Blowin' My Mind Like a Summer Breeze, page 4
“Sure,” he says. He winks at me, then turns and rips out a blues line on his guitar that bursts like a thunder crack in the empty ballroom. The St. Regis Horns nod in approval, and for a moment, it feels like everything is going to be all right. Dad counts us in.
“One, two, three, four…”
And we’re off to the races.
Track Six
A Cloud I Get to Climb On
Even though Juliet mentioned making omelets in the Sunday brunch buffet, when my family and I go to Hobner Lodge to eat between rehearsals, I can hardly believe it when she’s actually standing there in a chef’s hat and an apron.
“Look at all this character being built before your very eyes,” Juliet says, spreading her arms wide. She’s positioned between the self-serve waffle maker and the hand-carved ham station. I can smell stewed strawberries and maple glaze. “It’s better than picking up trash, though. And I’m getting really good. You want an omelet?”
“Um…okay,” I say.
Juliet clicks on the single burner portable stove in front of her, then rolls a hunk of butter around a hot, non-stick skillet, the butter foaming at the edges like churning surf. Chunks of diced ham, green pepper, and red onion join the party, then a ladle of liquid egg. Using her rubber spatula, Juliet moves egg away from the edges.
“What are you doing today? Wanna hang out?”
“Sure,” I say, loving that we already seem to have a routine. “I have rehearsal again at two. But I can after that.”
“Ooh, can I come?”
“To rehearsal?”
“Yeah. I want a sneak peek.”
Juliet puts an aggressive mound of cheese on half the omelet and folds the other half on top of it.
“Check this out,” Juliet says, and with a quick push-pull motion flips the omelet so that it lands perfectly on its back.
“That was amazing,” I say.
I peek at my family seated near the picture window. My dad’s drinking coffee and watching hummingbirds battle for space at a massive feeder filled with candy red liquid. Walden has his nose in Stephen King’s The Stand—again. Of course, my mom, who never misses anything, is studying us intently, looking away only when I catch her.
• • •
Juliet brings her sister Cordelia to our second rehearsal, and they sit out there watching us from chairs in the fifth row, an audience of two. Where Juliet is on the short side with black hair and a tiny waist, Cordelia is taller with light brown, almost blondish hair, broad shoulders, and curves. I remember the bottle of black hair dye I saw in Juliet’s bathroom and wonder what her real hair color is. Cordelia is dictionary-definition pretty, with a beaming smile and big round eyes, but not as interesting looking as Juliet, whose eyes are narrower and more mysterious. The sisters giggle and whisper while we play and it’s hard not to notice the way Juliet’s face lights up when I start singing.
Luckily, our afternoon rehearsal is way smoother than this morning as we run through the electric set again. Maybe it’s having people listening, or the four cups of coffee he drank at brunch, but Dad seems to have shaken off his nerves. And the St. Regis Horns are so good it’s almost scary. During “Knock on Wood,” they trade solos back and forth on their horns, flying over their instruments with effortless ease.
And with Juliet watching, my confidence in my own performance grows. You’d think that since I felt nervous being in Juliet’s bedroom yesterday, I’d feel even more nervous having her watch me sing, but I don’t. Not at all. I like it. I know that’s weird.
A stage is about the only place in my life I don’t feel nervous. In regular life, I’m nervous all the time. I always feel like I’m going to say the wrong thing. I obsess over how I look and sound and what people are thinking about me. But music is a cloud I get to climb on and rise above all that petty crap. When my fingers touch the piano keys or I start singing, another me takes the wheel and I feel totally relaxed.
After rehearsal, Juliet introduces me to Cordelia.
“You’re the most amazing singer I’ve ever heard,” Cordelia gushes. “I can’t believe how deep and sultry your voice is.”
How do you respond to that? A simple thanks is the only thing I’ve come up with so far.
“Thanks,” I say.
