Sing

by Vivi Greene

  “Great,” I say, staring over their heads into the screened-in porch. “I was thinking we could record out there. It will take some work getting things ready . . .”

  “We’re on it,” Sammy says, scarfing down the last of her yogurt. Tess’s phone buzzes on the table and she picks it up. I can tell by the low cinch of her brow that it’s Terry. The wheels are in motion, the work is about to begin.

  Terry arrives on the first boat Thursday morning. Ray and K2 take me to the harbor to meet him and I feel the way I did on visiting day at camp, scanning the line of slow-moving cars for my parents’ navy-blue Honda Civic: one part giddy about seeing a familiar face and one part anxious, not sure I’m ready for two worlds to collide.

  The boat pulls slowly into the slip. Terry is standing behind the chain on the lower deck, wearing dark jeans and a white linen shirt, a leather messenger bag slung over one shoulder. Even from across the parking lot I can see that his hair, usually gelled into sleek points, is slightly overgrown, and there are dark, tired shadows under his eyes.

  “You couldn’t have hidden out in the Hamptons?” Terry barks as he walks briskly to the car. I squeeze him in a hug. I’ve spent so much of my time here trying to avoid him and his questions that I haven’t realized how much I’ve missed him. Terry complains more than anyone I know, but he has believed in me from the very beginning. From our first meeting at an open mic in Madison, to the early, brutal days of all-night signings and meet-and-greets in every state, he’s seen me through every career move, every up and down. Next to my parents, I trust him more than anyone on the planet, and as strange as it is to be suddenly thrust back into work mode, it feels right that he’s here.

  Terry shakes hands with Ray and K2 and we climb into the backseat. I hand him the coffee we picked up on the way. I feel a little bit like a matchmaker, sitting in on a first date between Terry and the island. I roll down the window and take a deep breath, trying to see the quaint town, the meandering coast, through new eyes.

  “You’re really going to love it here,” I say, beaming as the car bumps around a pothole.

  “Lil, I don’t care if you had to live in a van under the Brooklyn Bridge,” he says, wiping a drop of spilled coffee from the knee of his jeans. “If it makes you write songs like these new ones, it’s paradise.”

  “Really?” It’s always nerve-racking getting feedback, especially from Terry. When new material starts to come out, it feels so mysterious. If I don’t get it right the first time, I always fear that I won’t be able to get back to that inspired place ever again.

  Terry nods matter-of-factly. “Really.” He rubs his hands over his eyes and sighs. “I gotta say, you gave us all a real scare. I thought you were pulling some Britney Spears shit.”

  I give Terry’s shoulder a shove as we pull out of town and start up the long dirt road to the house. “No, you didn’t.”

  Terry squeezes my fingers. “No,” he says. “I didn’t. But I didn’t know you had this in you, either.”

  I smile. “That good?”

  I always get chills when I hear somebody talk about my music in a way that makes it seem like it’s not just mine. I put so much of myself into my songs, sometimes I forget that anybody else will ever hear them.

  “Here we are,” I say as K2 slows to a stop, dust kicking up around us.

  Terry leans across me to get a better look. “This is where you’ve been staying?” he asks incredulously as I climb out first.

  I bound excitedly up the uneven front steps. “Isn’t it fantastic?”

  “It’s something . . .” Terry grumbles, following me inside. Sam is in the kitchen making waffles and Tess is sprawled on the couch with her phone. They both jump when they see us, running into the crowded hall.

  “Terry!” Sam squeals, wrapping her arms around his neck.

  Tess unravels Terry’s bag from his shoulder. “Tell me you brought provisions.”

  Terry walks pointedly into the small kitchen and stands over the sink, dramatically emptying out the sludgy contents of the cup I brought him down the drain. “Never fear, ladies,” he says, reaching into his bag and pulling out a paper bag of the trendy imported coffee beans he has delivered to his office every week. “Terry’s here.”

  15

  65 Days Until Tour

  July 9th

  AS SOON AS the guys from the label—a producer and an engineer—arrive later that afternoon, the world starts to move in double-time. Laptops are opened, levels are adjusted, microphones set up in makeshift booths. I feel a new energy coursing through me, that satisfying thrill of everything clicking into place.

