I never thought he ruthlessly dumped me or anything—you'd have to know Jake to understand. We still love each other, and we always will. But Mom doesn't like him, and while he's only a year older than me, sometimes I feel as if he's about ten years older. He has a protective streak and wants to make sure I fulfill my potential, but unlike Mom, he thinks I can do it as exactly the person I am. He wants to give me freedom to do that. Though our breakup hurt, I appreciated his attitude and I kind of assumed we'd get back together romantically at some point.
We haven't, though. Not yet. Honestly, I don't understand that.
But he's my best friend and he's there for me, no matter what. That, I do understand.
“Wildflower.” His deep voice reaches my ear and I squeeze the phone fondly. “How did it go?”
“Not well. Mom was pretty mad.”
“I'm sorry.”
The warmth in his deep voice makes me cry again. Only, I do it quietly so he can't hear me. But he knows anyway, I'm sure.
“It isn't right, your mom's attitude toward you,” he says, an edge to his voice. “What did she say?”
“That I'm doomed to be a failure in life unless I change my personality, became more outgoing and more of a people person. The same old stuff she always says. And I just can't change that about myself, you know? I hope, over time, I'll become less shy, less afraid of people, and more able to overcome shyness to do the things I want to do, but I can't imagine fundamentally changing who I am.”
“You don't have to,” he says. “You're wonderful exactly the way you are.”
“That's what Dad always says.”
“Well, your dad's right. I just don't understand why your mother thinks you getting drunk at sorority parties and acting like a vapid idiot is going to get you anywhere in life. I think you're on the right track as it is. You practice all the time, you're off to a great start at UT, you told me your professor is impressed with your talent. Keep doing what you're doing, Wildflower, and you'll do very well for yourself. A lot of people are going to appreciate you, even if your mom can't.”
I sob audibly and hiccup into the phone.
“Hey...” I could swear he'd almost called me babe, like he used to when we were dating, but he doesn't. “Why don't I come get you?”
“Yes,” I say softly into the phone. Right now, there's no place I'd rather be than with Jake.
Chapter Three (Jake)
Wildflower slowly walks to my truck as if somebody had let all the air out of her. She opens the door, pulls herself in, then slumps in the seat. This makes me so fucking mad. I don't know what the hell Mrs. Forsythe's problem is, making her daughter feel so rotten about herself all the time. It just makes me sick.
But I don't like to act angry around Wildflower. Anger scares her. Honestly, anger sometimes scares me. It reminds me of my dad. He gets angry a lot. Has a real problem with it. Everything makes him mad. Things out in the world. Political stuff. Driving on the road. Shopping in a store and having to wait in a cashier's line. You name it, it pretty much makes him mad. His anger frightens Mom, and she walks on eggshells to keep the peace around the house. I used to walk on eggshells, too, but I moved out of their house when I was a junior in high school. I just couldn't stand it anymore. So I know what it's like to have a tough time at home.
“Hey,” I say. “Wildflower.” It's my name for her. Ever since we became friends, she's reminded me of a wildflower, and not just an ordinary one, either. A rare and uncommonly beautiful one, blooming way up high on a mountain, hidden from the crazy world and from eyes that just couldn't begin to appreciate her, anyway. She hides herself, yeah, with her shyness, but it's the same kind of thing. Because she's beautiful, on all levels. Her hair, her eyes, her face, her sweetness, her incredible musical talent. She's like a rare flower that blooms all on its own, without needing anybody to watch her. And no matter what the weather, sun or snow or pounding rain, she blooms, she blooms, she fucking blooms.
She doesn't say anything but scoots closer to me on the bench seat. I put my arm around her, rub her shoulder. I'm glad I have an old truck. I got it from my uncle back in Stoney Creek, a community in Appalachian East Tennessee where I'm from. New cars have bucket seats, so who needs a new car? I want to do more than put my arm around Wildflower. I want to pull her into my lap, kiss her sweet face, smooth her hair.
But I can't. I'm not good enough for her, and her mom made sure I know that. She told me to give Wildflower a chance to grow and follow her dream. That's why I suggested to Wildflower we not date for a while, so she could find her feet at Boston Conservatory when she won that amazing scholarship. But then she turned it down and didn't go. I don't feel right about yoking her back to me, though. What if I turn out like my dad, ornery, angry, and always frightening her? I don't want any woman feeling about me the way Mom feels about Dad. Yeah, she loves him, but she's afraid of him. Nervous all the time. He can be hard on all of us. And sometimes I see those things in myself, and it scares me to death.
Mrs. Forsythe was right. Wildflower is better off without me, at least in a romantic way. But I'm her friend. I'll always be her friend. Always wishing with all my heart I could be more. And not just for now. For eternity. But I don't feel worthy. I want the best for her, and I don't think I'm it.
I might be a single bluegrass player until I'm a hundred years old. That might be okay.
