Illicit ✔

eleven

♫ Blue jeans, white shirt
Walked into the room you know you made my eyes burn ♪
(Lana Del Rey—Blue Jeans)

"Not that one," said Delilah, wagging her finger at Coralie's list of song options. "You need something that'll wow them, not put them to sleep."

Coralie rolled her eyes. "But 'Mercy' isn't slow, it's—"

"—it was your first ever performed karaoke song and it holds a special spot in your heart, I know." Delilah grabbed a red marker and crossed it off the list. "It's cute, but not for this. Gotta have something more powerful."

As they sat on the carpet, in shorts and tank tops, barefooted and sipping on White Claws with "Friends" on in the background, Coralie realized they'd narrowed down her options for the open-mic night. She'd browsed her entire array of songs and had one hundred to start. But Delilah, critical as she was, had helped her cut that list in half.

"You only get one song, so you have to make it count." Delilah handed Coralie the marker and leaned into the pillow she'd propped up against the coffee table. "Who are the judges?"

"Some other bar-owners or bartenders from places that have live music." Coralie huffed as she drew a line through "Your body is a wonderland" by John Mayer. "Rog claimed they would be the most experienced to decide who gets to put on a show on Friday nights."

She still hadn't come to terms with the fact that Roger had agreed to move his much-loved DJ Nights to make room for real music. For so long she'd urged him to rethink his desire to attract drunk patrons that threw money everywhere and jammed to the sick beats. There was a better clientele out there—classier, live-performance enjoying adults who would spend just as much money to get away from the bar-hopping bros.

"So... a bunch of hippies?" Delilah's coral-colored nails tapped on the surface of her canned beverage. "Hmm, then I'd say something by Lana or Billie. Those are crowd pleasers, and you sing them both well." With a gasp, she sat up straight, spilling a few drops of her drink onto her feet. "'Chasing Cars'! Your voice is so good with that one, and it's not even on the list! Add it!"

"Are you sure?" Coralie's eyes widened. "It's a bit of a slow one, no?"

Delilah flicked her wrist. "Yeah, but a classic. Everyone will sing along."

Though she frowned, Coralie scribbled the song suggestions. "Lana and Billie are hard. And 'Chasing Cars'... oof, I'll need a lot of practice. The open-mic is in three days!"

Delilah drained her booze, then tossed it towards the trash can behind Coralie—and scored. "Yes," she cheered, "and three days is plenty of time for you to become the next San Fran superstar, kiddo. I have complete faith in you."

***

Delilah's complete faith didn't encourage Coralie—it stressed her out.

While practicing, she tried a combination of melodies she usually had no trouble belting out, but when listening to her recordings, she cringed. She was either off-key, or fumbled with lyrics she'd known for years, or her voice scratched in ways it never had.