Paige Foster changed her clothes four times. The first outfit made her look like she was trying too hard. The second made her look like she wasn’t trying at all, which somehow felt worse. The third survived approximately forty seconds before she caught herself in the bedroom mirror, stared at it with mounting disgust, and pulled the top straight back over her head.

By seven-thirty, the rejected clothes had formed a small, brightly colored landslide across the end of her bed.

“Ridiculous,” Paige muttered. She stood in front of the mirror in her underwear and glared at herself as though the girl reflected there had created the problem.

At five feet exactly, Paige had spent most of her twenty-two years being underestimated before she’d even opened her mouth. She was small without being fragile, slim through the waist and legs, her figure compact and naturally feminine rather than exaggerated.

Her brown hair fell around her shoulders in soft layers, given more volume tonight than she usually bothered with, the ends flicking outward in the way every magazine in America currently seemed determined to insist was essential. Large brown eyes stared back at her from beneath carefully applied pink eyeshadow, darker liner sharpening them at the edges.

Small silver hoops caught the bedroom light when she turned her head. The tattoo on her left arm remained visible, exactly where she wanted it. She leaned closer to the mirror. “It’s a concert.”

The girl in the mirror remained unconvinced. “People go to concerts alone.” Still nothing. Paige straightened. “Cool people go to concerts alone.” That was such obvious bullshit that she laughed. The laugh helped.

She pulled on a white vest top, faded high-waisted jeans ripped at both knees and a pair of white Converse that had long ago stopped being completely white. She added a narrow belt, pushed two slim bracelets over her right wrist and checked herself again. Better. Not Chloe Love better. Nobody was Chloe Love better. But Paige Foster better. She could live with that.

The ticket waited on the dresser. She looked at it. Pink Flamingo Casino & Resort. CHLOE LOVE—ONE NIGHT ONLY. SATURDAY, JUNE 9, 1984. GENERAL ADMISSION—STANDING.

She had bought it three weeks ago, asked two friends, then everyone else she could reasonably ask. Working. No money. Other plans. Somebody would let her know and never did. She had stopped asking and made her decision then. She was going. Alone if necessary. Apparently, necessary had arrived.

Paige picked up the ticket, slid it carefully into her small black shoulder bag and looked at herself one final time. “Fuck it.” That sounded more convincing.

Outside, Saturday night had already taken Magic City. The heat hadn’t gone anywhere with the sun. It had simply changed color. The last dirty orange of daylight hung over the western skyline while electric pink, cyan and violet signs began winning the argument below it.

Traffic crawled toward downtown in four glittering lanes, headlights burning white against red taillights, convertibles packed with girls in bright tops and boys wearing too much cologne, motorcycles splitting lanes wherever their riders found half a chance.

Every third car seemed to be playing Chloe Love. Paige heard her before she reached the Flamingo. A red Camaro rolled past with its windows down, synthesizers pouring from the speakers and Chloe’s voice rising above them. Another car answered from somewhere behind with a different song. Two girls hanging out of the passenger side of a Pontiac were already singing along, laughing when they forgot the words and screaming the parts they remembered. Magic City knew what night this was.

By eight-fifteen, Paige knew everyone else knew too. The Pink Flamingo dominated three blocks of downtown like somebody had taken every bad decision ever made in Miami, painted it electric pink and given it a gaming license.

The casino tower climbed above the surrounding buildings in tiers of mirrored black glass, each edge traced by glowing pink tubing. A gigantic flamingo rose above the entrance on one leg, its curved neck rendered in enough neon to guide aircraft in from the Atlantic.

Tonight, even the Flamingo had competition. CHLOE LOVE burned across the main marquee in letters six feet high.

Cars were backed up to the intersection. Valets ran between Mercedes, Cadillacs, Corvettes and Porsches while taxi doors opened almost before the vehicles had stopped. Women crossed the forecourt in heels and sequined dresses, men followed in pastel jackets and open-necked shirts, and everywhere Paige looked there were Chloe shirts, Chloe badges, Chloe jackets, homemade signs and pink headbands.

She stopped on the opposite sidewalk. “Oh, shit.”

Until that moment, Paige had somehow imagined a concert. This wasn’t a concert. This was an invasion. A horn blasted behind her. Paige jumped, realized she’d stopped directly in the path of a parking-lot entrance and hurried out of the way while the driver of a cream Cadillac offered a gesture requiring no interpretation. “Yeah, yeah,” she muttered. “Love you too.”

