Out of My League (Madison Musicians Book 2)

by Jennifer McCoy Blaske

  I carefully stepped over the wires and around the speakers and amps, sat at the keyboard and played a few chords to try it out. Scott was still playing his guitar, a look of dreamy intensity on his face. He tossed his head back to get his hair out of his eyes as his fingers effortlessly danced across the fretboard.

  I couldn’t help thinking about those same fingers dancing along something else.

  “So,” I said to Melanie, trying not to let myself get distracted, “how does this work? Do we run through all the songs separately first?”

  “Well,” she said, looking over her shoulder toward the stage, “they were supposed to be done with mic check by now, and we were going to run through act one, but it looks like they haven’t even started. Of course. Hey John!” she bellowed so suddenly and so loudly that I jumped. “When are you gonna be ready to start the run-through?”

  “Give us ten minutes,” a man called back from the sound booth.

  Melanie snorted. “Yeah, like that’s gonna happen,” she muttered to us. “I guarantee it’s gonna be at least twenty.” She reached into a front pocket of her bag and pulled out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. “I’m gonna go out and grab a smoke. Any of you guys wanna come?”

  “No thanks,” Bill and I both said, while Scott just swayed his head back and forth in time to his music as a response.

  “Okay. See ya in a few.”

  I took a deep breath after she left. Okay, now was my chance to put my research into action. I had at least ten minutes—or twenty—depending on who you believed. That was plenty of time to psych myself up, think of something clever to say, and carry on a decent little conservation.

  My earlier mistake at the coffee shop had been two-fold. First of all, I had been trying to be a whole different person which ended up only making me feel stupid and uncomfortable. But I also somehow had it in my head that Scott would see a girl in a red dress with perky boobs, an elegant silhouette, and ringlets of curls and . . .

  What? Fall at my feet? Beg me for my phone number? Gaze into my eyes, mesmerized, until customers began complaining that they weren’t getting their lattes and macchiatos?

  That was ridiculous, of course. Even assuming that I looked absolutely amazing that day—which was highly debatable—well, so what? He probably saw beautiful women every day. Was that alone really supposed to get his attention? Of course not! I actually had to learn how to talk to him.

  I’d read the section on flirting so many times that day that I practically had it memorized, and apparently touch was a big deal in this delicate art of flirting.

  However, there were a few problems with that advice. Aside from the fact that the idea of touching him, while appealing was also completely terrifying, I didn’t see any way that I even could touch Scott right now. The only thing that seemed even vaguely plausible was for me to actually get up, walk around my keyboard and music stand, and put my hand on Scott’s shoulder while I said something to him. There were at three obvious problems with this idea:

  One: What the heck was I supposed to say.

  Two: I certainly didn’t have anywhere near enough nerve to be that bold while sober. And finally

  Three: I might very well scare the heck out of him and the last I would see of him was a Scott shaped blur vanishing into the distance.

  So, since any touching was out, at least for the moment, that left making eye contact, which was probably a good place to start anyway. I shifted my weight on the bench slightly so I was facing Scott, and made an effort to make my face have a pleasant expression without also having a creepy-looking smile plastered on it.

  Then I waited for a chance for our eyes to meet.

  Scott continued to play his guitar without looking up.

  Hmm. It’s a little difficult to make eye contact with someone when they’re not looking in your direction. I leaned my head slightly to one side, then tried clearing my throat . . . anything that might cause him to glimpse my way for a moment so I could catch his eye and give him a big smile. That I could do.

  Well, maybe.

  But at this rate, I would never find out. Wow, Scott was intense, just happily playing, not paying any attention to anything around him. Even if I got up and walked back and forth stark naked in front of him—which I had no intention of doing, of course—I bet he still wouldn’t look up.

  Okay, so maybe the subtle ‘catching his eye’ plan wasn’t going to work either. I was just going to have to dive in and start a conversation. Just open my mouth, and say something like . . .

  Something like . . .

  Oh, crap.

