Dad leaned over and reached for his back pocket. “Do you need money?”
“No, Dad. I’m fine. I’ve saved. I’ll be all right.”
Mom threw her hands up. “Honestly, ever since you met that boy. Well, your room is here for you when you need somewhere to go.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence, Mom.” I gathered my things, grabbed Stacy’s elbow, and leaned over to give my dad a kiss. “Stacy and I are just gonna—”
“Okay, sweetheart. Keep in touch, and let your mom know you’re okay. It wouldn’t hurt to let us know what’s going on with you once in a while.”
That statement made me chortle, because it did hurt. Every single time.
Chapter 20
When I’d told my parents I was going to move in with Micah and become a musician, I was yanking their chain. But now, the temptation to use my savings as a source of income while trying out my hand as a real musician began to grow and take root. I couldn’t stop toying with the idea of spending my days writing songs and my nights performing them before my very own fans.
Adam was right. The lure of the feedback was as addictive as anything I’d ever encountered. Except for the lure of Adam himself.
I pulled out my guitar and started playing Micah’s songs. The nylon strings made them sound different than when he played them. Especially his band’s harder rock songs. I struck an odd chord and liked the sound of it, so I strummed it a few times and then added another. As I strummed new chords one after the other and back again, I hummed. This was something I did occasionally to relax or warm up, and once in a while, a new song came to life.
And that meant I needed a recorder because, shamefully, I couldn’t write music at the same time I composed it. Chords I could notate, but the melody of the song lived in my head. I could read sheet music, and later I would figure out which notes to write down, but it was a messy business that would get in the way of immediate creation. I opened my laptop, ran a cord from the guitar to the adapter, and then opened the microphone.
After I’d laid out the first verse, I recognized what I’d been humming as a variation on the theme of Adam’s new song that had crept into my subconscious. It wasn’t the same song, but there was an echo. It sounded like an answer to his song. And I knew what I needed to write.
I’d only known Adam for a few weeks. In that time, we’d spent very little time together and much of our relationship could be characterized by lust. Still I felt a deep emotional connection with him. And beyond his sexy self, I liked him. A lot. He was kind. He was honest in his own weird way. He made me laugh. I’d never felt so comfortable with another man. In a short time, he’d become a good friend, and it sucked because I just missed him. Not the sex. Well, yeah, the sex, too. But not just the sex. Much more than the sex.
And if the perfume didn’t work, and, therefore, the perfume hadn’t coerced him into wanting to be with me, then that meant he liked me too, and he’d liked me from the very beginning.
I hummed, “In the beginning, there was only you.” Only him. Only me. None of this other bullshit. The electricity that had seemed too powerful to be real had been real all along. And like a fuse, I blew it.
My vision blurred from the tears brimming but not falling from my eyes. How had I fucked this up so much?
Lyrics weren’t my strong suit, but with the imagery in mind from Adam’s own songs, I began to set down an apology of sorts. If he wouldn’t listen to me, I could address the universe at large. Things needed saying.
Tempting and enchanting
One apple
Fell from the tree
Promising seduction
But it felt like love
The words flowed easily. I’d been ignorant of the seductive power the perfume was supposed to hold, but when I found out, rather than confess it, I’d held it out to him. Even though the “apple” in question turned out to be innocent. As soon as I believed it had power, I should have told him. Instead, I used it again and led him into temptation. My knowledge damned me.
But that was the end of my sins. And Adam of all people had to know that the gossip media fed off half truths, creating a plausible story out of smoke. And my anger at the media fed the second verse.
Lying but convincing
One snake
Hissed in the tree
Creating suspicion
And I lost your love
The chorus came as an apology.
It could have been paradise
In the beginning
There was only you to entice
Love before reason
Ignorant and innocent
We took the first bite
I packed up my guitar to let the song sit. As I slept, more ideas would hit. Obsessing over the song helped me stop obsessing over Adam, but I knew I wouldn’t sleep well until I’d finished it.
I woke up Monday morning with new ideas for darkening the chords. I flew out of bed so I wouldn’t lose them. Once I’d saved the newest version on my computer, I practiced some older songs of mine I didn’t usually play anymore.
Then I texted Tobin. Can I take you up on your offer to open one night? I’d love a chance to perform.
Tobin got back to me soon after, Absolutely. People have been requesting you. Can you open Friday night?
I’ll be there at seven.
I sat down to figure out my set list in earnest. I didn’t need to practice Micah’s songs all the way, just enough to remind myself how they went.
Since I didn’t need to be at work, I grabbed my guitar and hopped the train into the city. I roamed around Chinatown, eating most everything that looked good. Then I strolled over to Battery Park and watched people. A couple of live statues amused the tourists, who’d clearly never seen anything like it before. When a group of singers packed up to leave, I sat down in their abandoned spot with my guitar case opened and played songs until the sun fell low in the sky.
Tourists took my photo. Children broke free of their parents and stared glassy-eyed at me, or wiggled to the music, or climbed into my guitar case until their parents caught up. Parents with a sense of shame about it tossed me some loose change. Those without warned their children to stay away from the filthy homeless musician. More than once, someone recognized me from the paper and waited until I was between songs to ask for my autograph. Only one person admitted she had mistaken me for someone else.
