Puking Angel

There was something so casual about the way she had said it. 

"Oh, you can come too, Naima." She'd pronounced her name wrong, the way she always did. No matter how many times she was corrected, she'd call her Nay-ma. 

It's Nigh-ma. Not nay, like a horse. So if Rachel could stop with all those whinnying noises, that'd be great. She's had it out for her since first grade, when she beat her out for the position of the angel in the Christmas play. She was chosen to sing the final song, hovering over the audience.

However, she wasn't chosen to barf all over the front row. That'd been the stage fright.

Rachel wouldn't have puked all over the front row.

It's six on a Friday, and she's painting her nails when her phone buzzes. Her hand is too wet to pick it up. She presses the talk button and hits the speaker.

"Naima, where are you? We all agreed that we'd meet at my place before we head to the party." It's Jennie. She's been talking about this party since they'd been invited. Well, since Jennie and Maggie where invited, and she was lumped in for the sole fact of being there.

That's always the way it goes. Jennie and Maggie are the popular ones. She's the one that the popular kids took pity on, because had an inground pool, with a waterslide. With a loop-de-loop.

Loop-de-loops trump angel puke.

"You and Maggie agreed to that. I said I was going to stay home and watch tv with Whiskers." Sure, having plans with your cat wasn't on par with attending what was advertised as the party of the year (a not so bold claim, seeing as how thus far it is the only party of the year) but Whiskers was very hype about know who would be the next Top Chef.

He really liked when the contestants would cook fish.

"Nai, get real. You're going to that party tonight, even if we have to drag you in there kicking and screaming. Which I wouldn't really suggest, because then everybody will be staring at you, and I know that's the last thing you want." Actually, the last thing she wants is to go to the party at all. She doesn't expect the girls to understand. They love the crowds, sweaty and intoxicated. She misses the days of store bought sheet cakes and spending twenty minutes in the Barbie aisle to pick out a present, only to find out that two other girls picked the same one, and now they're triplets, because Maggie's mom is too lazy to drive to Walmart to exchange them for a different one.

"Fine." She'll go, and sit in the backyard, away from all the noise. She'll claim it's too hot in there and that she needed some fresh air. Mayhaps she should wear a thick sweater? She goes to her closet and finds the thickest one she can. She's not going to wear anything underneath it. Knowing them, they'll tell her to take it off, but she can't go flashing the school.

"We will pick you up in ten. Don't even think about hiding. Maggie is calling your mother as we speak to make sure she doesn't let you go." On cue, the phone rings. If she runs fast, she can make it downstairs before her mom can get to it. She's cooking dinner, so her hands are probably full. That buys her time, right?

She trips on the bottom step. Thud, and there bruises her knee. The pain stalls her enough for her mother to pick up. 

"Sweetheart, no amount of fake injuries are going to work. Now go brush your hair. Your friends will be here in a minute to pick you up for the party."

"Mom, you don't want me to go. There'll be alcohol there."

Her mother ruffles the aforementioned hair. "Oh darling, I know you'd never go to those kinds of parties. The girls said it's just a slumber party and that you'd be back in the morning. Just don't accept any dares to run around the neighborhood naked."

She stands, rubbing at the joint. The pain is tolerable. She almost wishes it wasn't, and that she'd have to spend the night in the emergency room instead of Rachel's house. 

Would falling down the stairs a second time be too suspicious?

The girls arrive, and she makes it past the bottom step. There's a near hit at the four way stop, and Jennie simultaneously honks the horn while throwing a finger and choice word out the window. The universe is mocking her. 

When they park at the party, albeit a few blocks away, Maggie pulls a shirt from the glove box. 

"Change into this. You look like a sheep. This is a party, Naima. Immerse yourself." The shirt is tiny. Her friends are toothpicks, and she has some curve to her. She points this out in an effort to avoid the shirt.

It doesn't work.

The tank top clings to her body. She wants her sweater back. Goosebumps form on her arms, and she knows that there's no way that she can spend the night outside. Looks like she's going to have to find the dog.

The dog is sleeping outside in his house.

Shoot.

"So thrilled you guys made it!" Rachel envelopes two of them in a hug. Naima stands awkwardly behind. From where she is, it looks like the kitchen is the quietest, and she plans to plop herself on that stool and eat from the bowl of pretzels on the counter. She missed dinner, and she's ravenous.

Also shy, very shy.

She sneaks away while the girls are chatting. Maybe nobody will notice she's here. She can slide in her headphones and ignore the world around her. 

Somebody clearly doesn't understand how to ignore girls with headphones and bowls of pretzels.

"You have a beautiful voice." He's tall, and handsome, and reaching for the pretzels. Their hands collide. 

"Excuse me?" She takes out an earbud. Did she hear him correctly?

He swallows his pretzel. "Your voice. Are you going to join karaoke tonight?"

She glances outside. It's raining now, and her choices are sitting out in the cold in a tank top or worming her way out of conversation over a bowl of admittedly stale pretzels.

Or there's plan C, because he is taking her hand and leading her away from the kitchen. It's louder out here. She wants to escape, yet his grip won't let her until they're standing by the sign-up sheet, thumbing through a list of songs. 

"I can't do this."

"Why not?"

"You don't remember first grade, the angel in the Christmas play?" She hates mentioning it, as it has already started a rumbling in her system. 

He shakes his head. "I moved here in fifth grade when my parents got divorced. Besides, that's forever ago. You really think something from ten years ago weighs that heavily on if you sing karaoke tonight?"

Uh, yes?

Her shoulders slump. She should have escaped out her window, tied some sheets together and snaked down them like that rope in gym class. She hated that rope, and she hates this moment right here.

"I have debilitating stage fright." 

"Then I'll sing with you."

"That's not going to work."

"It worked in High School Musical."

"That's a movie, not real life."

"It could be."

He finds what he considers the perfect song, and scribbles their names on the sheet. Then his hand is squeezing hers, tightly, too tightly. She can't escape.

You have got to be kidding. The boy picked Hakuna Matata.

"It means 'no worries," he winks. "It'll be your motto."

Hardly any of the audience is facing the stage, and his hand is still locking her in place. She closes her eyes. The Lion King has been her favorite movie since she was a little girl, and she knows the words by heart. She has belted the song to the shower head.

Now she's belting it to about five heads. At first it was a gentle whisper, but the song is infectious, and she's singing along with him, to those five heads that she saw before she closed her eyes. 

She takes a peek.

That's more than five heads. He yanks her to him, keeping her eyes steady on his. Her voice wavers for a moment. It regains strength in the chorus, and by the time she is finished, she can guarantee that there are definitely more than five heads staring in her direction.

"Daaaaang!" A voice calls out from the crowd. The quietest girl in school, the puking angel has the voice of one, minus the puke. Suddenly there is cheering. 

They're calling her name. Naima, not Nay-ma, because Rachel is too busy trying to recapture her composure to start anything. That's her ex-boyfriend and rival making a Disney song into a phenomenon, at her party. Where she is supposed to be the star.

"See, no worries." 

"I hardly doubt it's for the rest of my days."

"Ain't no passing craze," he whispers, drawing her closer. 

She hopes he's right.