by Amber Foxx
A few of us giggled. It was so right on. But mostly people were kind of frozen. All the swear words, in rehearsal. I loved it. Everybody’s eyes were popping out. I mean, he’s been like Mr. Sweetie, Mr. Softy, Mr. Jellybean, so nice and proper, and today he’s just over the top cussing, and Lydia cussing back. I think we all wondered how he’d take her answer. What he did was so cool. He sat on the table where he had all his notes and attendance books and stuff, and looked at us, and then he said, “Right. What in bloody hell was I thinking?” And he laughed. I mean, cracked up, really laughed, and he’s got this outrageous laugh, which made it all even funnier. Then he asked us, “So what do you like to sing? What are your favorite songs? Why do you like ’em?” He had us hand in all our music we’ve been learning and said, “Fuck this, we’ll give it a rest. What do you want to sing?” No one answered, so he asked again, said he really wanted to know.
People start telling him, he starts writing it down in his notebook, then he says, “Give me essays or e-mails, whatever, everybody’s favorite music that you love and why.” I can see he’s excited. Liberated, like when he took off his tie. So much energy! He let us sing snatches of favorite songs, kept taking notes, and I’m not kidding, when someone sang a little Spanish song he danced a few steps to it. He DANCED. And he’s good! He looked funny dancing. Even though he’s lost a little weight, he’s still got that big gut, but he didn’t seem to care. Just moved his hips like he was somebody hot. If he was thinner, he could be.
Dylan, smart-ass, says, “Jeez, Mr. Ellerbee, you go off your meds?” and everyone hooted. Mr. E said, “Good onya, Roybal,” and laughed even harder than we did, like he was going to fall down laughing. Like he’d never heard anything so funny in his life.
I am so in love with him. God, he is so amazing. Dylan didn’t win this time, Mr. E did. I never knew there was this wild, funny, crazy guy inside that nice sweet proper teacher. I’m writing this incredible essay on my favorite song, it’s Dolly Parton’s “I Will Always Love You.” I can sing it really, really well, I’ve got the voice for it. It’s so powerful, so sad and loving, the best song ever. In my essay I’m not just saying I like it because it’s pretty or whatever, I’m going to give him more than he asked for. He’s a whole lot more than we asked for, and it’s great.
Sylvie had described the emergence of the real Jamie Ellerbee, shedding a shell of convention and propriety and becoming himself, to hell with the consequences. This might have been when he actually had gone off his meds, with his new therapist. Maybe that was why it was so funny to him. Sylvie had fallen for the emerging free spirit. Was her crush the reason for her stalking, or was there more?
Mae flipped to another flagged section of the diary. She still had ten or fifteen minutes before the doors opened, and wanted to get through enough before the show started to give Jamie some sense of its meaning while they drove back to Norfolk afterwards.
In this entry Sylvia was upset that Mr. E had not responded to her essay or chosen her song. He’d added some of the other students’ favorite music—classical—to the winter concert program, but he had ignored her song completely. Sylvia wondered if he was a snob about country music. Good guess. She also mentioned that everyone looked forward to choir rehearsals and even music appreciation and theory classes because they were fun and exciting now, and that they had all gotten mad at the girl who’d reported Mr. E’s bad language to the principal.
Mae skipped to the middle, randomly picking an unmarked section. The fact that this again mentioned Jamie suggested an obsession.
