by Marisa Logan
I shivered, caught in those eyes. Then the next amateur performer was taking the stage and I had to step out of the way. By the time I got clear of the stage lights and started putting my guitar back in its case, the figure in the back corner was gone. I looked around, but at least a dozen people had gotten up after I finished singing, taking the moment between songs to go to the bathroom or refresh their drinks. I couldn't pick out the stranger with the agate eyes from anywhere among them.
I flipped closed the locks on the guitar case. Grace moved through the crowd to stand beside me, smiling. “You were wonderful,” she said.
“Yeah.” I forced a smile. “I guess so.”
My real secret, I suppose, isn't my music. It's the fear I have of ever being known. Though I suppose, in a way, that's not a secret at all. A million subscribers to The Faceless Soprano's YouTube page knew all about my fear.
Though mostly, they all just said that I'm shy.
Chapter 3
I didn't hear from Lydia's Mystery Man for a few days. When I wasn't at work, I spent most of my time making recordings in my studio at home. Well, “studio” might be too fancy of a word for it. I have a two-bedroom apartment, and one of the bedrooms is filled with my computer, recording equipment, and instruments. I mostly just played the guitar, but I also knew how to play the keyboard and the violin. It made me something of a one-woman-band.
I was in the middle of working on a mulitrack music video. You might have seen them on YouTube: one person plays all the parts, recording a video multiple times for each piece, then puts them together in a split-screen video that harmonizes all of the parts into one whole. It's really complicated, since I have to record while playing videos of myself performing the other parts, in order to make sure everything syncs up correctly. When it's done right, though, it's a beautiful end result, like a mini orchestra made up of just me.
It's not that I wanted to be the center of all the attention. I just didn't know how to find anyone to form a proper band with.
I was in the middle recording one of the background voice parts, and on my fourth take, when my phone rang. I cursed out loud (don't ever let anyone tell you shy girls don't have a mouth on them) and pulled off my headphones. The videos of me singing the first two parts and playing the guitar kept playing in the background while I scrambled to pause everything, grumbling to myself the whole time. I supposed that it was my fault for not muting my phone, but I usually never bothered. No one ever called me.
(Which doesn't mean I don't have any friends. I do. They just all live in other states, and we mostly talk on Twitter. My personal Twitter account, not @FacelessSoprano. Those two accounts shall never cross paths.)
By the time I got everything turned off and found my phone, the call had already gone to voicemail. “Oh freakin' fiddlesticks,” I muttered. Not only had my take been ruined, but I had missed the call as well. And when I checked the voicemail, there was no message, so I figured the call couldn't have been that important.
I settled back on my stool and put my headphones back on, ready to try for a fifth take, when the phone rang again. I grumbled and thought about muting the call, but I decided that whatever it was, I might as well get it over with. I had mostly forgotten, of course, that I was supposed to be expecting a call from a guy. If I had remembered, I definitely wouldn't have answered it.
“Hello?” I started resetting everything to get ready to record the next take, figuring I wouldn't be on the phone long.
A man's deep baritone voice answered me. “Hello there. Is this Madeline?”
I winced. I'd hated my full name ever since the movie Madeline came out when I was six years old. Every kid in first grade, and I do mean every kid, had spent the next year teasing me and asking me where my yellow hat was. I'd ended up abandoning my real name, the same way I'd abandoned my face in my YouTube videos. I'd actually gone by “Mara” for awhile, after my favorite childhood actress, Mara Wilson. But it never quite stuck. Eventually I settled on “Maddie” because that was what my parents had called me for my whole life anyway.
“This is Maddie,” I said, my voice tight. “May I help you?”
“My name is Ashe. Ashley Ross. Your friend, Lydia, gave me your number.”
I almost dropped my phone when my hand started shaking. I didn't do well on the phone, and talking to a man on the phone was the worst. “Oh. Um. Hello.”