I introduce them to my family. My dad, cigarette already in hand, says a quick hello and then sneaks off for a smoke. He’s not much for small talk. But my mom stops and gets super chummy. I told her about Juliet after brunch and she thinks it’s nice that I made a friend. They both act a little star struck around my mom, which I’m pretty used to. My mom is not only famous, she’s famously beautiful with shiny red hair and megawatt green eyes. My features are similar, I guess, and everyone tells us we look so much alike, but I don’t see it. To me, I look like my mom’s younger, less attractive stunt double.
Walden comes over and says hi in his awkward way, his hands in his back pockets, his feet moving around while he talks, his posture curved like a question mark. He has his drumsticks pinned under his arm, which I know is just for show because he usually never holds them like that. My brother tries so hard to be cool, but it’s not in him. There’s a cool gene out there and we Cobb kids didn’t get it. Still, when Cordelia tells Walden what an awesome drummer he is, he stands up a little taller and I’m glad for him.
Cordelia leaves to go meet a friend and Walden and my mom go back to the hotel, after which Juliet and I walk out into the golden sunshine.
“I have a top-secret mission for you,” she says, sliding on her aviators, “should you choose to accept it.”
This sounds exciting, until I learn what the top-secret mission is. You see, she’s out of cigarettes. Such a tragedy. And the only way she can get more is to buy them from the cigarette machine over at the golf course pro shop. Problem is they cost $3.75—in quarters—and the only way to get that many quarters is to raid the change stash in her father’s office in Hobner Lodge. The plan goes something like this: I’m supposed to “distract” her dad while she steals the change. After that, I’m supposed to create some sort of further distraction so Juliet can slip fifteen quarters into the machine without getting busted. Easy.
“The trick is to act natural,” Juliet says as we walk around the main desk in Hobner Lodge and down a long hallway full of offices with people talking on phones and typing on computers. “Then he won’t suspect anything.”
“Oh great.”
Juliet walks me into the corner office where a man with a mustache is writing on a legal pad.
“Hello, my dearest father,” she says, leaning down to kiss him on the cheek before introducing me.
“It’s so nice to meet you,” he says, aggressively pumping my hand while he shakes it. He has a deep tan and a big beer gut, but his clothes look expensive and there’s a gold ring on the pinky of his right hand. “I’ve wanted to come over and say hello to you all, but it’s such a busy time of year around here. I’m glad that you and Jules have become such fast friends, though. I hope she’s been making you feel welcome in our little slice of paradise.”
“Oh yeah, she’s been a great tour guide,” I say.
“And look at that Jules, a young lady of fifteen without a nose ring, isn’t that refreshing?”
Out of the corner of my eye, I can see that this comment stings Juliet because she wriggles up her lips in a fake smile but doesn’t say anything back.
“Well, we’re sure looking forward to hearing you all perform tomorrow night,” her dad continues. “And all week. I don’t mean to gush, but I’ve loved your parents’ music for longer than I can remember. Now please don’t go repeating this to my wife, but I used to have the biggest crush on your mom. What a beauty. And aren’t you just the spitting image.”
Sorry to say it, but Juliet’s dad is kind of a creep.
“Daddy,” Juliet says, “Rainey heard what a big fan you are and wanted to play something for you on the lobby piano. I told her how hardly anyone ever plays it.”
I turn to Juliet with my mouth wide open. Did she say what I think she said?
“Did she? Well, isn’t that sweet. I’d be honored.”
“Why don’t you show her where it is?”
“Oh my God,” he says. “This is incredible. I have to find your mother. Sue!”
Which is how five minutes later, I’m finishing a rendition of “I’m Going to Sit Right Down and Write Myself a Letter,” the first song that flies into my head, to a small crowd of guests who have gathered around an out-of-tune piano in the lobby. Juliet’s there when I finish the song, too, and after the crowd claps and we run outside, she shows me her pockets, which are bulging impressively with quarters.
“You jerk, why didn’t you tell me you were going to do that!”
“I was improvising. It just came to me. Sorry. I couldn’t think of anything else. Do you hate me? It worked, though, didn’t it? And everyone loved you. Of course, they did. You’re amazing.”