  I glanced over at the stage, where the actors were doing their mic checks. Precious moments of potential flirting time were ticking away while I sat there like an idiot. I had to say something, anything. Ask him something about being a barista. Or maybe ask him about going to Madison Community College.

  No, wait! I absolutely couldn’t say anything like that. He’s not supposed to know that I know those things. He would know I’d been stalking him. Well, not actually stalking him, of course. Just, uh . . . looking up personal information about him.

  The mic checks onstage were continuing. I was running out of time. Who knew if I would get another chance to talk to him once we started running through the show?

  Oh, I know! I’ll ask him if this is the first musical he’s ever played for?

  No, wait. That’s no good. It might imply that I think he’s inexperienced and doesn’t know what he’s doing. Maybe I could just word it a little differently. Something like . . .

  “Have you ever played for a musical before?” a male voice behind me asked.

  I whirled around and saw Bill, the bass player, grinning at me.

  ARRRGH!!! Why did I just spend so much time agonizing over the perfect question? Why didn’t I just say something? Anything! Now I’m wasting precious time having to talk to this guy who looks a little like my dad, only fatter and with less hair.

  “Uh, no,” I said, trying to resist the urge to grit my teeth. “This is my first time. How about you?”

  I hoped he would give a quick answer and the conversation could officially be considered over, but no such luck. “No, I’ve played for a few . . . Urinetown is the only one I’ve done here with Melanie, but the first one was School of Rock: The Musical. My son was in that; he played Ned.”

  “Uh-huh.” I didn’t have the faintest idea what he was talking about, and didn’t care either.

  “Ned is Dewey’s roommate,” he said. “You know—Jack Black’s roommate. You’ve seen the movie, right?”

  I knew I’d seen it years ago, but didn’t remember it much and couldn’t care less at the moment who was who. “Oh, yeah, I’ve seen it . . .” I glanced back in Scott’s direction. He was still playing the guitar and looked oblivious to our less-than-riveting conversation.

  “My son was fifteen when he was in it,” Bill said. “He’s sixteen now. He’s studying to get his driver’s license.”

  I nodded politely and started to shift my weight ever so slightly on the bench so that I was turning away from him.

  “So how do you know Melanie?”

  I sighed inwardly and turned back toward him.

  “I don’t, really. One of my music professors gave her my name just a few days ago.”

  “Professors? So, do you go to Madison CC?”

  It was one of the most boring conversations I’d ever had in my life. “No,” I said miserably. “Orchard City.”

  “Oh wow, that’s a beautiful campus.” Bill was completely clueless to fact that the last thing I wanted to be doing right then was making small talk with him. “We’re starting to look at colleges with Troy now—that’s our son. We wanted him to consider Orchard City, but he wants to go farther away.”

  He continued talking about his son’s grades in English or something—I wasn’t really paying attention, just sat there feeling completely trapped, nodding occasionally, and cursing myself for not taking the chance to talk to Scott while I stil
l had it.

  “. . . so we told him that he’d have to get his grades up and get a scholarship if he wants to be able to go there,” he was saying as I saw Melanie appear at the side door and head toward us. “We’re not made of money, you know.”

  Melanie flopped into the chair in front of us. “Okay, I need to give you guys a few notes before they’re ready to start act one.” She picked up a pack of yellow sticky notes and waved them in the air. “I’ve got sticky notes if anyone wants them. Okay, on page fifteen, we’re doing the repeat three times instead of just twice . . .”

  I took one of the packs of sticky notes, flipped to page fifteen in my score, scribbled a note and slapped it on the page.

  Six

  Step #4: Find Common Interests

  Do ‘opposites attract’? Maybe so, but don’t discount the desire that comes with discovering shared your interests. There’s no quicker way to hit it off with someone than to share a common love—whether it’s a hobby, sport, or even food. Let your genuine enthusiasm for these things show, and before you know it, he’ll be wondering where you’ve been his whole life and want to get even closer to this great girl who just might be his soul mate.

