I watch her size him up like Mema does a melon that might possibly be rotten. And then the lights flash and both teams stand and Coralee walks out like a queen to the middle of the court. Her hair is bigger than I’ve ever seen it, like LEGO hair, and she’s wearing a red, white, and blue skirted leotard. Under the court lights, she sparkles like a firework.

She takes the microphone from the ref like a pro and leans toward the home fans as if she’s about to tell them a secret.

“Evening.” Pause. “Y’all ready to salute our fine country?” Pause. “And then beat those Badgers into submission!”

Everybody goes crazy—yelling and clapping and whistling, or booing from the visitors’ stands. The ref shakes his head. But Coralee just winks at everybody and turns to face the flag.

She takes two deep breaths like she’s about to dive, and then starts.

“Oooo-uhhhh say can yoooouu seeeeeeee…”

It is low and strong and beautiful and I am only just realizing I have never heard her sing for real. Normally, she’s just humming in the van or singing half lines in her room.

When she hits “O’er the ramparts we waaaaaaaatched,” it’s like she is another girl altogether, and I have no trouble believing she’ll be famous. It’s so powerful it shakes my heartbeat all up. Even Mom has her mouth open in a big, silent O.

I forget to take my phone out for pictures until the end, when Bert grabs it and starts framing shots. When it’s over and the applause dies down, she turns back to the crowd, takes a bow, and then says real low, “Coralee out,” and drops the mic. I whistle with two fingers like Mom taught me. Hutch laughs and bends over to pick up the mic and hand it to the ref. Back on the stands, Sierra is pursing her lips like she’s sucking on a Gobstopper. I hope singing isn’t her talent for the beauty pageant. Actually, I kind of hope it is.

“That was amazing, Coralee honey!” Mom says when Coralee runs over to us with a towel slung across her shoulders. She’s breathing like she just ran the mile in gym.

“Thanks, Ms. Cowan,” she says, and then turns to me. “Did you get pictures?” Bert hands over my phone. That’s the last I see of it for the rest of the night. She plants a big smacking kiss on his cheek that turns him bright red, and I laugh into my sleeve.

None of us watch the game, and the Lions lose by ten, but the night was a success. I don’t even mind that not a single person spoke to me outside of Mom, Coralee, and Bert. Three is enough. Three is more than I’ve ever had before.

9 Cupid’s Arrow