Riding the current of her infectious energy, and, let’s face it, the fact that she called me amazing, I go along with the next improvised part of Juliet’s plan, which involves me faking a sprained ankle to distract golfers from going inside for a minute.
By the time we’re in her favorite smoking spot in the woods, a little hidden glen by a small creek surrounded by birch trees and bright green ferns, I feel such a buzz from having gotten away with it all that I’m not even mad.
“So, do your parents not like your nose ring? Is that why your dad said that?”
“My mom doesn’t really care that much, but my dad hates it. He freaked. But the thing is, I think he only hates it because of how it might make him look. You know? Like my choices are more about him than they are about me. Does that make any sense? He even told me that it might hurt my chances of getting a swimming scholarship. He’s obsessed with making people happy, which I guess comes with running a hotel and having to smile and meet people all the time, but he never stops to think about what I want. He never even asked why I did it in the first place, he just jumped right into his assumptions about the kind of people who have nose rings and all that stereotypical bullshit.” Then Juliet puts on the biggest, guiltiest grin. “Wait until he finds out I have tattoos.”
“You have tattoos? Where?”
Juliet’s wearing black, low-top Chuck Taylors with no socks, and she takes off the left one and shows me the bottom of her foot, which is home to a wandering constellation of tiny, perfectly imperfect stars, all outlined in black ink. I count six.
“This one’s the newest,” she says, pointing to the biggest one, which is right in the middle of her heel. “I’m getting better.”
“You did them yourself?”
“How else am I going to get them? You have to be eighteen to get a tattoo. I numb the shit out of my foot with ice, have a little liquid courage, and go for it.”
“You’re crazy,” I say.
“As if there’s any other way to be?”
She opens up her fresh pack of Winston’s, drops the plastic wrapper on the ground, and then lights one with her Zippo. I fight the urge to pick up the wrapper.
“Why do you smoke?”
She thinks about it for a second. “It’s fun. I don’t know. It relaxes me. I know it’s bad for me, but it’s not like I’m going to do it forever. I’m not an idiot. I don’t want to get cancer. But a few cigarettes while I’m fifteen isn’t going to kill me no matter what the after-school specials say. What, you’ve never had a puff?”
“Never,” I say, but she frowns as if she doesn’t believe me.
“Aren’t you a little bit curious?” She holds her cigarette out to me. “C’mon. Try it.” And for some reason, I can’t deny it, I am a little bit curious. There’s something magnetic in her eyes that I’m drawn toward. I reach out, but just before she’s about to hand it to me, Juliet pulls the cigarette back and frowns at me, shaking her head.
“That was a test,” she says, “and you failed miserably.”
She actually sounds kind of mad. I’m so confused.
“You don’t smoke for a really good reason. It killed your grandpa and it’s hurting your dad. You’re prepared to abandon all your beliefs because I smoke?”
I shrug.
“People are jerks, Rainey. And they’ll try to get you to do all kinds of things you don’t want to do. Believe me, I’ve learned that the hard way. You have to be stronger than that.”
“But what if I actually want to?”
“Well, that’s different. But the thing is, I don’t think you do want to. Maybe you want to try other things you haven’t done before. But I don’t think smoking is one of them.”
And you know what? She’s right. I don’t want to smoke. Not ever. In fact, I hate myself for the one moment of weakness I just had. I feel so grateful I want to hug her, or ask if I can hug her, but that would be weird because hugging is supposed to happen naturally, isn’t it?
“You’re funny,” she says.
“Funny how?”
The trees around us cut the sunshine into bars and make these long, angular shadows which fall like stripes across Juliet, making her look cool and mysterious.
“Well,” she says, blowing a series of smoke rings, “in some ways, you’re like this old lady stuck in a teenager’s body. You sing like you’re some diva from another century, and you travel around and don’t even go to regular school, so you have all this wisdom and strength from your experiences. But, in other ways, you’re like a little kid who’s still learning how to walk.”