  ****

  The next day I tried to find something else to wear that was similar to the blue blouse I had discovered, but literally everything in my closet was either baggy, sloppy-looking, or both and a neutral color. I knew I wasn’t a flashy person, but this was ridiculous. You’d think I was actively trying to dress like a rodent.

  Luckily, Christy and Elle were nice enough to loan me a couple of things. Christy even told me to keep the purple shirt she gave me. She said I looked better in it than she did. I would have to go back to the mall once this show was over and I had more time. I just had to make sure that I walked really fast and looked the other way when I passed any kiosk people.

  Or better yet, maybe I should just go to Target instead.

  ****

  Over the next couple rehearsals, I started getting a better handle on things. I was getting more comfortable with the songs, I started to understand more of the theater oddities, like the fact that I had to tape an orange polycarbonate gel on my lamp so that it wouldn’t detract from the stage lighting, and the theater lingo, like ‘vamping’ which apparently means playing a few measures over and over as actors were saying their lines.

  Even though I didn’t interact directly with the cast, I started to at least learn some of their names and quirks. There was Mark, who played Jesus. He was in his thirties and had done some professional theater. There was Penny, a high school girl, and her mom Linda who were probably the two weakest cast members. Neither of them had any solos, but both were always super-enthusiastic.

  But the one who struck me the most was Tori. Everyone seemed to know her and like her. Probably because, from what I’d heard, she’d been in tons of shows with other people from the cast, and almost always played the lead. Apparently, she was Maria in West Side Story, Cosette in Les Mis, and Maureen in RENT. She looked to be in her early twenties and everything about her just screamed ‘performer.’ She was always telling jokes and laughing and the center of attention during the cast’s downtime, she was beautiful, and she was what people called a ‘triple threat,’ meaning that she was great at singing, dancing, and acting.

  Tori had two solos in the show, and in both she just belted them out in a way that was amazing. In her second song, which was at the beginning of act two, she even went out into the audience, acting like a temptress as she waved a boa around, twirling and singing her heart out.

  She, apparently, had no problem connecting with her ‘inner sexy.’

  But while I was enjoying the show itself and starting to feel a little more comfortable in the theater environment, I was making absolutely no headway in the Scott department. Every night it was the same thing. During any downtime we had during rehearsal, I would either want to start a conversation with Scott, but be paralyzed with fear and indecision, or I was turned to my other side, trying to get rid of Bill the Bass Player as he bored me with stupid stories about his son’s driving lessons or his daughter’s dance competitions.

  By Thursday evening I had practically given up. Rehearsal was starting late because Melanie and John were having some sort of issue . . . I didn’t even know what about, but I saw them both near the sound booth. Melanie stomping her foot and waving her arms around while John had his arms crossed in front of him and looked like he was seething.

  I was so emotionally exhausted from constantly failing to get Scott’s attention and knowing that I was running out of time that I just sat there, completely unmotivated, as I watched the real-life drama on the other side of the room and prayed that Bill wouldn’t start talking to me again.

  In the back of my mind I heard a tune that I knew was familiar, and then without even thinking, blurted out, “Message in a Bottle!” as if I were some game show contestant.

  Scott looked up from his guitar and grinned at me. “You know it?”

  Because, of course, it had been Scott who had been playing the tune.

  Oh my gosh. I had started a conversation with Scott without even realizing it. This was my big moment. This was what I had been trying to do for days now.

  “Yeah, that’s from the Regatta de Blanc, right?”

  He was clearly amused. “How do you know all about The Police? You’re way too young.”

  “Well . . . so are you!” I said.

  Wait, was this flirting? Maybe? Almost? Try smiling maybe?

  “Andy Summers is one of my favorite guitarists,” Scott said, “He’s got a real unique sound . . . that real clean, echoing thing he does . . .” He played a few chords. It’s real . . . minimalistic, you know?”

