Jane's Harmony (Jane's Melody #2)

by Ryan Winfield

  “Yeah, what do you know about the real world, kid?”

  “I know that you reap what you sow.”

  “And what’s that, one of your cute lyrics or something?”

  “No. It just means that in the real world someday you’ll be old and incontinent and having to have your ass wiped for you. And probably by a guy with earrings and tattoos too.”

  He looked as if he wanted to punch Caleb in the face. “You better hope you sing as well as you mouth off, kid.”

  Then he glared at them both once more before marching off and yelling at various people he passed.

  “Thanks,” Sean said, looking relieved.

  “I didn’t do it for you.”

  “Then what did you say that for?”

  “I was hoping he’d send me home.”

  Sean laughed. “That talk we had last night has you missing your woman, doesn’t it? I found your weakness. Now if we both make it to the live show, I know to keep on talking.”

  “If we both make it to the live show,” Caleb said, grabbing a plate from the stack, “I’m getting my own room.”

  “That hurts, man. That really hurts.”

  “Oh, shut up. What are you playing today?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve been thinking about a song I wrote after a breakup, but I’ve never played it for anyone before, so I think I’ll go with something else to play it safe.”

  “Why not sing it?”

  “I don’t know. The emotion’s still too raw, maybe. She said I wasn’t going anywhere with my music, and she married this dickhead high school jock because his dad owned a chain of restaurants. It fucking broke my heart, dude.”

  “You should sing it,” Caleb said.

  “You think so?”

  “I do. It’s been my experience that the best way to get over hard stuff is to sing it out and leave the emotions on the stage.”

  “I’ll think about it,” Sean said.

  Caleb sat with the other contestants, waiting to watch Sean’s group perform. First up was Panda, the young girl from Selma. She stepped onstage and sat at the piano. Her clock was gone from around her neck and she was no longer chewing gum, but she was still wearing her sparkly red shoes.

  One of the contestants from another team nudged Caleb. “It’s Cyndi Lauper’s mini-me up there.”

  “Her name’s Panda,” Caleb said. “And you better prepare to eat those words.”

  The song she performed was about a young summer love coming to an end, and Caleb thought it had all the innocence and nostalgia that a song about love and summer should. The audience applauded, and Panda stood from the piano and bowed.

  The judge waited for the crowd to quiet before addressing her. “Dear, you play the piano with the nuance of Chopin, and you sing like the angel who must have sat on his shoulder when he composed. If his heart weren’t floating in a jar of cognac in Poland, I’d swear it was inside you. Thank you.”

  Panda beamed with pride as she trotted offstage.

  There was a brief break while the piano was wheeled away and the stage reset, and then Sean stepped out with his guitar. He looked the polar opposite of Panda up there.

  The director called, “Action,” and Sean took a deep breath.

  “I wasn’t going to sing this one, but a good friend of mine convinced me that the best way to get over something painful is to let it all out and leave it on the stage. So here goes.”

  He played a biting guitar intro that roused the crowd and made even Caleb forget about Panda’s piano piece. And then Sean sang an edgy song, the lyrics laced with anger and heartache, the final lines driving it home . . .

  But you didn’t get far, did you, you pretty little liar

  The tears are coming, sweetie; the screams of soft regret

  But you’re too late, Katie, you’ll never pay off your debt

  Because I wake each morning in my own prison cell

  Sentenced to solitary confinement in a lonely lover’s hell

  When he finished, he looked as if he’d unloaded a burden he’d been carrying for a long time. He glanced toward Caleb and smiled, and Caleb knew that he was thanking him.

  Caleb stood backstage, waiting his turn and watching the monitors as Jordyn performed. The camera loved her, that was for sure. She had a presence offstage too, an almost intimidating air, but the camera picked up something else, something vulnerable, and it turned her into a star.

  She finished her song and smiled flirtatiously into the camera. Then she glided offstage and was gone. Caleb was still looking up at the monitor and the empty microphone where she had stood when he heard her speak beside him.

  “Was it any good, or do you think they hate me?”

  “I have reason to believe they don’t hate you,” he said.

  “And what reason would that be?”

  “Because everyone was kind enough to wait until you left the stage to take their earplugs out. Even the judge.”

  “Now, that’s just mean-spirited,” she shot back, pretending to be hurt. “Are you a mean boy, Caleb?”

  “I’ve been told I’m direct, if that’s what you mean.”

  “I’d agree with that,” she replied. “But women like a man who’s direct. And I’m sure you know that, don’t you?”

  “I know my fiancée does.”

  One half of her mouth curled up in a sneaky kind of smile, and she said, “Oh my, you think I’m flirting with you.”

  “Aren’t you?” Caleb asked.

  She batted her eyelashes at him, purring her response. “Maybe just a little.”

  “Well, it won’t get you anywhere.”

  “Maybe not with you,” she said, implying by the look on her face that it had gotten her plenty of other places with plenty of other people. Then she said, “Besides, you’re not really my type. But you are cute, you know. You should do videos and put them up on YouTube. I might even do you a favor and share your first one with my fans and get you some exposure.”