Then she looked back at the Flamingo.

The nerves came again. Hundreds of people were moving toward those doors in groups. Couples. Friends. Girls linked arm in arm. Guys shouting to one another across the traffic. Everybody seemed to belong to somebody. Paige stood alone.

Her fingers found the edge of the ticket inside her bag. She could still leave. Nobody would know. She could walk three blocks, find a cab, go home, put on a Chloe cassette and tell herself the crowd had been too much.

Paige stared at the enormous face above the marquee. Chloe Love stared back. Brown eyes. Daring smile. Not exactly the face of a woman who went home because she felt awkward. “Oh, don’t you fucking start.”

The billboard remained merciless.

Paige crossed the street. The closer she got, the louder everything became. Engines. Horns. Laughter. The electronic chirp of arcade machines spilling from an open doorway. Casino bells from somewhere inside.

A local radio van had parked beside the entrance with speakers mounted on its roof, a DJ shouting over a Chloe track while girls danced around the vehicle. “MAGIC CITY, ARE YOU READY?”

The answer came back from several hundred throats. Paige found herself grinning. The fear hadn’t disappeared. It had changed. There was something underneath it now. Excitement. She joined the line.

Twenty minutes later, a security guard tore the stub from her ticket and the Pink Flamingo swallowed her whole. Cold air hit first. Then light. Then noise.

The casino floor stretched beneath mirrored ceilings and hanging brass fixtures, slot machines arranged in glowing ranks beneath clouds of cigarette smoke. Pink and blue tubes ran along the walls. Cocktail waitresses threaded between blackjack tables carrying trays of drinks above their shoulders. Roulette wheels spun. Coins hammered into metal trays. Somewhere nearby, somebody screamed in triumph while somebody else discovered exactly why the building was this expensive. Paige moved through it all with the crowd.

Signs directed concertgoers toward the Flamingo Ballroom. The carpeting became thicker. The casino noise faded behind closed doors. Ushers in pink dinner jackets checked tickets beneath chandeliers while the distant thump of a kick drum traveled through the walls. Paige felt it through the soles of her Converse. Boom. Boom. Boom. Soundcheck. Her stomach turned over.

The doors opened. Paige stopped dead. The Flamingo Ballroom was enormous. A broad standing floor stretched toward a stage buried beneath darkness and artificial fog, with seating rising along the sides and across the balcony. Pink lasers crawled lazily through the haze overhead.

Banks of synthesizers waited on elevated platforms. A drum kit gleamed beneath a single blue spotlight. Speaker towers rose on either side of the stage, black and monolithic, while hundreds upon hundreds of voices merged into a single impatient roar. And behind everything, enormous letters waited in darkness. CHLOE LOVE. Paige stared.

Paige threaded onto the standing floor and found a gap with a view between shoulders. Better than she’d expected. She kept her bag against her hip and planted her Converse on the sticky floor. For the first time that evening, being alone didn’t bother her. Not much, anyway.

The house lights dropped. The room exploded. Paige stretched onto her toes as hands flew up around her. Darkness swallowed the ballroom. For three seconds there was nothing.

Then a synthesizer note rose from somewhere beneath the stage. Low. Clean. Electric. A second note joined it. Then the bass. The CHLOE LOVE sign detonated into pink behind the stage. Paige screamed. She didn’t mean to. It simply came out with everybody else’s.

Then the center spotlight came on. Chloe Love stood inside it. For one impossible second, she didn’t move. She didn’t need to. The woman Paige had seen on television, cassette sleeves, magazine covers and posters suddenly existed thirty yards in front of her.

Chloe wore a silver sequined bodysuit that caught every moving light and threw it back across the ballroom in fragments. Black leather boots climbed almost to her knees. Her dark hair had been swept high and full around her face, sculpted for the stage without losing its movement, and beneath the lights her brown eyes seemed almost impossibly dark.

She held the microphone low at her side, chin slightly raised, surveying the screaming room with a composure that made the reaction seem less like something happening to her and more like something she’d deliberately caused. Defiant. Magnetic. Completely in control.

Paige forgot she’d come alone. Forgot the four outfits on her bed. Forgot standing outside wondering whether she had the nerve to walk through the doors.