  I didn’t really know. I just knew that my mom played The Police a lot when the family cleaned the house, and I would always sing along. I thought about it now. “Yeah, I guess you’re right. It kinda reminds me of U2.” U2 wasn’t a house-cleaning band, but was what Mom would play when she was in her more thoughtful moods, often accompanied by a lit candle.

  Scott slid toward the front of his chair! “Oh, Andy Summers had a huge impact on The Edge! And Alex Lifeson, too.”

  “Uh . . . who’s that?” I asked, not wanting to appear stupid, but at the same time wanting this conversation that fell into my lap to last as long as possible.

  “He’s the guitarist from Rush. You ever heard of them?”

  I shook my head.

  “This is the Alex Lifeson chord,” Scott said, playing it for me. “It’s an F sharp major with an added fourth and a flat seven.”

  I put my hand on the keyboard to figure out what those notes were, but Melanie chose that moment to come huffing back over to her spot.

  “He is such an idiot,” she said. “Okay, we’re starting with Act Two. Tori!” she bellowed toward the stage. “We’re starting with your song at the top of Act Two.”

  “Got it!” I heard Tori call back.

  It was the happiest rehearsal we’d had all week.

  And as soon as I got back to the dorm, I listened to “Message in a Bottle,” which was officially my new favorite song.

  ****

  “I’m gonna put it in the trash can!” Christy said sternly, wagging her index finger, as I joined her and Elle at a table at lunch the next day.

  “Hey, what’s up?” I asked.

  Christy’s face immediately transformed into a grin. “I’m just telling Elle what happened at The Cottage School this morning. There’s this kid named Kevin who always throws his jacket on the floor. Like, every single day. And it drives Miss Tammy crazy, because every single day she has to tell him to pick it up and put it on the hook on the wall. You know, the hook that has his name in big letters right above it. The hook that is right next to all the other hooks where all the other kids hang their coats.” She made an exasperated sound.

  “You’re starting to sound like my mother,” I said, then mimicked, “’Annie, let me introduce you to what’s b
ehind this door . . . it’s called a closet.’”

  “Even you don’t throw your clothes on the floor,” Christy said. “That’s just nasty.”

  “True,” I said.

  “So anyway, Miss Tammy had tried everything to get Kevin to hang the stupid jacket up. She tried silently pointing at the hook when he arrived, she made it a rule that only kids who hung up their coats could be chosen to hold Benny the Book Bear during story time . . .”

  “Did she try singing a song about it?” Elle asked with a grin.

  I laughed.

  “Yes!” Christy said. “Yes, she did, as a matter of fact. It went something like . . . ’When you walk in through the door . . . don’t throw your coat upon the floor . . . just look, look, look, and you will find your hook.”

  Elle and I both nodded our approval. “Catchy,” Elle said.

  “Yeah, well it didn’t do a darn bit of good,” Christy said. “So yesterday Miss Tammy told him, ‘Kevin, the next time I see that jacket on the floor, it is going in the trash can!’”

  “Ooh. Bringing out the big guns.”

  “So, what happened?” Elle asked.

  Christy narrowed her eyes. “What do you think happened?”

  “I’m guessing that threat didn’t get little Kevin too excited,” I said.

  “Ding, ding! He came in this morning, threw his jacket on the floor, and Miss Tammy scooped it up and threw it in the trash can next to her desk. She was going to give it back later, of course.”

  “Of course,” I said.

  “Anyway, that was all before I arrived,” Christy said. “When I got there later this morning, the jacket was still in the trash can. We were in the middle of doing our sign language alphabet, and just as we got to ‘Q,’ Davy jumps up and runs over to the trash can . . .” she started laughing. “And throws up in it.”

  Elle clasped her hand to her mouth.

  “Oh no!” I slapped my hand over my eyes.

  Christy nodded, still laughing. “Miss Tammy turned pale at first, but then she just quietly went to rinse it off and put in a trash bag to go get it dry cleaned. She said that vomit was just one of the occupational hazards of being a teacher.”