Page 126 of The Fake Divination Offense
“Pardon?”
“I heard Mr. Warden. Name it Emma. Emma Stone.”
Oh my gods. Did she make ajoke?
I break out in another laugh. “I’ll let him know.”
Roesia takes a step away. Looks back at me. “I should probably show more tact than this, but—” She sets her wineglass on a table and cups her hands around her mouth before shouting, “Fuck the Chimeras!”
The whole bar reacts with hollers and laughter, and I crack up as Roesia slips away.
This is exactly what I wanted out of tonight. This is what I wanted out of that evening months ago, when I invited everyone here the first time.
To really feel athome.
Darian brings me a shot—he and Aaron are clearly already several deep—and as the evening progresses, I take myself right to the precipice of contentedly buzzed while Seb and Bel pop up sporadically with reports on my teammates.
Most were like Aaron, assuming that the invite was a team hang, nothing significant; Seb swats my head at the fact that I didn’ttellanyonewhyI was inviting them back then. Phei, it turns out,didcome, only they were a plant. Apparently, they even tried to sing karaoke, but by that point in the evening I was too shitfaced to remember a potted fern on the stage.
Not this time—I cut myself off after the third shot, and I make sure to order a bunch of food to be spread around the tables for everyone. I want to stay coherent in case Bel needs me. And I want to remember this night.
Bel continues his rotation through the team with Seb, but the longer he does, the more my eyes drift to him. I’m in conversation with Riprak and Aaron, but looking at Bel. I’m talking with some of the offensive players, and looking at Bel. He, also, is talking to people, but looking at me, and blushing prettily, flushed with the heat of so many people in a close space, and I can’t look away when he’s happy.
A microphone squeals, then Darian’s shouting “KARAOKE!” and everyone cheers.
He’s on the stage at the back of the room, the neck of his guitar in one hand, mic in the other where it snakes out of the karaoke machine. “The bar manager has graciously”—he pauses to hiccup; okay, he’s drunk—“allowed me control of the stage this evening. So everyone—” He points around, still gripping his guitar. “Get ready for me to heckle theshitout of you. Who’s up first? Not you, Monroe.”
I didn’t even have my hand raised. “I sing like an angel, Callabrass!” I shout with a grin.
“You couldn’t carry a tune if it was BabyBjörned to your chest.”
I flip him off and he cackles.
An arm shoots up near the side of the room, and I already know whose it is from where he was standing. I smile as Bel scurries onto the stage, and Darian grins.
“Herewe go! Ladies and theydies and gentlemen of all kinds, let’s give it up for the Hellhound cheerleading department’s own Alexo the Magnificent!”
Applause rings out, and I wind my way closer to the stage, not willing to miss a moment of this.
Bel and Darian whisper with their heads together for a second, deciding on a song; Darian laughs and nods at whatever Bel suggests. He passes Bel the microphone before strapping on his guitar and selecting the song on the karaoke machine.
Darian strums a few idle chords, and the moment the song starts, he dives into it. The crowd erupts in catcalls as Charli XCX’s “Boom Clap” blares through the room. Bel’s grinning and already shimmying his body in a fantastically distracting way.
And then he sings.
Bel struts across the stage, bobbing to the lyrics while Darian backs him up. The two are a harmonic convergence, and I can see Darian’s smile widening with each building note between them. Bel isn’t as lost in the song as he was that first night, singing because he had no other outlet; he’shappy, dancing for the sake of it, gyrating and bouncing on his toes and playing off Darian like they’ve been performance partners for years.
The crowd is swept up in them, some singing along, most clapping and laughing. My throat thickens as the song rolls on, as Bel’s happiness nearly leaks out of him.
Seb jostles into me, beaming; Thio’s not far behind, a plate of appetizers in his hands.
“Damn, I forgot your boy can sing,” Seb shouts into my ear. “We finished grilling your teammates, by the way—did he tell you? They all pass. For now. I’m keeping an eye on them, though.”
I set Aaron’s rock on a table behind me. “Thanks. I didn’t ask you to, but thanks.”
“You didn’t have to.” Seb loops his arm through mine. “And it’s nice to know, isn’t it? That most of them not coming last time was a misunderstanding?”
“Yeah, it—” I squint. “It was a misunderstanding.”
