Out of My League
Jennifer McCoy Blaske
Published by Jennifer McCoy Blaske, 2017.
This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.
OUT OF MY LEAGUE
First edition. July 29, 2017.
Copyright © 2017 Jennifer McCoy Blaske.
Written by Jennifer McCoy Blaske.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
End of Book Stuff
About the Author
One
My mother, who was a huge fan of 80s music, named me Annie Grace, after two of her favorite female songwriters, Annie Lennox, and Grace Slick. I hoped she wasn’t expecting me to follow in their footsteps and be a dazzling, flashy, and glamorous star in any way, because if she did, she had probably spent most of the last eighteen years of her life hiding her extreme disappointment.
I’m about as ordinary as they come. I have straight brown hair that usually hangs just below my shoulders, with bangs that seem to be the right length for four weeks of a year and slightly too long during the other forty-eight weeks. I rarely wear makeup, and I never wear any kind of trendy clothing or shoes. I never even know what is trendy. For all I know, I could be wearing it—but somehow, I kinda doubt it.
I’m not a flashy, rock star kind of person. At all.
At least Mom ended up with a musician for a daughter, although whether her baby naming techniques worked is debatable. My older brother Peter—as in Gabriel—works for an accounting firm, so I wouldn’t recommend her strategy as a reliable way of programming your children’s personalities or careers. I’m a freshman piano performance major at Orchard City College. Now it might sound flashy and glamorous until you discover how my focus is on piano accompanying.
Accompanists are probably the most unnoticed performers in existence. They get none of the glory, barely any applause, and to add insult to injury sometimes get their names left out of the program altogether. In fact, some people say the sign of a great accompanist is the audience never being aware of your presence.
So, I certainly fit the part. Perhaps that’s why I’m so good at it.
Until Thursday, March 2, none of this ever bothered me. I was happy with my brown hair, my ordinary clothes, and my unnoticeable accompanist self. In fact, I wasn’t even aware of it enough to say that I was “pleased.” I never really thought about it.
But all that changed on March 2.
****
March 2 didn’t begin as a remarkable or unusual day. I ate a granola bar during my 9 a.m. US History class, and managed to stay awake by making tick marks on the corner of my paper every time Dr. Hendricks said, “Uhhh . . .”
Then I headed to the music building for freshman music theory—we took a test on seventh chords and modulations—then I accompanied a mezzo-soprano’s voice lesson. She was working on Schubert’s Die Forelle, which has a really catchy accompaniment part then I spent about forty-five minutes in the practice room by myself memorizing Bach’s French Suite II in c minor.
It was after midday when I arrived at the student center to get some lunch. Shortly after I sat at a corner booth, I saw my friend Christy get in line and waved her over.
“We almost had a riot at the cottage school this morning,” Christy said as she set her tray on the table and sat across from me.
“Seriously?” I was intrigued by what kind of riot could be started by a group of three-year old kids. Unless maybe it was the teachers who caused the riot. That actually made more sense.
“Well, not really a riot,” Christy said. “It felt like it though.”
Christy and I had met in June when the computer gods had randomly placed us as roommates for freshman orientation weekend. We bonded over the discovery that both of us had watched the entire season of Stranger Things three times. When we went to breakfast the next morning and Christy lifted her cup of coffee with a grin and said, “Coffee and contemplation,” I knew we were going to be good friends.
We were happy to discover we were both assigned to live on the third floor of Clara Anderson Hall and were in the same algebra class. We regularly got together to study, although our ‘studying’ usually turned into a run to the Waffle House, often with other people on our hall who weren’t even taking algebra, or playing several rounds of Heads Up. We both got a C in the class, and I was surprised we did so well.
“So, what happened at the Cottage School?” I dipped my chicken sandwich into a blob of honey mustard sauce and took a bite.
The Cottage School was a pre-school on campus for the kids of the college faculty and staff. Christy was an Early Education major and had to volunteer there twice a week as part of her in-field experience required for one of her classes.
“Well, the kids are supposed to bring a snack from home, and then at ten o’clock we sing the Snack Time Song and they come sit at the table and eat.”
“So, what happened? Did someone forget their snack?”
Christy shook her head, her ponytail swishing back and forth. “This kid named Alex opened his bag of . . . I don’t know, Sun Chips or something, looked inside, grimaced”—she made a face to demonstrate— “and then snapped, ‘What the hell!’”
I almost choked on my soda.
Christy chuckled then kept on with the story. “I know, right? A three-year-old kid said that. So, Davy, who was sitting across from Alex, yelled, ‘What the hell!’ right back at him. I guess he liked the way it sounded or something.”
“I guess so,” I said, coughing a few times before I resumed eating.
“So, then another kid yells it, and another and the next thing you know, all twelve of the kids were pounding their fists on the table, chanting ‘What the hell! What the hell!’”
I let out a snort of laughter.