Chloe slowly raised the microphone. Magic City got louder. A smile touched one corner of Chloe’s mouth. “Saturday night.”

The crowd roared. Chloe waited. She knew exactly how long to wait. Then those brown eyes swept across the ballroom. “Magic City…” Another pause. “…show me what you’ve got.”

The drums hit. The stage erupted. Chloe’s voice tore through “Rebel Lover,” the opening number, with enough force to make Paige feel it in her chest. It wasn’t the polished voice from the radio. Not exactly. Live, there was something rougher underneath it, something bigger and less contained.

Chloe drove over the pounding synthesizers instead of riding them, moving across the stage in long, confident strides, sequins flashing white, pink and blue while artificial smoke curled around her boots. She owned every inch of it.

One minute she was at the edge of the stage with one boot planted on a monitor, throwing a chorus at the front rows like a challenge. The next she was crossing through the band, turning beneath a sweep of white light as the guitarist ripped through a solo. She never seemed hurried. Never seemed to chase the audience. They chased her. Paige did too.

For “I Saw You on the Dancefloor,” Chloe laughed into the microphone. “Let’s fall in love tonight!”

Shimmering keyboards raced above the bass.

“Every rhythm pulled me near, every step erased my fear.”

Paige clapped with the crowd, missing a beat and finding it again.

By the third song, “Dancing in the Neon Rain,” she was singing. “Every tear turns into light, I’m shining through the night.”

Blue beams streamed through the haze, and she knew every word.

By the fourth, “Electric Heart,” she had stopped caring whether anyone could hear her. By the fifth, “Love, Love, Love,” the woman standing to her left had grabbed her hand during the chorus and they were jumping together like they’d known each other since high school.

“Love, love, love—that’s all I need, simple and strong like the air I breathe.”

Paige laughed until her throat hurt. This was why she’d come. Not because she wanted to prove she could go somewhere alone. Not because she had spent money on the ticket. Not because staying home would have felt like losing. This. This exact fucking moment.

The song ended in a crash of drums and synthesizers. Chloe stood center stage, breathing hard, one hand around the microphone, the other raised above her head. The applause became deafening.

The drummer switched to brushes. The synthesizers softened. Blue light washed over the stage, replacing the violent pinks and whites. Chloe walked slowly toward the front until there was nothing between her and the audience but darkness.

When she sang “Nowhere to Run but Her,” the power hadn’t disappeared. It had narrowed. Her voice became low, smooth and intimate, the same woman who had just dominated thousands somehow making the ballroom feel small enough for one person.

Chloe’s brown eyes traveled across the front rows. For perhaps half a second, they passed over Paige. That was all. Half a second.

Paige Foster stood in the crowd facing the stage on a Saturday night in June 1984, five feet tall in battered white Converse, pink eyeshadow and ripped jeans, surrounded by people she’d never met, and smiled. She had almost stayed home. Jesus Christ. What an idiot she’d nearly been.

The woman to her left let go of her hand when the ballad ended, then adjusted the strap of a black clutch hanging from her wrist. “You’ve got a hell of a voice,” she said.

Up close, away from the strobes, Paige could see thick, glossy hair dyed so black it turned blue beneath the stage lights, brown eyes with an assessing steadiness, and a mouth that seemed prepared to find something wrong with almost anything.

She wore a sleeveless scarlet top, black jeans and ankle boots, with silver earrings half hidden by her hair. Her full, high breasts gave the top a shape that owed something to a surgeon; the rest of her carried the easy balance of someone accustomed to being watched. A trace of glitter remained near one temple.

“Sorry,” Paige said, suddenly aware of the damage she might have inflicted during “Love, Love, Love.”

The woman frowned, then laughed. “I didn’t say it was good. I said you had a hell of one.”

Paige laughed too, bending forward with her hands on her knees. Her throat felt sandpapered.

The woman offered her hand again, this time properly. “Katie.”

Paige shook it and gave her name. Onstage, Chloe took a drink while her guitarist changed instruments; the band kept a soft shimmer moving beneath the applause, refusing to let the room go completely quiet.

“Are your friends somewhere else?” Paige asked.

Katie glanced around the crowd. “Just me. Got something to do here later.”