  “No thanks,” Caleb said. “I’m not interested.”

  “Not interested in exposure? That’s a first.”

  “I’ve heard there’s a first for everything.”

  “Then what are you interested in?”

  “I’m interested in making music.”

  “Oh, you’re a purist. Let me guess, you listen to vinyl records and hang out in local coffee shops. Probably belong to a microbrew-of-the-month club too. I know your type, honey. You’re still naive. But you’ll see. Someday you’ll see. The only thing pure about the music business is that it’s pure business.”

  “If that’s what they teach at Juilliard, then I’m glad I never went. It’s been nice chatting with you, Jordyn.”

  As he walked away, she called after him. “What are you playing today?”

  “My new song,” he called back over his shoulder.

  “With the key change I gave you?” she asked.

  “Yep, with the key change.”

  They stood lined up on the stage as if waiting to be executed. But only half of them would be, and even then it would only mean the end of their time on TV, not the end of their lives, as it might have seemed.

  They were separated into five groups of four, one group for each judge, and the judges sat in their elevated box looking down on them like gods. The producer called for quiet on the set, the director called action, and the hackneyed Hollywood host put on a fake smile and took to the stage.

  “Welcome back to Singer-Songwriter Superstar,” he said, flashing a grin at the camera and waving his arm expansively to take in the contestants. He was reading from a teleprompter. “In the next hour, half of these artists will be going home. The other half will go on. Who will stay and who will leave? We’ll be right back to answer that after these short commercial messages.”

  “Cut!” the dir
ector called. “That’s in the can.”

  “Let’s move on to eliminations,” the producer said. “We’ll edit in the close-ups and the bios later.”

  The director nodded. “Fine by me.”

  “And we’ve got one chance to get this right, because once they know who’s going home and who’s staying, we’ll never get a real reaction from them twice.”

  There was a brief commotion while the camera crews reset, the boom operator moved the microphones, and the gaffers adjusted the lights, and then the producer called again for quiet on the set.

  There went the teleprompter, here came the hotshot host.

  “We’re back again with our first round of eliminations. We’ll start with your team, Cynthia. Please tell us the name of the first of your four artists you intend to save.”

  Great, Caleb thought, my judge would go first. But then he thought maybe it was better, because then at least he’d know and could enjoy the rest of the show.

  The judge looked down upon the four of them, sweeping her eyes over them slowly as if hers was an impossible decision to make and she just didn’t know. But it was all for the camera.

  “I need the name,” the announcer said.

  “I know,” the judge said, feigning distress. “It’s just that I’ve come to love all of them so much. It’s hard to choose . . .”

  Caleb could hardly believe his ears. She’d come to love them so much? She had hardly said hello to any of them.

  “But,” she continued, “the first artist I choose to go forward with me is Jordyn.”

  Jordyn placed both hands on her chest and opened her mouth as if she were shocked. Caleb thought she was a better actor than even the judge. The host congratulated her and had her move over to one of ten chairs waiting for the ten finalists.

  Then he turned back to the judge. “Now, we need the name of the first artist you’re sending home.”

  “My, oh my.” The judge sighed. “This is in no particular order, by the way. As much as I think you’re all amazing, I must cut two of you. The first artist I’m sending home is Joshua.”

  “Sorry, Joshua,” the host said. “We’ve enjoyed having you. Good luck out there.”

  Joshua thanked the judge and walked awkwardly off the stage in the direction he was pointed by the host. So now it was down to two. Caleb had mixed emotions. He liked the girl standing next to him. She was sweet. And she was a fine singer too. But he wanted to move on. He wanted it for himself, and he wanted it even more for Jane.

  “There are two artists remaining,” the host said. “And only one spot. Please give us the name of the second contestant who will sit in that chair. The other will leave the stage forever.”

  The girl next to Caleb looked at him nervously, so he reached and took her hand in his and held it. Then he looked back up at the judge.

  “I wish I could keep you both,” the judge said. “I really do. And this is just the beginning of the road for each of you, whether you go on or not.”

  “I hate to rush you,” the host said, “but I need the name.”

  “Okay, okay. The second artist I am keeping is . . . is . . . Jen—no, sorry, I’m going to go with my gut and keep Caleb.”

  Caleb hadn’t realized he had been holding his breath until she said his name and he let it out. But then he felt terrible for the girl next to him. She had jumped with excitement when the judge said her name, and then he had felt her hand go limp once his name was uttered. And he suspected the judge had done it all for the cameras too.

  He hugged the girl and wished her well, and then watched her walk off the stage.

  “Congratulations,” the host said, pulling Caleb toward the chair. “Take your seat with the winners, you’ve earned it.”

  Caleb sat next to Jordyn. He could smell her perfume, and he could feel her staring at him. He finally looked over at her. There was a sparkle in her eyes and she was grinning.

  “I told you it would be down to us.”

  “Yeah, well, so what?” He shrugged. “Even a blind squirrel can sometimes find a nut.”

  She laughed loudly but then cut herself short when the producer called for quiet on the set.