“Oh, gee thanks.”
She walks over and touches me softly on the arm.
“No,” she says. “I don’t mean it in a bad way. Sorry, maybe that came out wrong. It’s just. I’ve never met anyone like you before.”
We look at each other for a long time without speaking, and my whole body buzzes. There’s this energy inside me that builds up like water behind a dam. It almost hurts. Juliet doesn’t look away, and neither do I. That is, not until her cigarette burns her fingers.
“Oww, shit!” she screams, jumping up and down, sucking on her burnt finger, and I can’t help but laugh.
“Told you smoking was bad for you,” I say.
“Smart ass.”
That night I stay up late reading again.
In The Color Purple, Celie and Mr _______ are sitting at a table in Harpo’s juke joint listening to Shug Avery sing. She sings “A Good Man is Hard to Find” by Bessie Smith, which is a song I love. And while she’s watching her sing, Celie realizes all these things she feels about Shug. Romantic things, I guess. It makes her heart hurt to look at Shug because she knows, or at least she’s afraid, Shug doesn’t feel those same things about her. Shug feels them about Mr _______. It’s so confusing for Celie. Celie also feels horrible about herself because Shug looks beautiful in a shiny red dress and pearls, and all Celie has to wear are the frumpy old outfits Mr ______ buys her because he’s a cheap bastard and he doesn’t respect her. But then the last song Shug sings is one she calls “Miss Celie’s Song” and it’s the first time in Celie’s life that someone’s done something nice for her. It’s the first time she feels special. Alice Walker sure knows how to squeeze your heart.
Before I turn off the light, I make another new list in my journal.
Things I Learned About Myself Today
I’m not half bad at faking an ankle sprain.
Apparently, I sing like a diva from another century.
I’m like an old woman trapped in a teenager’s body, but also like a little baby.
I gave in to peer pressure faster than I ever thought I would.
I wanted to kiss Juliet in the woods today. That was the feeling I felt.
I think about number five for a long time before I fall asleep.
Track Seven
The Song Juliet Would Take to the Moon
I’ve got a sour feeling in the pit of my stomach.
It’s Monday night, only minutes away from the start of our first show. Walden and I are standing backstage in Evergreen Ballroom while Juliet’s dad introduces my parents to the crowd. I’m stuffed into a knee-length black dress with thin straps. Not my favorite look, but Mom insisted I look “pretty” for opening night. When I point out that Dad and Walden aren’t dressed up, she gives me that look again. The tough love one that says suck it up, no one said this was going to be easy.
If I ever have kids, I hereby pledge I’m never giving them that look.
It’s not just that the crowd is thin, only half-full, if that. It’s Dad. Something’s not right. He keeps wiping his hands on his jeans, as if trying to get the sweat off. Mom turns and says something to him that I can’t hear. He nods. Then wipes his hands on his jeans. His nerves are back. Big time.
“Did Dad take out the trash already?” I ask Walden. We’re standing about ten feet behind them.
“Yep. I heard him in there a few minutes ago when I was taking a leak.”
“Gross, Walden.”
“Hey, you asked. Why?”
“I don’t know. He seems off.”
“What else is new? He’s always off.”
“Give him a break.”
Walden isn’t as sympathetic to Dad’s stage fright as I am. Of course, he assumes it’s more about weakness than fear. Like Dad should be able to arm wrestle his feelings into submission. I’ll admit that I’m confused by it too. Sometimes it feels about as logical as if suddenly Larry Bird is afraid to play basketball with people in the crowd. But somehow, I also know it’s not that simple.
“Now, of course our legendary featured act needs no introduction,” Juliet’s dad tells the crowd, “but I can’t help myself because this is truly a landmark moment in the history of our little resort, a moment that would make Granddad Morrison very proud. I know he’s looking down on all of us right now.” He pauses and looks up at the ceiling for dramatic effect. My dad wipes his palms again. I want to walk up and touch his shoulder, to help in some way. But I’m afraid I’ll make it worse.