She said it so easily that Paige wondered why she’d spent all afternoon rehearsing an explanation. Katie checked the stage, then looked back at her. “Plenty of time yet.” Whatever she had arranged, she seemed perfectly comfortable with it.

Paige adjusted her shoulder bag. “I’m getting something. Want one?”

They slipped out during the sustained instrumental introduction to “Paradise Tonight,” promising each other they would be quick. At the rear bar, Chloe’s voice remained clear above the clatter of ice. Paige bought two Cokes because she was hot enough without adding liquor, and Katie accepted hers with a grateful swallow.

Beyond the doors, gaming machines continued their bright, stupid conversations with people who had somehow chosen them over this. Paige could see the ballroom reflected in a strip of mirror behind the bottles: an ocean of lifted faces, a silver figure onstage, the enormous pink signature hanging over everything.

“I asked practically everyone I knew,” Paige said. “About coming. Two friends first. Then everyone else I could think of. Nobody could.”

Katie rested a boot against the brass rail. “Expensive night.”

There was no accusation in it, and Paige nodded. “One was working. One had promised her boyfriend. Somebody said they’d let me know, which apparently means you should die waiting.” She worried the wet edge of her cup with her thumbnail. “I decided I was coming anyway. Weeks ago. Then today I spent about six hours getting ready to do something I’d already decided to do.”

Katie’s smile widened slowly. “Six hours? You should’ve come round and done my laundry.” She took another drink. “I arranged my night around this. Didn’t see any reason to drag somebody along and make them fit around me.”

Paige nodded, watching her glance at the stage again. Katie had somewhere to be later; right now she wanted to be here. She seemed able to enjoy both without apologizing for either.

“Where do you work?” Paige asked.

“The Sapphire Room. I dance. Pick up other gigs when they suit me.”

Paige knew the blue sign and the photographs outside. Katie watched recognition arrive without changing her expression. “Whatever pays the bills. I choose what I take.”

Paige pointed toward the standing floor. “That explains why you can actually dance. I’m just throwing myself about and hoping nobody calls an ambulance.”

Katie laughed, setting her cup on the bar. Katie wiped condensation from her fingers. “That’s allowed. You’re paying tonight.” She nodded toward the crowd. “I can dance badly out there if I feel like it.”

From the ballroom, Chloe sent a long note soaring over the guitars, and both women turned before it finished. They finished their drinks, dropped the cups into a bin and slipped back into the crowd, finding a gap near their old spot. Paige apologized to a man whose shoe she clipped. Katie caught her elbow before she stepped on the other one.

“Paradise Tonight” broke apart in a blaze of cymbals. Chloe walked to the front, sweat shining along her collarbones, a strand of dark hair freed from its careful height and stuck to her cheek. She brushed it away with the back of her wrist. Even that small, human movement drew cheers. The voice that came through the microphone held its warm Welsh-American inflection beneath the breathlessness. “Rule number one, Flamingo—love yourself first!”

Behind her, a darker synth pulse began gathering weight, and Katie raised her empty hands above her head.

Paige recognized “Self Respect” before the drums came in. At home she had played it while getting dressed, singing into a hairbrush and then feeling faintly embarrassed despite being entirely alone. Here, with Chloe planting her boots wide beneath a hard white spotlight, embarrassment seemed an absurdly small thing to bring.

“Used to dance for someone’s praise, now I move my own damn way.”

Katie lifted both hands and shouted the second line. Paige joined her, late, laughing, the words almost lost beneath the huge clipped crack of the snare.

For the next chorus she stopped looking sideways to check what anyone else was doing. Her bracelets slid against her wrist. The white vest clung to her back. When the man ahead shifted and blocked the stage, she leaned the other way and kept singing.

Nobody needed her to be taller, cooler or accompanied. She had paid to be here. She could stand on this floor and make a terrible noise. Beside her Katie danced with her eyes briefly closed, her sharp expression loosened into something Paige suspected the Sapphire Room rarely got for its money.

By “The Girls of Summertime,” the front of the ballroom had become a moving mass beneath the stage. A group drifted toward the bar, leaving a gap farther forward on the left. Katie noticed the opening and tipped her head toward it.

Paige looked at the distance, the shoulders, the possibility of losing each other. Then she tucked her bag closer against her hip. “Come on,” she said, catching Katie’s wrist.

Katie followed with a surprised laugh, and Paige led them between dancing shoulders toward the light.