I know some kids call me Puerca, and it’s not funny to me. But honestly when they call Ms. Savage “The Savage,” it’s perfect. If you’re not good at physics, you’d think you had personally insulted her. I’m brilliant, so she’s nice to me, but she tears up the other kids. That’s actually kind of fun—I like how tough she is. I like that she’s smart and can kick ass. But she’s pretty. I don’t always hate pretty women, but sometimes I do. The Savage is too beautiful and knows it. And I really, really hate it that Mr. E is so obviously in love with her. I hate to watch. He’s like her puppy, and she’s not even that nice to him. He waits for her outside the classroom, walks through the halls with her—like the freshman boys who are in love with some little freshman girl. He even left FLOWERS on her desk once. This huge, huge bouquet, and he didn’t hide it, he gave us all this look like, “Am I being cool or what”? Which he wasn’t, he was being an idiot, but he was so cute even if he was being dorky I had to smile at him. It was so sweet when he smiled back but I know it wasn’t for me personally. He still doesn’t get my name right. It was for me seeming to approve of what he was doing. The Savage came in a minute later, looked at the bouquet, sighed, ignored it, and got right into physics. Honestly, I want to take him aside and tell him he’s just blinded by her beauty and brains. She doesn’t appreciate him. I hear her tell him to chill out and stuff like that when they’re walking by together. Like she doesn’t like him being loud or funny. But that’s what’s so cool about him, he IS loud and funny. He’s like he’s onstage and he doesn’t know it, and she doesn’t want all that attention on him.
The Savage had to be Lisa, the woman Jamie had lived with for several years. Sylvie’s observations were sharp and accurate. She’d had a bad crush, but not a blind one. From what Jamie had said, Lisa had been critical of him. He probably had been blinded by beauty and brains—and won Lisa over with his persistent, sometimes goofy charm. The way he was now trying to win Mae. Sylvie seemed to see it exactly as it was, and so far her jealousy was still that of a girl who liked her teacher too much, not a stalker. When had she crossed over? Mae flipped to the last flagged section in the diary.
I can’t believe I didn’t get the solo. I know there are only like three lines sung solo in this piece we’re doing, but I want to be heard. I want him to hear me. See me. I worked so hard. It’s not fair. Mr. E didn’t even notice. I know it was stupid, but I got—oh God, four chocolate bars from the machines and I sat and ate them and waited outside his office, I was so upset, and I HAD to talk to him. I have to make him see me, hear me. I can sing, and I write songs, and he’s so wrapped up in everything else and everyone else and The Savage, he never notices.
He showed up with his flute case and some sheet music, like he was about to do something, but he saw me on the bench in the hall and stopped, and I thought, he sees me. Finally. He sees me.
He points out the chocolate wrappers and says, “Doesn’t work, ya know.” Says it real soft and almost sad, like he cares or understands. I guess he would. He used to be fat.
I was embarrassed and looked for a trash can. He picked the wrappers up for me with his good arm—he’s still in a sling from that rock-climbing accident—put my trash in his hand of the broken arm and opened his office, and threw the candy wrappers away. “Come in, sit down.” I couldn’t believe he was handling my trash, my stupid chocolate binge trash. Most people would just ignore something like that, or make fun of me.
I sat in a chair and he sat on his desk, looking at me with those big pretty eyes. “What’s behind the chocolate?” He looked so serious and so kind, I just broke down crying. No one is ever that nice to me. He gave me tissues and sat on the edge of his desk again, real close to me in his tiny little office full of music stands and all kinds of junk. I could feel the heat of his body, he was like only inches from me, and all this heat comes off him.
I said I was sorry about crying and he said not to be. “It’s good for ya. Catharsis a day keeps the doctor away.” He gave me such a sweet smile, I felt like he understood everything. I stopped crying and he asked what I wanted to see him about. I explained about the solo, and how I really wanted a second chance, that my audition wasn’t my best, but he had to know I could sing. I said how music was everything to me and this was our last concert before I graduate.
He said, “Sylvia, what do you plan to do with your life? It’s not music, is it? Lisa says you’re great with math and physics.” At least he
finally knew my name, but that was a crappy way to try to comfort me. Lisa says. Math nerd.
I told him I want to be a country singer. I’m going to go to Austin and get into a band and sing and write songs. He didn’t say anything for a long time. A long time
“F—Dunno what to say.” I sat there just soaking up the way he talks. Like it was special to me. It’s so messy. He never says a full “I don’t know,” it’s all one sloppy word. And he drops his ng’s half the time. It used to annoy me and now I just wanted to hear him. Knowing I might not hear him for much longer. “I had a teacher say some harsh things to me, and it hurt. A lot. She was right, but it still hurt. I wanted to be an opera singer. Thought I could handle it. I was wrong. Anyway, Sylvia, we don’t all get our dreams. You’ll have some obstacles. I’m not saying you can’t overcome them, but ...”