With seventeen extra bucks in my back pocket, I wound my way up toward TriBeCa to the club, figuring I could get dinner and watch whoever performed, calling it research.
That was Monday.
On Tuesday, human resources representatives called about my job applications. I had to do some soul searching as I made the decision to turn down every interview. If I wanted to make a go at the music career, I had to commit. It terrified me. Financial security beckoned to me like a beam from a lighthouse. Sailing into the dark, I might be headed right into the rocks. But there was no way I could balance both a full-time job and a real attempt to break out on my own.
And without a job to keep me tied to one spot, I placed an ad to sublet my apartment. Stacy said I was acting rash. She was right of course, but the funny thing about irrational behavior is that hasty decision making feels like a positive side effect. It’s easier to shoot the moon with guns fully loaded.
On Wednesday, I called Micah’s agent, Sandy, and set up an appointment to talk to her about booking gigs and recording demos. Then I took the subway to Brooklyn and visited apartments I’d found on craigslist. Most were near Micah, but one was in a high-rise on the edge of Brooklyn Heights. The apartment was out of my price range, too small, and on the eighth floor. It smelled like cheese and overlooked the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway.
I weighed the options. On the one hand, it was a block south of an A-C subway stop and seven blocks north of Adam’s apartment. On the other hand, it was the worst place I’d looked at all day.
Without a job and a steady paycheck, the owners rejected my application anyway.
On Thursday, I moved my belongings into storage, gave my keys over to a new tenant, and then texted Micah. Can I use your apartment until you get back?
By Friday, I was unemployed and practically homeless.
* * *
Friday night, Tobin had a plate of chicken wings sent to the green room along with a tall Stella. I still didn’t trust the nasty sofa, so I ate standing up and then helped with sound check. Tobin had scrawled my name onto the posters for tonight’s show, hoping it might attract whoever had called asking specifically for me. It felt good knowing I had some fans already, though I had no idea where they might be coming from. Either they’d seen me perform here last time, saw me on Adam’s YouTube, or knew me through Micah.
For a Friday night, the crowd seemed kind of thin. Most people would likely show up later for the headliner. Tobin announced me, and I took the stage to a totally different reception than the Tuesday night when I’d played the main set. The seats remained relatively empty while a group of women talked loudly at the merch table. Fans of the next performer, I presumed. Still, a handful of nice people sat and paid attention as I collected myself before launching into the six songs in my set. I wasn’t even the opener. I was the opener to the opener. Friday nights. Three acts.
I sat on a stool behind the mic and said, “Hi. I’m Eden Sinclair. This is a song called ‘Midnight in the Garden.’” No screeching feedback this time at least.
While I played, people chatted among themselves. Ice clinked in glasses. The chairs in front of me filled, or people laid down their jackets and then moved back to the bar or merch area. The talking in the back competed with my own vocals.
I finished playing that first song and said thank you to a pathetic few hand claps. I started to introduce my next song when someone cried out, “‘Expulsion!’”
Faces were shrouded in shadow. I peered through the spotlight into the dark place in the crowd where only their bodies stood out against the void. “I’m sorry?”
“Yeah! ‘Expulsion!’” a different voice called.
The first person chanted. “ ‘Expulsion!’ ‘Expulsion!’ ”
The people milling in the back picked up the chant and stomped their feet in time.
It was overwhelming. I repositioned my hands on the strings and said, “This is a song written by Adam Copeland.” I swallowed back an unexpected lump in my throat.
Oblivious to my emotional turmoil, the crowd applauded and hushed almost immediately, but not before a sharp cry of “Yay!”
With the guitar propped on my knee, I picked the arpeggio. Apart from my guitar, the room was still.
The people requesting must’ve all seen the YouTube video, and they’d be expecting that version of the song, but after last week, I couldn’t play it as a pop song, as a throwaway love song.
The minor key transformed the song. I fell into it, the emotion coursing through my lungs. I heard the cracks in my voice but turned them to my advantage, pushing the plaintive yearning of the song to its apex. When I strummed the chorus, I ran my eyes over the rapt faces looking up at me. I had them all. They were mine, and I carried them to the end, quietly bringing the last chorus to a heart-wrenching close. When I plucked the last note, a pin drop would’ve sounded like thunder. Then the applause broke the silence.
“Thank you very much.”
I adjusted the guitar, appreciating the fact that the seats had filled and most of the people gave me their full attention now. They waited for what I’d do next, and I wasn’t sure where to take them. On my set list, I had most of Micah’s more popular songs, since I figured I’d chicken out at the last minute and play his songs anyway. But my fingers moved across the strings as I thought, and then they were playing the song I’d written Sunday.
“I hope you’ll indulge me a little. I’m working on a new song. Would you like to hear it?”
Genuine approval met me. “Sing it, Eden!” It was a man’s voice. I scanned the crowd to find a handful of guys in the audience. They could’ve been Micah’s fans, but it was unusual to see more than the husbands or boyfriends of the fan girls who came out for Micah. They may have been coming out to see the performer I was opening for. That would make the most sense.