They found a patch beside the left speaker tower where Paige could see between two shoulders. The bass was physical here, working through denim and bone; every kick seemed to push air against her stomach. Chloe crossed above them, close enough for Paige to see the stitching along a boot and the dark cable sliding behind her heel.

This near, the spectacle revealed its work. Her chest rose hard between lines. She watched the drummer as she turned. One raised finger held the band for a fraction before she brought the chorus crashing back. Paige screamed with everyone around her, astonished by how much command could fit inside a gesture.

“WANTED” arrived under red lights, the guitar cutting bright shapes through the keyboard pulse. Katie sang the title directly at Paige, pointing with theatrical accusation, and Paige pointed back. Around them strangers did the same, entire small dramas conducted beneath Chloe’s outstretched microphone. A girl in a pink headband nearly lost an earring and caught it against her shoulder without missing the beat.

Someone behind them shouted that he loved Chloe. Half the ballroom appeared to share his condition. Chloe grinned toward the noise and gave them a final chorus big enough to make the speaker cabinets tremble.

“Love Runners” began with bright guitar and a drum fill that seemed to lift the entire room. Paige knew this one from the cassette she kept rewinding until the start came at exactly the right place. Here the introduction stretched, richer and rougher, the synths opening behind Chloe like the horizon through a windshield.

“Every dream we almost missed, turns to gold in nights like this.”

Paige looked at Katie, who was already singing. There was no need to turn the lyric into a confession. The look was enough. Katie bumped her shoulder against Paige’s and kept time with one hand.

“City of Fire” drove them harder. Amber lights swept through the smoke; Katie’s hair had come loose, and Paige’s eyeshadow was traveling somewhere it had never been intended to go.

Then Katie glanced toward the side of the stage. A man wearing a headset caught her eye and tapped his watch. She leaned close to Paige. “I’ve got to disappear for a minute. Stay here.”

Paige’s smile faltered before she could help it.

Katie squeezed her hand. “I WILL be back. Promise.”

Then she slipped through the crowd, leaving Paige staring after the glossy black hair.

“Euphoria” started before Paige could ask where she was going. She watched Katie reach the side barrier, show something from her clutch and pass through with the headset man. Backstage. Paige rose onto her toes, lost sight of her and came down again.

Onstage, Chloe was tearing through the song beneath spinning white lights. Paige kept dancing, but every so often her eyes went to the dark gap beside the keyboards. Katie had promised. She could wait through one song without turning it into a personal disaster.

When the applause settled, Chloe crossed to that same side of the stage. “Magic City, I’ve got somebody for you.” She extended a hand into the darkness. “Katie Kaye!”

The woman who stepped into the spotlight wore black jeans and a scarlet top. Thick black hair shone blue beneath the lights. Paige recognized the silver earrings, the familiar mouth, the hand that had steadied her ten minutes earlier. Then Katie lifted a microphone.

Paige stood motionless while everybody around her screamed. “You have got to be fucking kidding me.”

Chloe and Katie looked at each other and grinned. “Magic City, are you ready for love tonight?” they called out together.

Bright guitar rang across the ballroom. The drums came down huge, lush synthesizers opening behind them.

“Magic City, raise your hands, the night is burning bright! Two hearts, one song, we’re shining through the light!”

Katie’s voice had a clear Californian brightness, powerful enough to meet Chloe’s without disappearing inside it. Paige put both hands over her mouth. All evening she had been apologizing to this woman for her singing.

Chloe took the first verse, walking forward through the blue haze. “We’ve been down and we’ve been tried, dreams and tears we can’t hide.”

Katie watched her, listening with the concentration Paige had mistaken for nothing more than knowing the songs.

At the chorus they turned toward the crowd together. “Nothing can break us, nothing can bind, when two hearts beat, they beat aligned.”

The harmony lifted over the guitars, two distinct voices holding the same line. Paige finally found her own voice and shouted Katie’s name so loudly the man ahead looked round.

For the second verse Katie stepped forward. “I was lost, chasing time, till your voice cut through the line.”

No borrowed microphone at a party could have prepared somebody for this. She knew where to stand, when to breathe, how to let a phrase open without pushing it.

Yet when her brown eyes found Paige beside the left speaker tower, the expression was unmistakable: the same dry amusement from the bar. Paige pointed at her in furious, delighted accusation. Katie nearly laughed into the next line, recovered and sang straight to her.

