven times five-hundred twenty-one.”

“Eighty-one thousand, seven hundred and ninety-seven. Yes.”

“Is he right, sir?” Franks asks.

The man punches the numbers into his calculator, and then nods, looking amazed.

Fifty hands go up in the air.

“One thousand, two hundred sixty-eight times one-two-nine-six-oh, Ricky.”