  “Cameras are still rolling, people!”

  Once the focus was off them and back on the host, she leaned in to Caleb and whispered in his ear. “Pick another team and I’ll tell you who goes through.”

  Caleb looked at the other four teams still standing, one of them nervous and in the spotlight now. “Okay,” he whispered, pointing. “That one there. The one with my roommate, Sean.”

  She looked for a few seconds, biting her lip cutely. Then she put her mouth so close to Caleb’s ear that her lips tickled him as she whispered her answer.

  “That’s easy,” she said. “Your roommate goes through and so does the adorable little girl with the red shoes.”

  Chapter 11

  It was only the beginning of Jane’s first week alone on the job, and already everyone loved her. The employees of the businesses on her blocks would see her and run out to bring her coffee or slices of pizza, or sometimes simply shout her name and wave hello. At first she thought they were just being kind. But when she noticed their cars, she began to understand.

  She saw a hat first. Left out in plain view on the dash. It belonged to the guy from the sandwich shop around the corner. Then she saw a stack of menus from the pizza place, also perched on the dash. A T-shirt from the pub; a coffee-shop apron. And all of these cars had one thing in common—expired meters. Jane was conflicted. She knew they were local employees working hard to make ends meet, but she also had a job to do. She decided to try leaving notes, writing them out and placing them in ticket envelopes left under the wipers. The notes read:

  Hi. I noticed you work on the block and I decided to leave you a warning first. Please help me do my job and either pay the meter or find a more permanent parking solution. Thanks! —Jane

  The next day came, and no one said hello and most of the cars were gone. One car remained with a ticket envelope still under the wiper, and when Jane stopped to check it, she found a twenty-dollar bill tucked inside. She left the envelope and the money where she’d found them and added an actual ticket. That’ll teach them to bribe me, she thought.

  But it wasn’t just the local employees she had a hard time ticketing. It was lots of other cars too. If she came upon an expired meter and the car parked there looked run-down, its owner likely struggling financially, Jane would leave a note instead of a ticket. She did the same thing if a car had infant seats or if a vehicle had a war-veteran plate. But once she started leaving notes for some people, it didn’t seem right for her to choose who she would ticket and who she wouldn’t, so she began making rules for herself to follow. She decided she’d leave notes on every other block and then switch the blocks up the next day to be fair. Then she’d make an exception, of course, and she’d have to remake the rules again.

  On the afternoon of her third day, she came upon a yellow Porsche double-parked. Finally, a citation she could write without remorse. She had just printed the ticket and was stuffing it into the envelope when she leaped back because the Porsche’s alarm sounded. She looked up and saw the driver jogging toward her with his remote in his hand.

  “I’m just leaving!” he shouted, jumping into his car.

  She remembered what her trainer had said about serving the ticket and she rushed to put it under the wiper. But the driver peeled away in his Porsche and left her standing at the curb with the ticket in her hand.

  Jane sat for lunch at a local deli. When she’d finished eating, she tallied up her tickets for the day. She’d written fifteen and served only ten of them. A far cry from the hundred or so her trainer had said was normal.

  “How many of those do you write in a day?” the server asked, eyeing the tickets in Jane’s hand as she refilled her tea.

  “Not
enough,” Jane replied.

  “Are you on commission?”

  Jane shook her head.

  “That’s good,” the server said. “My husband’s an auto mechanic, and he always says people are about as happy to see him as they are to see the meter maid or the dentist.”

  Jane had been home from work less than an hour and was just getting out of the shower when she heard a knock on the door. She pulled on her sweats and a T-shirt and went to answer it. Her neighbor was standing there with Buttercup in her arms.

  “Hi, Marjorie,” Jane said. “How is he?”

  “Just Marj is fine. He’s doing much better, thanks to you.”

  The dog had several patches of shaved fur where he had received stitches, and he looked at Jane from the opening of the silly cone on his head and let out a thin bark.

  “He’s happy to see you.”

  “Well, don’t stand out in the hall. Come on in.”

  Jane stepped aside so they could enter and then shut the door behind them. Marj stood, looking around at the apartment.

  “It’s just like mine but backwards.”

  “I know,” Jane said. “I had the same feeling when I went into your apartment to get your shoes.”

  Marj looked back at Jane and smiled. “Well, we didn’t want to bother you, but Buttercup insisted on saying hello. Didn’t you, Buttercup?”

  She leaned her face down to the cone opening and Jane saw Buttercup’s little tongue lick her nose. Then she held the dog out to Jane, but Jane shook her head.

  “That’s all right,” she said. “I wouldn’t want to hold him wrong and open a stitch or something.”

  “Oh, don’t be silly, he loves to be held.”

  Jane relented and took the dog from her and cradled him in her arms. She rocked him gently and looked down at his tiny face staring up at her from the cone like some kind of alien baby in a bonnet. The brown snout, the black button nose.

  “He really is cute,” she said. “What kind of dog is he?”

  “A min pin. That’s short for miniature pinscher.”

  “Like a Doberman?”