They traded the bridge above the driving bass.

“We’ve been broken, we’ve been burned,” Chloe sang.

“Every fall’s a lesson learned,” Katie answered.

Then the guitar took over, unhurried, while the women moved together across the stage and brought the crowd’s hands up. Paige clapped until her palms stung. By the final chorus she was singing with them.

“Every dream, every fight, nothing can break us tonight.”

Chloe’s arm went around Katie’s shoulders as the voices rose; the long guitar outro carried them beneath a storm of applause.

Katie bowed with Chloe, then vanished into the wings. The stage went dark, leaving Paige clapping at the place where she had stood. She was still shaking her head when fingers closed around her elbow.

“Told you I’d be back.”

Paige turned. Katie was breathless, sweating, wearing the same impossible grin.

“You said you danced.”

Katie nodded. “I do.”

Paige stared at her. “You left out a fucking important detail.”

Katie laughed, then glanced toward the stage as a low electronic pulse began. “Tell you after. You’ll miss the encore.”

Pink light burst across the ceiling, blue following it from the opposite side. Chloe came back through the smoke with the microphone already raised. “Pink & Blue Fever” hit at full force, bass racing beneath synthesizers that seemed to glitter even with Paige’s eyes shut.

“One more breath, the night’s alive. We crash like thunder when we drive.”

She sang the words back, arm lifted, every doubt and every sensible concern drowned beneath the drums. Katie was beside her, hair flying, laughing through a chorus she refused to miss. Above them Chloe threw her head back and held a note until the room seemed to rise around it.

The ending kept finding new ways to happen. A guitar flourish became another chorus; Chloe handed the melody to the crowd and took it back higher; the drummer rose halfway from his stool for the final crashing descent.

At last the band struck together and stopped. Chloe stood with one arm extended, silver sequins flashing beneath white light. For a moment Paige could hear only the applause.

Then Chloe brought her musicians forward, bowed with them and blew a kiss toward the balcony. Paige kept clapping until her palms hurt. She wanted to remember the actual woman standing there, sweating and smiling, before the night became a story.

The house lights revealed crushed cups and damp faces. Paige looked up at Katie. “So this was the other gig.”

Katie grinned. “Guest spot. Easier to come on my own. I fancied watching from out front till they needed me.”

Paige shook her head. “Dancing, singing with Chloe fucking Love. Anything else?”

Katie shrugged. “Whatever pays the bills. I like performing. Doesn’t all have to happen in the same building.”

Paige laughed. “You were incredible.”

Katie’s smile warmed. “Thanks. Glad you stayed.”

They shuffled toward the doors together. Beyond them, the casino carried on ringing and flashing, but Paige kept looking at the woman beside her.

Outside, the pavement shone with the remains of a brief shower. The giant flamingo ran pink through every puddle, and warm air settled over Paige’s damp shoulders. WAVE 105 was still playing Chloe beside the forecourt.

Katie found a dry patch beneath the marquee and searched her clutch for a pen. “Give me something to write on.”

Paige produced her ticket, then immediately took it back and searched for anything less precious. Katie watched her, amused. Finally Paige surrendered the stub. Katie wrote a telephone number carefully on the reverse, sheltering it from the jostling crowd.

“Ring after lunch,” Katie said. “Before that, I’m a medical emergency.”

Paige tucked the stub into the inner pocket of her bag. She wanted to ask for some assurance that this would survive daylight, but asking seemed likely to spoil an ordinary thing by making it carry too much. “We could get something to eat next week,” she said.

Katie nodded. “Somewhere with chairs. My feet are killing me.”

A taxi edged toward the curb. They hugged quickly, awkward with the bag between them, then Katie ducked into the back and shouted her goodbye through the open window.

Paige stayed beneath the marquee until the taxi joined the traffic. She was alone again, with sore feet, ringing ears and enough money left to get home. Across the street, a car stereo caught the chorus of “Dancing in the Neon Rain,” and she sang along under her breath, smiling at the wreck of her voice. Then she stepped toward the taxi stand, white Converse splashing through a thin ribbon of pink water.

Inside her bag was one ticket, torn at the edge, with Saturday’s date on the front and Katie’s number on the back. Paige pressed it flat with her fingers and let the next person in the line hear her singing.