There are twelve names on the list already, first five crossed out. I lean against the wall so I can balance the board on my knee. The pen barely writes, and it takes forever to fill out April, Little River in the name and hometown boxes, scribbling over each letter to carve an indent into the paper. I don’t put my last name, even though everyone before me has. Sawicki doesn’t have that show biz ring. All the other performers are from Buffalo or Hamburg or East Aurora. I should’ve at least said I was from Cattaraugus, someplace big enough to have its own post office. If the pen worked, I’d scribble over my line and start again.

I don’t have titles for my songs. I try to think of something to call them, but as I’m staring out at the room, running through the lyrics to the first one in my head, I notice that there are a lot of people. Maybe fifty. My legs are wobbly. I want to sit down. I write untitled in both of the song spaces and check a box that says original, leaving the box for cover empty.

When I walk over to give the board back, my stomach flops like a tadpole drowning in air, making me wish I hadn’t eaten so many Pop-Tarts for dinner. The eyelash girl is perched on a stool, hunched over a paperback she’s holding very close to her face. It’s so dark I don’t know how she can even see the words. She must be one of those people who can read no matter what’s going on, because I stand next to her and hold the sign-up sheet out for a whole minute before she realizes I’m there.

“Thanks,” she says, dropping the book in her lap without marking her place. She takes the clipboard back. I hope she doesn’t notice the way my hands shake. “Have a seat. It’ll be a while.” She looks out at the audience—little cafe tables, four chairs around each one. There’s like eight tables out there and every chair is filled. I figure I’ll just sit on the floor against the wall, but Eyelash Girl stands up on the middle rung of her stool. “There,” she points to a table up front, “there’s a seat right there.” She nods at me, waving her finger toward the chair. She expects me to take that seat and I can’t think of an excuse.

I weave my way around the tables, knocking my guitar case against knees and chair backs, whispering sorrys as I go. Cat’s Cradle guy finishes. Everyone applauds politely. He takes a breath we all can hear and says, “Here’s a little ditty I think you guys know.” His first few strums are sour but familiar.