I was getting mad at him. “Because I’m fat?” I said. “I can lose weight.” I may need to lose a hundred pounds but he’s got to know people can drop some fat. He’s lost like fifty pounds, turned into a vegan health nut, doing all this outdoors stuff, and I don’t want him to think I’m some kind of permanent Puerca. “Like you did.”
“I’m sure you can. I didn’t mean that. It’s more that, like ... I know country singers don’t always have the best voices, but ... f—” He always trips on that f like he wants to cuss. “I mean, your pitch is perfect, and your range is excellent, but there’s ...” I can still see him, looking so serious and worried while he’s saying these awful things about my singing—like he’s working so hard to be nice he can’t tell he’s still being mean. “Quality. Timbre. Just the sound. And then, expression—Sylvia, f—you have to be realistic, have a back-up plan. College, major in physics. Maybe you write good songs, dunno. Never heard any. But you’re not—”
“Yes, you have, and I told you I wrote them.”
He looked really puzzled, like it had never happened, but I sent him sound files of my songs. All year. I bet he never listened, never even opened the e-mails. Headings: Sylvia’s Songs. He probably deleted them and forgot about me. Didn’t even know my name yet. He doesn’t pay attention to me, doesn’t hear half of what I say, doesn’t read my notes or e-mails. He couldn’t tell me apart from Sondra Rodriguez for most of the year, and she’s a Pueblo Indian and I’m three quarters Anglo. I don’t look anything like her, but all he saw was Short Fat Girl.
I got up and yelled at him, told him he was mean and insensitive and that I’d show him, and that I hoped The Savage dumps him and he breaks his other arm and both his legs, and that he was probably just a teacher because he’d failed as a singer or was too scared to try.
He looked so wounded. Those big pretty eyes all wet and sad. But that was his ego, not him caring what Sylvia Ramirez thinks. I ran out of there. I’m not going back to choir. I think I hate him as much as I love him. I hope I hurt him as much as he hurt me.
Mae closed the pink book. A hostess opened the front door and let a few people in, thanking them for coming and reminding them that the cover charge went toward helping Del with his storm losses. Jamie was so kind. Even though he’d blundered with Sylvie, he’d meant to be compassionate and helpful to his student. He’d accepted the person, but not her voice and her aspirations.
This was the root of the problem. No wonder she both loved and hated him. Jamie had done a lot to provoke both.
The show began, and Mae tried to set the Sylvie problem aside and enjoy Jamie’s singing, but she kept thinking about how bad the bar’s sound system was, and how he didn’t have his didgeridoo or his drums. He made do, teaching the audience to drum the tables and dance the beats, but compared to his show at Spirit Body with the borrowed instruments, it fell short.
Jamie turned the audience into a back-up band for the Del’s Roof song, teaching them simple melodic lines and rhythms that imitated the sounds of various instruments, as well as the doo-wop bass line. The servers and bartenders then took turns at the mic, improvising lines like Poor Del he’ll be living in a FEMA trailer or taking a room with a drunken female sailor. The funnier the line, the more people walked over to a jar on the cashier’s counter and dropped money in. Mae couldn’t help seeing Jamie as Mr. E in Sylvie’s diary, her suddenly wild and crazy choir director.
Why had Sylvie given him her diary? Did it mean the game was over? Sylvie had forced Jamie to remember her. Maybe now all she wanted was an apology.
On the return trip to Norfolk, city lights flew past as the car sped along the highway. While Mae drove, Jamie hummed a tune and drummed on the dashboard, dancing in his seat. She had to speak a little louder than usual to get his attention. “Do you want to read the diary, sugar, or do you want me to tell you everything?”
He kept singing soft hm-mm sounds, eyes closed. It had been hard to get him to leave Flanagan’s. He’d been inundated after the show, making friends and fans. Del, a balding man of about thirty-five, flamboyantly gay and outrageously funny, had asked Jamie to stay for a beer. The waiter was popular, surrounded by well-wishers, and the gathering had seemed likely become a prolonged party. Mae had tugged Jamie away after one drink, reminding him that she needed sleep, and so did he, whether he realized it or not. He seemed to still be partying in his head.
