Page 9 of Baby, It’s You (Clairesville #1)

Hunter

A ll eyes are on me. This is literally my worst nightmare.

I decided to step out of my comfort zone tonight, to be a good friend to Eddie and celebrate his birthday with him.

Now look at where it’s got me. I have a bunch of faceless, mask-wearing people glaring at me expectantly.

I can’t back out at this point; Wes has stripped for an old cougar and Eddie just drank mystery slush.

As much as I would love to bail, I can’t do that to my friends.

Giving myself a quick pep talk about how I never have to see any of these people again, I walk over to the bucket of papers and pull one off the top. Perform a random talent on stage that no one knows you have , the crumpled sheet says. Great .

“What does it say, kid?” the mouthy guy that was heckling Eddie shouts at me.

“It says I have to do a secret talent on stage,” I tell the crowd.

The bartender—the talking box of fruit cereal, who is also wearing a bow tie—yells out, “Ooo! I put that one in!”

I give her a quick glance in acknowledgment and rub my hands together, trying to shake off my anxiety. The crowd parts as I head up to the stage, telling myself I might as well get this over with.

I step up and stand on the sticky platform and walk to the mic. I’m assuming this is where they do the karaoke if we ever make it to that point. I take a breath and lean in towards the microphone. It makes a sudden, horrible screeching sound that causes half of the crowd to cover their ears.

Clearing my throat I say, “Uh, sorry about that, folks. I, uh, my talent is…” I search for Wes and Eddie in the crowd and see them nod at me reassuringly. “I’m really good at balancing stuff on my head.”

Crickets.

I continue, “I can balance a stack of books or a drink if you guys give it to me. I can basically balance anything.”

The woman behind the bar snorts out a laugh. “ Prove it !”

I give her a small smile. “I just need an object.”

A man with a Batman mask near the stage hops up from his booth and hands me his beer can. “Balance this,” he grunts out.

I look at him. “Done.”

I take off my snapback and place the beer on my head. I take a few steps back and forth to show it's not going anywhere. The crowd lets out a cheer as I hand his drink back to him.

“Try this!” An older lady, adorned with a Betty Boop disguise, walks over and hands me an 8-ball she took off the pool table.

I grin back at her. “Easy peasy.” This time I run in place with the ball on my head. Everyone ooohhs and ahhhhs .

I am starting to enjoy myself when the bartender lets out a dramatic fake yawn and says, “That’s light work. Show me something impressive.”

She crosses her arms and although I can’t see her expression under the box, I can assume it’s a smirk. She’s taunting me and I’m enjoying it.

“Damn, Fruity O’s. Okay,” I say in response, giving her a playful look. “Someone hand me that bar stool.”

“Hell yeah!” Wes says, laughing, and Eddie has already gotten out his phone to never let me live this moment down.

The bartender walks from behind the bar, arms still crossed, and grabs a stool. She then walks it up to me and I bend down to grab it.

I flip the wooden stool upside down and place it on my head, starting to balance it. Everyone watching begins to count, “One…two…three…”

I’m starting to feel extremely confident by the time I hit thirty seconds.

The crowd is hooting and hollering their approval.

The idiot in me decides to take it up a notch and I start squatting up and down while still balancing the stool.

Everyone goes wild and I hear the bartender laughing.

It’s an adorable belly laugh, and I tilt my head down a little bit to try and look at her out of the corner of my eye.

That’s where I make my mistake. When I tilt my head, drawn in by her laugh, the stool falls off my head. Faster than I can grab it, it smacks into the bartender watching below, face first.