He laughed, a soft, confident sound. “You said that already, I do believe. Did I call at a bad time?”
I looked at my studio and the half-finished video on my computer screen. “No,” I said. “Yes. Well, maybe.”
“That covers just about all the possibilities,” he said, a humorous lilt to his deep voice. “I am sorry if I caught you at an inopportune moment. I can try back again, another time...?”
“No,” I said, twirling my headphone cord between my fingers. “I mean, it's a bad time, but I don't want you to call again.”
“I see,” he said. I could almost see the disappointed frown on his face.
“No, that's not...I didn't mean...” I slapped a hand to my face, holding back a curse of frustration. “I just meant that I'm not good on the phone.”
This was going so well, I told myself. Less than a minute into the conversation and I'd already made it pretty clear that I was a complete idiot.
“I understand,” he said. “Listen, I'm not so fond of phones myself. Such impersonal devices.”
Devices? I thought. Who uses a word like devices?
“Perhaps, if this isn't too forward of me, we could meet in person. Over coffee?”
“No,” I said before I caught myself.
“Ahh.” He sighed into the phone. “I see.”
“No, not no.” I squeezed my eyes shut tight, as if I could hide from my own failure. “Not no to meeting you. No to coffee. I...I don't drink coffee.”
I got up and started pacing around the studio, only to be cut short when my headphone cord snagged and almost ripped out of the computer. I pulled the headphones off from around my neck and set them on the stool. “Maybe we can drink...something else?” I asked.
“I'd enjoy that,” he said. I thought I heard amusement in his tone. Was he laughing at me?
“I drink...other things,” I said. My mind raced trying to think of what else I drank. I wasn't much for alcohol, and I hated cappuccino. I stepped into the kitchen and opened my fridge. “Milk.”
“Milk?” The confusion in his tone rang out like a gong.
I stared into my stupid, stupid, empty fridge. I laughed nervously. “Not milk,” I said. “I mean, unless you like milk.”
“I love milk,” he said. I couldn't tell if he was making fun of me. “Why don't we meet at a cafe, and tell the baristas we'd like two tall glasses of milk to get to know each other by.”
“Really?” I asked. He sounded sincere. I had been pretty sure I'd blown the whole thing.
“Really.” He chuckled, but it was friendly, not a mocking laugh. “There's a little place downtown. Tomorrow night, perhaps?”
“Yeah,” I said, staring at the half-empty gallon of milk in my fridge. “Yeah, that sounds great.”
“It's a date, then.”
We worked out the time and place, then Ashe wished me goodnight. I hung up the phone, still staring at the stupid milk in my fridge.
“This is all your fault,” I told it, slamming the door shut.
But I had a date. At least, I thought that's what it was. That was something, at least.
I went back into my studio to work on recording my video. I was distracted the entire time, however, with thoughts of tomorrow night.
What did a girl wear to go out and drink milk with a total stranger?
Chapter 4
I wore a white dress to go meet Ashe the next day. I know, I know, I'm a total dork. I don't know what I was thinking. I felt like a glass of milk wearing a very short skirt. I walked into the little cafe and immediately stalked into a corner and sat at an empty table, where I burie
d my face in my hands. I wasn't even sure why I bothered to show up. I wondered if Ashe would show up. I half-expected to get a phone call in the next few minutes, giving me some excuse why he couldn't make it. No, a phone call was too personal. He'd text. He was going to text me to let me know what a dork I was and tell me that he didn't want to drink milk with a girl who didn't even know how to flirt properly.
“Maddie?”
I looked up and saw Ashe standing over me, smiling. He was tall, like really tall compared to little old me, but kinda skinny. He had short-buzzed hair, brown skin, and eyes that were the darkest black I'd ever seen on a man. And to my surprise, he wasn't dressed like a rich, high-society guy. He didn't look rich at all. He wore jeans and a maroon button-down shirt, along with a small pendant on a black cord around his neck. It bore what looked like some kind of pagan or Wiccan symbol, with a star crossed by vertical lines and a series of runes around it.