“Miss Tammy tried to get them to stop,” Christy said. “First, she started singing the Snack Time Song again, but they didn’t pay attention, so she tried singing the Quiet Time Song, but that didn’t do any good either. Finally, she said, ‘Whoever can be the quietest gets to wear the Star Student Crown for the rest of the day!’”
“And that worked?” My eyebrows shot up in surprise.
“Like a charm.” Christy nodded and popped a french fry into her mouth. “Eddie Farkus ended up with the crown.”
“Huh. Who can comprehend the mind of a three-year-old?”
“Then Miss Tammy had me take over the class while she wrote a letter explaining the incident to the parents. You know, before the kids gave their versions of the story.”
“Smart woman.”
“So, what about you?” Christy slowly chewed her way down another fry. “How was your morning?”
“Not nearly as exciting as yours,” I said. “Dr. Hendricks said ‘um’ fifty-seven times today. I’m still waiting for him to beat his record of sixty-two.” My phone beeped with a text and I picked it up, frowned when I saw a number I didn’t recognize, and then swiped to read the text.
Hi Annie, my name is Melanie Phillips and I’m the music director at The Town Theater in the Madison Historic District. We desperately need a keyboard player for our production of Godspell next weekend and the OCC music department gave me your name and number. It pays $400 for the entire run. If you’re interested, could you please come to the theater and meet with me this evening?
“What’s up?” Christy asked.
“Someone wants
me to meet them tonight about playing for a musical,” I said. “In Madison’s Historic District. I don’t even know where it is.”
“It’s about a twenty-five-minute drive from here, heading north.” Christy grew up only about two hours away from Orchard City and knew the area better than I did. “It’s a fun area. They have a lot of good restaurants and stuff. So what musical is it?”
“Godspell,” I said, still frowning at the text. “I don’t know if I’m gonna do it, though.”
Christy set her sandwich on the table. “Why? It sounds like it’d be really fun.”
“Maybe.” I slid my phone back into my backpack pocket. The idea of going somewhere I’d never been and working with a bunch of people I’d never met would be really fun for Christy. For me, not so much. “I don’t know if I have the time right now. I’ve got a paper due next week, plus I’ve got to get ready for a recital at the end of the month.”
Christy rolled her eyes. “Oh, for heaven’s sakes. Don’t be so scared to try something new.”
“I’m not scared,” I said. “I just have a very busy schedule.”
“Uh-huh. Right.”
“What, you don’t believe me?”
“I think you should at least meet with them,” Christy said, avoiding the question. “You can always say no after you learn more about it.”
“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” I said grudgingly. “And four hundred dollars is nothing to sneeze at.”
Christy’s eyes widened. “They’re paying you? You mean it’s a job and you’re gonna tell them no? What, are you crazy?”
I was starting to wish I had waited until I was alone to read the text. “What do I know about musical theater? I’ve never played for a show before. It’s probably very different.”
That wasn’t really my concern, though. Accompanying for musical theater probably wasn’t much different to playing for anyone else. And even if it was, I was a good enough accompanist that I was sure I could adapt to it easily.
“Well,” Christy said, “I think you could use something new and different in your life.”
I sighed. “Okay, fine. I’ll go over there this evening. But no promises that I’ll take the job.”
“Hey, that’s fair.” She crumpled her napkin and tossed it on her plate. “I think you should, though. Think of it as a new adventure.”
See, that was the difference between me and Christy. For me, that was not a selling point.
****
Christy was right about Madison. It was a nice little town not too far away, and the area called the Downtown Historical District was cute and quaint, nestled inside the surrounding highways and busy roads. There were sidewalks, park benches, and a small playground with a huge fountain in the center of it.
I parked my car in a space in the road in front of a candle shop on Church Street, then walked past a Thai restaurant, an art gallery, and an ice cream parlor until I reached the Town Theater, which was on the corner of Church and Main. There was a floating advertisement above the theater that read ‘Godspell March 10-12.’
I pulled open the front door and walked into the orange-carpeted lobby which had a concession stand facing the entrance and two walls lined with cushioned hardback chairs. It was empty except for one woman sitting by herself and talking into her phone.
It didn’t look like she was having a conversation so much as she were dictating short, clipped notes to herself on it.
She looked about ten years older than me, was slightly overweight, and was wearing an oversized purple sweater and jeans. Her light brown hair was twirled around into a messy bun complete with a lead pencil poking through it and a long strand hanging at the side of her head. I wondered briefly if the pencil was there for practical purposes or if it was some sort of a fashion statement.
I cautiously took a few steps toward her, guessing she was Melanie, the music director I was supposed to be meeting, but not completely sure.
“Get price quote for new mics,” she said into her phone, then lowered it and looked at me. “Are you Annie?”
“Yes.” I smiled politely and extended my hand. “Nice to meet you.”
“It’s a good thing you’re available,” she muttered without looking at me, tossing her phone into a brown leather bag. It was so overstuffed, I wondered how long it would take for her to dig through and find it again. The way she said it sounded more like a threat than gratitude.