  The producer, Nigel, is new to the label and I haven’t worked with him before. He’s from London, and we chat for a while about which venues I’ve played and where to get the best fish-and-chips. I like him right away; he’s brimming with ideas for the track. Even though I’ve done this a billion times, it still feels thrilling that everyone in the room is excited about something I’ve written.

  The next morning, we set up on the screened-in side porch. Nigel wants to get some authentic ambient sounds, like seagulls and waves. He asks me to play the song exactly the way it came out. Tess runs to my room to grab my guitar, while Sammy makes sure the porch is stocked with snacks and water. She puts a kettle on for my favorite ginger tea and opens a new box of honey sticks. I suck on one to coat my throat and flip to the lyrics in my journal.

  Four hours and more than thirty takes later, we break for lunch. It’s incredible how quickly time flies when I’m recording. There’s so much that goes into laying down a track, so much more than just me singing a song into a microphone. There are decisions to be made about everything from instrumentation to backing vocals to the overall “tone” of the sound. I always start with a general idea about what I want. For “Anchors,” I know I want something bold and confident. It’s a ballad, but it’s not a weepy love song. It’s about knowing what I want and how to get it. Nigel seems to understand implicitly.

  I look up through the window to see Sammy in the kitchen, rushing to get the table set. She’s spent all morning roasting farmers’ market veggies and a whole organic chicken from a farm down the road. I watch as she carefully plates the food, trying hard to make everything look presentable. I tap on the glass and wave but she doesn’t even glance up.

  “You good?” Tess asks as the guys stand up to stretch. The engineer goes out for a cigarette while Terry and Nigel return calls and check email on the porch.

  “I’m great.” I beam. “How does it sound?”

  “Killer.” Tess nods overenthusiastically. “Really great.”

  I eye her skeptically. “Be honest.”

  She smirks. “Honestly? I haven’t heard a single take. I’ve been helping Sammy coordinate dietary restrictions, and I just got back from an island-wide hunt for sparkling water.” She leans in to whisper in a fake accent: “I found club soda but Nigel much prefers Pellegrino.”

  I laugh. Tess does, too, but stops herself. I follow her gaze to the coffee table where a framed photograph of her dad and her brother, on a hammock in the backyard, has been knocked over. Tess bends down to scoop up the frame, dusting off the glass and carrying it out of the room. “Lunch is ready,” she calls over her shoulder. “Don’t forget to hydrate.”

  I stand and stretch my arms to the sky. I’ve been sitting in the same position all morning and my shoulders are in knots. I’m doing a series of stretches that I remember from Maya’s yoga class when Terry sneaks back in.

  “So when do we get to meet this anchor?” he asks, plopping into the old, tattered armchair beside the big picture window.

  “What do you mean?” I sit down with my back to him, reaching to touch my toes. It feels good, but I’m mostly just trying to hide the red splotches that are blooming on my neck and face.

  “The lyrics,” Terry prods. “The anchor you’ve been searching for . . .”

  “Oh.” I laugh, a little too loud. “It’s just the island. I told you, I’
m really falling for this place.”

  I lie on my back with my knees bent, my bare toes wiggling against the smooth wooden floorboards. Terry stands over me with his arms crossed.

  “What?” I ask, maybe a bit too harshly. “Not every song I write has to be about me.” The truth is, I’m embarrassed. I wanted to write a fully boy-free album, and though none of the new songs are explicitly love songs . . . it doesn’t take much to realize that Noel is in the subtext, bursting from between the lines of every single one.

  “Give me a break,” Terry says, rolling his eyes. “You couldn’t write an inauthentic lyric if your life depended on it.”

  He nudges my waist with the top of one shiny leather loafer. “The island may be your anchor, but somebody’s got you hooked.” He smiles back at me on his way into the kitchen. “Whether you’re ready to admit it or not.”