“Hi,” I said, lowering my hands and forcing a smile. “Hi, umm, nice to meet you.”
“The pleasure is mine, I'm sure,” he said. He took my hand in his and gave it a light squeeze. “I'm glad you could make it. Are you ready for that glass of milk?” He hooked a thumb over his shoulder, pointing to the front counter and grinning.
“Yeah. Yes. Yup.” I stood up, smoothing my stupid glass-of-milk dress. We walked up to the counter and I glanced at the menu overhead. “Milkshakes!”
“Milkshakes?” Ashe looked at me and arched an eyebrow.
I read over the list of milkshake flavors on the menu, feeling a sense of relief. “Milkshakes, that's what I meant. Not milk. Who goes out to drink milk on a first date...” I waved a hand and laughed, then snorted, then covered my face with my hand.
See, I'm not shy. I'm just afraid to ever talk to anyone because stuff like this always happens.
“A milkshake.” Ashe folded his hands at his waist and looked at the menu, then nodded. “Excellent. Very 1950s. We could just get one and ask for two straws.”
I laughed, covering my mouth with my hand. We ordered a couple of milkshakes, one mint and one strawberry, and sat at a table by the windows. It was a sunny day outside, still warm even with the approaching autumn. I was glad it wasn't cold outside. Milkshakes would have sounded like a stupid idea on a freezing cold day.
“So,” Ashe said, flashing me a charming smile, “tell me about yourself.”
“Well, I...” I hesitated, my eyes going wide. What if Lydia had talked me up to this guy? I knew literally nothing about him, but he might have heard my whole life story. “Umm, what has Lydia told you.”
“Well, she says you're shy.”
I wanted to climb into the bottom of my milkshake and drown.
“But I've got the feeling that's just a cover,” he added.
“A cover?” My eyebrows shot up. I felt exposed, like The Faceless Soprano had just had her face revealed.
“There's more to you than meets the eye.” He leaned back in his chair, slung one arm over the back, and picked up his milkshake with his other hand. “I'm a good judge of people. I've got an eye for talent.”
“Talent?” I fidgeted in my seat. Lydia couldn't have told him about my singing. She didn't know about my singing.
“Well, that's what I do,” he said. He took a sip of his milkshake, then added, “I'm a talent agent.”
My heart leapt into my throat. This was my most secret fear and dream, all coming crashing together at the same time, with milkshakes.
I tried to keep the tremble out of my tiny voice. “What...what sort of talent agent? I mean, who do you represent.”
“Musicians. Singers.” He took another sip of his milkshake. “There's a big indie music scene around here. Not a lot of people know about it.”
I laughed. “Most people wouldn't know music if it was spoon-fed to them, which is all the radio stations around here do. The big record labels never recognize real talent. They just want what sells.”
He arched an eyebrow, looking at me appraisingly. “You know music?”
I nodded, shocked at my eagerness. “Oh, yeah. I've been playing since I was four. Well, my parents started me on the violin when I was four. Well, really, they tried to get my older sister to play, but she hated it. Then I picked it up one day, and, well, I have an ear for music.” I actually gestured to my ear when I said that, because I'm the world's biggest dork. “I started being able to mimic anything I heard someone play. My parents thought I was going to become some big musician in an orchestra or something.” I shrugged and looked down at my lap.
“So why didn't you?” He leaned forward, intense interest in his eyes.
I looked away, unable to meet his eyes when talking about something so personal. “I hate formal music. Classical is so...” I held out my hands, grasping, as if I could grab the right word right out of the air.
“Stuffy?” he offered.
“Yes! And old. I mean, not that there's anything wrong with old. It's classic for a reason. But I've always wanted to make something new. My own music.”
“Instead of just imitating others.”