I slowly lowered my hand, realizing she had no interest in shaking it.
“The keyboardist we’ve done the last few shows with has turned into a total bitch.” She started rummaging through her bag, pulled out a thick spiral-bound book, and slapped it on her lap. “The last show we did, she kept dragging on this one song and I kept telling her to get her act together. She went to John—the guy who runs the theater—and told him that I was a ‘tyrant’ and she didn’t want to work with me anymore. Prima donna. I wanted to tell her, don’t let the door hit your butt on the way out.”
I had no idea what to say in response, so I just nodded and sat next to her.
“And then I spent all this time contacting the kids on the list your professor sent me, and they all said they were too busy. They had junior and senior recitals to worry about.” She exhaled in frustration. “You were the last one on my list.”
I bristled slightly. It made sense if I wasn’t first choice. After all, I was only a freshman, but it seemed strange that she would tell me that.
“So, here’s the score for the piano part.” She picked the book off her lap and thrust it in my direction. “Tech week starts Monday, so I’ll need you for those rehearsals every evening. Opening night is Friday, there are two shows on Saturday, and we close after the Sunday matinee—which was not my decision,” she said with a petulant toss of her head. “I think it’s a waste to only have a show run for one weekend, but John doesn’t listen to much of anything I say. Oh, and like I said, the pay is four hundred dollars. You should get it before the final show, but every now and then John likes to try to screw people over, so you might have to chase him down for it.”
I nodded again as I flipped through the score, which was not only long, but dense. I could learn music quickly and was confident I could do it, but it would take a good chunk of time for me to learn the entire score, not to mention the evenings spent at all these rehearsals. Was it worth four hundred dollars?
More to the point, was this a job I really wanted? This Melanie person didn’t seem particularly pleasant or easy to work with. Should I politely decline to keep myself from being involved in an ugly situation?
Of course, I was a little afraid of what this woman might do to me if I said no at this point. She was clearly someone who was quick to add people to her Hit List.
Then again, what did I care if I made her mad, if I had no intention of ever working with her?
“Well,” I said, stalling for time and avoiding her eyes as I continued to flip through the score, “I’m kind of busy myself. I think maybe I, uh . . .”
I got a reprieve when we both heard the lobby door open and looked over.
A guy about my age or slightly older walked in. He had a slightly angular face and was wearing a white t-shirt with an unbuttoned blue shirt over it. His hair was blond and slightly shaggy and hung in his eyes ever so slightly. He tilted his head to the side as he swept it away with fingers, and something inside me melted.
“Hi,” he said hesitantly. “I’m looking for someone named Melanie.”
This gorgeous being, whoever he was, had a voice to match his looks. It was soft, mellow, and just deep enough to be kind of sexy without sounding gruff.
“I’m Melanie.” She was looking slightly more annoyed. Of course, I had the feeling she spent a big portion of her life looking slightly annoyed.
“Hi, I’m Scott Stewart. You told me I could pick up the guitar score sometime this week, and I just got off work . . .” He gestured vaguely toward the door.
“Oh! Right.” Melanie pursed her lips in a
way I guessed was the closest she ever got to a smile. She leaned forward and started to root through her bag again.
Scott Stewart and I looked at each other in awkward silence as my mind raced. He was there to pick up a guitar score. Did that mean, in addition to being perfect looking and having a great voice, he also was a guitar player?
I smiled stupidly at him, feeling like I did when I was eleven again and my older brother Peter used to bring his high school friends over to the house.
He returned the smile with his own, which was just shy enough to make him look even cuter. “Hey,” he said softly. “Are you playing in the band too?”
I gulped.
All the concerns I had about playing this show vanished in an instant. I couldn’t care less how unpleasant Melanie was, or how many hours it took for me to learn the score, or if this John person ever paid me anything, ever.
“Yes,” I said too quickly, looking right into his bluish-grey eyes.
“Annie’s a piano performance major over at Orchard City,” Melanie said flatly, pulling out a much smaller version of the book she’d given me and handing it to Scott.
“Really?” he said, nodding in my direction as he took the book from Melanie. “You must be good.”
I tried to think of something to say in return, but everything I thought of sounded stupid. Thank you? Yes, I am good? Oh, I’m not that great? Could I please run my fingers through your gorgeous blond hair?
Instead I just made a noise that sounded kind of like “Heh, heh . . .”
If Scott thought I looked and sounded like a blithering idiot, he made no indication of it. He lifted his right index finger as a casual wave. “Well, I’ll see you guys Monday night.” Then he left.
Melanie brushed the hanging strand of hair out of her face, tucking it behind her ear only to have it fall back again. She hoisted up her bag, which was still jammed full of assorted papers and books, and stood up. She appeared completely unimpressed at the Greek god that had just floated in and out of our presence. “I need to get back to our rehearsal,” she gestured toward the auditorium, “so I’ll see you at six on Monday. Do you have any questions?”
Out of My League (Madison Musicians Book 2) Page 1