The Footstool: A Christian Short Story Collection Page 5

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  The crowd was cheering, and I was beaming when a dark-skinned girl in jean cutoffs and a neon shirt jumped up and started singing with me. The crowd cheered louder. I felt as though I could fly.

  The Puerto Rican girl called herself “Nadia.” We fused into a band by the time the night was over. By Sunday I earned my rent in the tip jar, and Nadia earned her car payment. She came down to my apartment to celebrate. I must have been distracted while she circled a classified ad for cruise ship entertainers, but I agreed to audition nonetheless. Once the cruise liner agreed to hire us, it seemed silly to refuse