  The first two nights of recording we stay up late working and hanging out with Terry. It feels like old times—there’s talk about the tour and what comes after, new merch and a holiday album—but by the third day, I’m missing Noel. Before the guys arrived I warned him that things would get crazy, but I’ve hardly been able to do more than send a good night text.

  Saturday morning, I wake up before everyone else and tiptoe down the driveway. K2 is alone in the car and I ask him to drive me to the harbor. Noel was out on the boat all night and he should be just pulling in.

  By the time I get to the docks, he’s already unloading, his back to me as he slides the crowded crates onto the trembling dock. “Surprise!” I announce, and he starts. “Sorry,” I say. “I wanted to be here when you got in.”

  He stands and wipes a hand along his sweaty brow. It’s early but the sun is already beating down. His eyes are tired and red at the corners, but they sparkle to life when he sees me. “There she is,” he says, leaning in to give me a salty kiss. “I probably smell like fish guts.”

  “My favorite.” I leap into the boat and feel it sink beneath my weight. “Can I help?”

  Noel points to a trap at the far end of the boat. “Push that over,” he says, and I do. “How’s it going?”

  “It’s great,” I say. “A lot of work, but I think it’s going to be worth it. The guys are loving it here. You should’ve seen them in the ocean.”

  Between sessions yesterday, we brought Terry and the guys to a small beach on the far side of the island, thinking it would be deserted. By the time we left there were crowds lined up, and I ended up signing everything from Frisbees to swim trunks and even a golden retriever’s collar.

  “Sounds like I’m the only one who didn’t,” Noel jokes. He smiles but there’s something new and uncertain in his voice.

  “Hey.” I touch his sun-warmed shoulder. “I know it’s a little nuts with them here.”

  “A little?” Noel drops the last of the traps to the dock with a thud. “The island hasn’t had this much to talk about since the Kennedys came for a day-trip in the sixties.” He shakes his head. “Your producers aren’t exactly low profile.”

  “I know,” I say understandingly. “But they’ll be gone soon.”

  Noel nods, clearly unconvinced.

  I wrap my arms around his neck and pull him in for a quick kiss. “Nothing changes,” I say. “It’s just work. I promise.”

  Over Noel’s shoulder, I see a pair of middle-aged women standing on the sidewalk, camera phones poised in midair.

  “Crap,” I whisper under my breath, letting my arms fall to my sides.

  Noel whips around to investigate, a dark cloud settling over his features. “I told you,” he says, disheartened.

  I stuff my hands into the pockets of my jean shorts. “It will pass,” I say. “Once everyone leaves I’ll just be a regular girl again.”

  “You could never be regular,” he says with a halfhearted smile. I find his hand for a quick squeeze and promise to call him when everyone leaves, and then I hurry back to the car where K2 is waiting. As I shut myself inside the air-conditioned quiet, I hear Noel’s words ringing in my ears. You could never be regular. It sounded like a compliment when he’d said it. But now, I’m not so sure.

  16

  59 Days Until Tour

  July 15th

  “GOING SOMEWHERE?”

  I freeze with one hand on back door, the floorboards creaking beneath me. Sammy is at the bottom of the stairs in her pajamas, a cute striped set that I got for all three of us last Christmas. Her hair is pulled into a messy topknot and she’s wearing her glasses. It’s late, past midnight, and she announced that she was going to bed hours ago.

  “I thought you were asleep,” I say.

  Sammy eyes me as she opens the refrigerator door, pulling out a pitcher of lemonade. “I got thirsty. What about you? Walking again?”

  Since Terry and the guys left three days ago, promising to be back as soon as I had more songs to record, I’ve been sneaking out to meet Noel every night. On the few occasions that Tess or Sammy has noticed, I’ve told them I’m going out walking, searching for more inspiration.

  Which isn’t entirely untrue.

  “Yeah.” I nod, pulling my long, knit cardigan close. “Terry’s really on me to finish this album.” He said we could release the first five songs as a special tour tie-in EP, but I’d prefer a whole new album entirely. If I can keep up this pace, it shouldn’t be a problem. As long as I don’t get distracted.