“This will be an interesting experiment.”
Coming on the heels of “Expulsion,” it made me feel guilty and ashamed. But the song expressed my sorrow, my hope for atonement. It said, I know what I did was wrong. Can you ever forgive me? It said, You and I are victims of the same deceptive vultures in the media. But all of that was buried in allegory. To the naked ear, it was a song about temptation, innocuous and common as tropes go. To the naked ear, it was a derivative rip-off of Walking Disaster’s latest hit song, which was what I was banking on.
I finished the set with three more songs—one of Micah’s by request and two more of my own. It wasn’t like standing in a stadium of thousands, but captivating any audience fueled that addiction to perform. More and more, I thought getting fired might’ve been a blessing in disguise.
The line of fans near the back waiting to meet me after the show thrilled me. They pressed in around me, wanting pictures, autographs, conversation. A few asked me straight up about the gossip in the news, about sex drugs, about Adrianna. It crossed my mind that their interest in me was pure fascination. But it also struck me that all news was publicity. I understood now why Adam and Micah brushed it all off so easily. If it got people into the seats, who cared what they were saying in the gossip column? My true friends knew the truth about me. What else really mattered?
I recognized some of Micah’s fans in the line as well as some of the regulars who hung out at the club all week. I wasn’t surprised when the blue-eyed blond from my last show stood before me with his scrap of paper and his felt-tip marker.
“Hey, Eden. Great set.”
“Hi, Jacob. Thanks.”
He smiled. “You remembered my name. Could I ask you for the title of the song you sang? The new one?”
That song had no name. I bit my lip and considered. He stood waiting. Finally, I spit out, “‘Atonement.’”
“That’s great.” He scribbled it. He brought his eyes up to me and half smiled. “Now, about that drink.”
Until that moment, I’d forgotten I’d promised him he could buy me a drink if we ever met again. “Don’t you have to set up your camera for the next act?”
He shook his head slowly. “I came here to see you.”
I sighed, laughing at the same time. “Give me a minute. There are people still waiting to say hi.”
We sat down at the bar on the same exact stools where Adam and I had once sat. Jacob was a good-looking guy. He had mussed-up blond hair with the slight hint of hair product crinkle. He had the kind of cute face that would start to look odd at age forty. Boyishly charming forever.
He pushed the beer he’d ordered in front of my stool. “I’m so glad you were able to come out tonight. That new song of yours is incredible. You should record it.”
“You don’t know how much I appreciate that.”
“After your last show, I made sure the club knew to get you back here. The videos I uploaded have gotten a ton of traffic.”
I sipped my beer, a little embarrassed by the compliments. “So Jacob, what do you do when you’re not bootlegging concert video?”
He chuckled. “Student actually. NYU.”
“Not bad. What are you studying? Music? Film?”
“Actually, no. I do love those things, but I’m majoring in architecture.”
I closed my eyes and pinched the bridge of my nose. “Architecture?” Why couldn’t I have met this guy a month ago?
“Yeah. When I was a kid, my parents took me with them to Habitat for Humanity projects. I developed a passion for it.”
“For humanity?”
He snickered. “For construction. But I didn’t want to spend my life with a tool belt on and my butt crack hanging out, so I applied for scholarships and got lucky.”
�
�You got lucky? You don’t get lucky to get scholarships. You must’ve had a great application.”
“I wrote good essays.” A dimple appeared in his cheek as he flashed a one-sided smile. I imagined he charmed his way into that scholarship.
“I’m sure you did.”
Tobin announced the second opening act. A tall musician named Liam took the stage with his banjo. I’d known Liam for a long time. He was kind of an asshole, but he gave a good show. He could play a banjo, but he didn’t play original songs. His shtick was transforming popular songs into bluegrass.
Out of fellow-musician camaraderie, I focused my attention on the stage.
Jacob whispered, “I’ve seen this guy before. He does a hilarious cover of ‘Let It Go’ from Frozen.”
“I don’t think it’s supposed to be funny,” I said back. We were breaking a cardinal rule, talking during the show. I vowed to keep my mouth shut for the rest of the set. Liam started playing a cover of Katy Perry’s “Roar.”
Jacob leaned forward. His breath tickled my cheek. “Do you think he’d do ‘All About That Bass’?”
I snorted. “Stop.”
He stopped talking but didn’t move back into his space. He remained inches from me, and I could sense the electricity coming off him even though he didn’t touch me. I knew he was there. When Liam played his third song, Jacob leaned in closer still, and his lips brushed against the nape of my neck. I held my breath, waiting for the butterflies to hit me.
Nothing.
Jacob’s hand slid around my waist gently. He whispered, “Do you have to stay through the rest of the show?”
I weighed my options.
Option one: If I left now with Jacob, I was reasonably sure he’d expect us to end up either at his college dorm in a twin bed or back at my place, which tonight would be Micah’s. Either way, Jacob probably expected to work up to a night together.
Option two: If I lied and said I had to stay, he’d just wait here, moving his hands tighter around me, mistaking silence for consent.
Some Kind of Magic Page 24