The look he gave her was sympathetic. “Kiddo, you can't sing that thing if you don't know it. God knows you could try to wing it, but it's tricky, and …”

“I know it, ” Lu broke in. That was only partly true: she didn't know the lyrics because she hadn't been paying enough attention, but the melody had embedded itself in her mind. “Can you play it without sheet music?”

He shrugged. “In my sleep. What key?”

“Pick one for me.” She moved to the center of the stage and flipped quickly through the magazine until she found what she wanted. What she was about to do was really nuts, but she was going to sing no matter what. Besides, Ricky said she thought on her feet like a star, and she was gambling that he was right. “I'm gonna sing a song about food,” she announced in an accent she meant to be Spanish but which really sounded a lot like Mama. The men in the house stopped talking to each other and directed their attention to the stage for the first time. So far, so good.

The accompanist began playing, and Lu began singing her selection from McCall's—the ingredients and instructions for a recipe for Spanish meatloaf. She fit the words to the dumb operetta aria as she went. Whenever there weren't enough syllables to fill out a musical phrase, she filled in the dead space by stomping flamenco-style on the stage floor and shouting “Olé.” For three quarters of the song she managed to make each line work. Then her recipe ran out. Lu went into the cadenza with the silly trill, singing it a capella because the accompanist, who was watching her with openmouthed awe, had given up trying to follow her. When she finished the trill, she had nowhere else to go and no way to get herself gracefully off the stage. In a moment of pure inspiration, she kicked off her shoes and did three of her Puss in Boots cartwheels into the wings. Then she had to run back onstage to collect her shoes, killing her exit, so she shouted three triumphant “Olés” at the men in the audience and exited again.

She wasn't sure exactly what she'd been hoping for—maybe some laughter, because she knew what she'd done was funny, or maybe a little applause for her courage. Maybe the producers would decide she thought like a star and ask for her name and her contact information.

There was a stony silence from the house. Backstage, the fake señoritas were staring at her in horror. A couple of them backed away from her as if whatever madness had just possessed her might be catching.