She tried again. “I think you’ll remember her as soon as you see even a page or two.”
He snapped out of his song-trance. “Sorry, love. Dreaming. You say something?”
“I asked if you want to read the diary yourself.”
“Nah, don’t want to touch the bloody thing.”
“Then you have to let me tell you about it.”
“How creepy is it?”
“She had a crush and a grudge. Maybe you’ll remember her if you picture her really overweight. Back then, she was maybe a hundred pounds heavier.”
“Nah. Short fat girls weren’t that rare.”
“Do you remember Dylan Roybal? Kind of a smart-ass, gave you a hard time.”
“Jeeezus. Roybal. Yeah. See him in a few TV shows now, any time they need to cast a good-looking Indian. In some Native rock band in Albuquerque, too. He stayed in touch all through college and after, just to annoy me—bragging, y’know? How he’d never end up teaching.”
Sylvie and Dylan were both successful, more so than their teacher had been. She could have sent bragging e-mails too, but she hadn’t. Sylvie Wainwright was invisible. “She was probably like his shadow.” Like she was Joe Wayne’s shadow now. “She says you didn’t notice her.”
“He had a few hangers-on. What else does she say?
“She wanted to be a singer and songwriter, and you didn’t encourage her.”
“Must have been twenty kids like that. Thought they could write some bloody pop drivel and be famous. Some had real careers ahead, but a lot didn’t. Tried to let ’em down easy.”
“You never listened to her music.”
“What? I wouldn’t do that. How could I tell her not to go for it if I never listened?”
Mae explained. When she finished the story, Jamie looked stunned. “That girl was Sylvie? Jesus. She didn’t just lose weight, she turned into fucking Dylan.”
“You didn’t know how much you hurt her.”
He stared out the window. “I didn’t know she had a crush, Jesus, how could I? Should have made myself listen to her songs, though.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“Bloody country crap. She did that essay on her favorite song. Jesus. I was looking for real music, y’know? Something I could use with the choir. But she ran on for pages about how country music was her soul. I knew anything she sent after that would be country and I’d hate it.”
“You could have explained that. I mean, tactfully—not like what you just said.”
“Nah—there was more. That voice. That’s how I finally learned her name. Rodriguez was an alto with a nice voice, and Ramirez was like a bloody smoke alarm going off. Your worst soprano nightmare. Had to keep telling her to lower the volume—no nuance, y’know? Piercing. But she
thought she was passionate or something. That’s why I deleted her stuff. I hated her voice, not just country music.”
“Why don’t you call her? Don’t mention her voice. Just tell her that you remember her now. She had a weird way of getting at it, but I think what she wanted was to have you say, ‘I know who you are, and I was wrong about you’—”
“But—Jeezus. If I’d listened to her stuff then, I’d have still thought it was crap. I could only have known I was wrong if I’d heard that Brazos bloke singing it. His voice is good.”
“That’s not my point. Let me finish. If you apologize, she might be done with you except to see you in Austin and give you all your things back.”
“Fuck me dead. You’re right.” He squirmed to get his phone from his back pocket. “That’d be great. Yeah. Maybe if I kiss her flat little arse, she’ll even have the lady ship Gasser to me right away.”
“I don’t think he’d get to you on the road, sugar.”
“But that lady doesn’t love him. He must be sad.”
“Even if the shippers could find you, it’d only give you a few extra days with him, and you still have to get your instruments.”
“Yeah. Guess you’re right. Maybe if I’m nice to her, she’ll ask her pet sitter to be nicer to him.”
“Put your phone on speaker. I want to hear what she says.”
Jamie peered at the options. “How do I do that?”
“Look for a little icon like a speaker.”
“Jeezus. Never knew I had that.” He made a show of bracing his posture, raised a finger dramatically. “Here goes.” He made the call.
Sylvie answered, her acquired Texas accent stronger than usual. “Howdy, cowboy.”