I nodded. “I was in the high school band for awhile, and I had some offers to go to a music academy. But I wanted to go out on my own.” I shrugged, looking down at my milkshake. “I don't care if I'm never famous, as long as I'm doing what I love.”
“Now that's a lie.”
I looked up at him. He was studying me with a deadly serious expression on his face. “A lie?”
“About not wanting to be famous.” He reached out and touched my hand. “Everyone wants to be recognized for their talents. You want that, just as much as anyone else would. You're just afraid.”
I worried that he would feel the shaking in my hand. I couldn't look away from his dark, dark eyes. “What am I afraid of?”
“Of failing.”
I looked down at my lap. Boy, had he nailed it right on the head. Deep down, I knew the reason The Faceless Soprano had always been faceless was because if she ever fails, it won't be me that screwed it up. I won't have to live with the shame of my failures if no one ever knows it was me. No one would call Madeline Wright a big old stinking failure.
“You shouldn't be afraid,” Ashe said.
I peeked up at him through my bangs. “I shouldn't?”
“I've met a lot of musicians in my time. And I know a thing or two about what it takes to succeed. And you've got that.”
I laughed and shook my head. “But you haven't even heard me play.”
He snorted. “Talent isn't what it takes to win in this industry.” My face scrunched up in confusion, and he continued. “Lots of people have talent. Most of the indie bands I've met have plenty of talent. But they never make it big, because they're missing something.”
“What are they missing?”
“Moxie.” He leaned forward, his expression dark and serious. “That's where I come in. I can see when someone has what it takes, and I know how to bring it out, how to make the record labels see it. Music isn't about the sound you make on your instrument. Oh,” he waved a dismissive hand, “it's about that to the musicians themselves. They're always in it for the art. But in the music industry, the key word is 'industry.' If you don't know how to market yourself, you'll never make it.”
I watched the way he talked, the confidence he exuded. The things he was saying made sense. I'd never made much money for my music. I sold some CDs and MP3 downloads as The Faceless Soprano, but not enough, or I wouldn't still work in a vegan cafe for a living.
The thing about putting your videos on YouTube was that most people wouldn't pay for something they had already gotten for free, and only a small percentage of my viewers would even click on the links to my sale pages. I brought in some money every month from YouTube advertising revenue, though how much depended on how many views each video got and how many of my viewers actually clicked on the ads.
My biggest single, “Sweet Tears on my Face,” had brought in close to fifty thousand dollars in ad revenue since it
was released, but that wasn't as much as it sounded like when it was spread out over several years. Taken as a whole, my entire YouTube channel only brought in a few hundred dollars on a normal month. After deducting the amount I had to spend on recording equipment and such, I was left with a modest amount of pocket money each month, but nowhere near enough to quit my job.
“Let me represent you,” Ashe said. He squeezed my hand and a wolfish grin spread across his face.
I blushed and looked away. “I thought this was a date?”
“It is,” he said. “But who's to say it can't be about both business and pleasure?”
Something itched between my shoulders. What he was proposing sounded an awful lot like sleeping my way into a record contract. “Maybe just the business,” I said, not looking at his eyes. “I don't think certain things should mix.”
His expression dropped, disappointment clear in his eyes. “I've offended you,” he said. “I'm...I'm terribly sorry. I just have a good sense for people, and I know there's something in you that I can bring out.”
I looked away, chewing on my lip. I didn't know what to say.
“I'll tell you what,” he said, reaching into his shirt pocket. “You give me a call to set up an appointment, and we can talk business. If that's where you want to leave it, that's fine.”
He handed me a business card. It bore a logo that looked like the same symbol on his pendant. I looked up at him. His face was etched in pain. I suddenly felt like a monster. Like I'd crushed him by turning down his advances. Not that I wasn't interested in him. I was. He was sweet, and he made me feel comfortable with myself. I hadn't opened up and talked to anyone about my music like this in a long time.
“I'd like that,” I said. I forced a smile, hoping I wasn't coming off as too big of a jerk.