  I steal a glance through the back window. Noel is already on the beach. He’s promised to build a fire and we have plans to camp out. Beneath my jeans I’m wearing two layers of thermal tights, and Noel’s bringing blankets. I know I should be writing, and I’ve been fiddling around with new melodies all day, but the idea of spending a whole night with him, talking for hours and waking up to the sun rising over the ocean . . . it sounds too dreamy to pass up. After all, I leave in three and half weeks, and we haven’t talked about the future yet. His. Mine. Ours.

  “Can’t wait to hear what you’re working on.” Sammy smiles, and there’s something so totally trusting in her eyes that it makes my heart sore. “What’s it called?”

  I turn to see Tess shuffling in from the living room, her dark hair a flattened nest from sleeping on the couch. “What’s what called?”

  “Sorry,” Sammy says. “Did we wake you?”

  Tess mumbles and walks zombie-like to the refrigerator door, which she opens and closes without touching anything inside.

  “Bird’s going for a walk,” Sam says. “I was asking about what she’s writing.”

  Tess nods and gives me a sleepy thumbs-up as she stalks toward the stairs. I move back toward the door, but something won’t let me go. Every time I leave without telling them where I’m going, it’s like a chasm widens between us. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about what Terry said. I don’t want to be inauthentic. Not in my songs, and not with my friends.

  “Guys,” I say quietly, my back still to them. “I have to tell you something.”

  I hear Tess’s footsteps pause on the stairs.

  “What is it?” Sammy asks. She switches immediately into caretaker mode, pulling out a chair at the table and pushing me down into it. “Is everything okay?”

  Tess appears again in the doorway, leaning against the wall, her eyes half shut. “Any chance it can wait until the morning?”

  “No, actually.” I sigh. “It can’t.”

  I put my hands on the table and flatten my fingertips against the checkered tablecloth. Misshapen splatters of an old coffee stain trail between my thumbs. I take a deep breath.

  “I’ve been seeing someone,” I say fast, like ripping off a Band-Aid. I look up into Sammy’s eyes, watching the confusion spread across her face. “I wanted to tell you right away, but I made such a big deal about being alone, and I knew you guys would think it was a mistake—”

  “Wait,” Tess interrupts, suddenly alert. “What do you mean, seeing someone? Tell me it isn’t Jed.”

  “It isn’t Jed,” I assure her. It’s been weeks since he
texted and I’ve managed to break the habit of wondering what he’s doing every day, if or when he’ll reach out again. But hearing his name still makes my heart cramp.

  “Someone in New York?” Sammy guesses.

  I shake my head. “Somebody here.”

  Tess laughs. “Somebody here? You don’t know anybody here. And you hardly leave the house, unless you’re out walking.”

  I look guiltily back at my hands. Tess pulls out the chair beside me and sits down heavily.

  “You’re not out walking, are you?”

  I shake my head again.

  “I knew it! I knew you were being weird. Didn’t I say she was being weird?” Tess looks to Sammy.

  “Who is it?” Sammy presses. I can hear in her voice that even though she’s hurt that I’ve lied, there’s a part of her that’s still excited to hear every last detail. Sammy and I have been trading secrets and dishing about our crushes—at first, mostly hers—since we were twelve years old. We practically have our own language.

  It’s not Sammy I’m worried about.

  “It’s Noel,” I say, my voice a careful whisper.

  “Noel?” Tess asks, her eyebrows shooting up. “My Noel?”

  I nod, my features tight in a pained wince. “I’m sorry,” I say, looking up to meet her eyes. Her face is frozen somewhere between laughter and disbelief. “I should have told you when it started.”

  “Which was when?” Tess is already cold and distant, her eyes locked on the floor.

  “I don’t know.” I shrug. “Right after we went out on the boat?”

  “That was three weeks ago,” Sammy says. “You’ve been lying to us for three weeks?” Any trace of excitement in her eyes has vanished.

  The last time I lied to Sammy was probably when we were in the ninth grade. She wanted to sneak out to the movies and I told her I didn’t feel well, when really I was scared of getting caught. Instead, I stayed home and binge-watched Gilmore Girls reruns with Mom, which was pretty much my idea of a perfect Friday night.

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I really am.”