Wildflower hasn't yet said a word. That's not unusual. She's pretty quiet, but when her feelings have been hurt by her mother, she can go a long time without saying anything at all. It's like she curls up in a little cocoon where she can hold herself apart from all the things in this angry, critical world that hurt her. But people make a mistake when they underestimate her. She's tough. Not a wuss at all. She wouldn't have been able to accomplish what she has as a classical pianist if she didn't have plenty of guts. But I think she's in survival mode most of the time, and I hope somehow, some way, she can learn that she deserves so much better.
“Wildflower,” I say again and gently rub her shoulder. “I can tell you're feeling pretty crappy. Do you want to go back to your dorm?”
She shakes her head, very slightly. I wouldn't have noticed it if I hadn't been watching her closely. Finally she says, “Let's drive out to the lake.”
The lake. She means the lake close to where my parents live. Not that she'd want to go to my parents' house. My dad doesn't like Wildflower much. He thinks she's a little yuppie girl, and he hates yuppies. To him, a yuppie is anyone who has more money than him, and Wildflower's family definitely has a lot more money than mine. Mom likes Wildflower, but she won't stand up to Dad about her. Not a chance. Conflict avoidance is the name of Mom's game.
Wildflower and I like to go to the lake, hang out together, and talk. When we dated, it was a great place to do other things, too. Hot, sexy things. But I won't think about that right now. Wildflower needs a friend right now, above all. And I need to be there for her, help her through this.
I wish I could tell Mary Ann Forsythe where to go. I don't think she means to hurt Wildflower. She might mean well, in a strange way. But she's disappointed in Wildflower's shy personality because she doesn't get along with Wildflower's dad, who's also shy. And when her mom is unhappy with her dad, which is most of the time, it's bad news for Wildflower. Her family dynamic is pretty much a family cluster fuck, and it hurts her most of all. She's the family scapegoat, the family dumping ground.
I wish she could see herself the way I see her. If she could, she'd never be shy again.
We drive to the lake and I play some Bill Monroe bluegrass on my truck's sound system. Wildflower loves Bill Monroe. She'd never listened to bluegrass before we became good friends, but now, she's a big fan. She loves Bill Monroe almost as much as she loves my music, which is really kind of cool that she loves my stuff even more than his. Big-time compliment, there. While driving, we don't talk. We just listen to music. It relaxes us both. Music is magic.
By the time we get to the lake, she seems
pretty relaxed and she's sitting up straighter. The farther away she gets from her mom, the more relaxed she becomes. It's hard to be around a person who you know doesn't approve of you, no matter what you do. Nothing is ever good enough for them. I understand all too well. It's the same way with my dad.
We get out of my truck. I pull out my guitar, thinking it might be fun to sit and play and sing. At least, I'll sing. Wildflower probably won't. I keep trying to get her to sing, though. She dreams of being like that singer-songwriter she admires so much, who sings so well and writes her own songs. But Wildflower's shyness really goes into overdrive when it comes to singing. It's too bad. Going by her speaking voice, I bet her singing voice is really pretty, and I never tire of trying to encourage her. But so far, she hasn't bitten. She just sits and listens to me play and sing. Sometimes, she asks for my guitar and picks out music by ear. She has at least as good an ear as I do, and maybe even better. But so far, no luck on getting her to sing. Not even with me, together, on a song.
I guess she needs more encouragement than she can get from me. But damn, I don't know if even God could encourage her enough. It's as though she's ashamed, just being herself. It's sad. Her mother taught her that shame. Without meaning to, I'm sure, but the damage is the same.
We sit on the bench near the lake and I take my guitar out of its case. I start strumming a Bill Monroe song, and when I start singing it, I throw a hopeful look her way, encouraging her to join in. The lights in the parking lot illuminate her face, but she looks away with a shy smile. She's enjoying my singing, but she won't join in.
I wish I could put down my guitar and pull Wildflower on my lap. I miss touching her and kissing her the way we did when we dated. We had enough spark to light a far larger city than Knoxville. She doesn't know that her mother basically talked me into breaking up with her. And I don't want her to know. At least, not right now. She would think it's still her mother keeping us apart, and it isn't. Not anymore. It's me. I don't feel good enough for her, and I don't want to tie her down and make her sell herself short. But I'll never forget how we could hardly keep from touching each other. How we came close to making love but made ourselves wait a little while longer... and then we never got the chance.
We sit for about an hour together and I strum my guitar and sing softly, my own songs this time. She never joins in, but I make her laugh a few times, so that's nearly as good. I love to hear her laugh. Then we get back into my truck. She still looks so sad. I wish there was something I could do or say to comfort her, but it seems impossible. It's ironic that I'm never good enough at helping her realize she's good enough.
I want to kiss her, but I can't do that, either. I wouldn't want to stop.
We get back in my truck. I put it in gear and drive her back to her parents' house. I wish she'd go back to her dorm, away from her mom, but she says her parents expect her to be home all weekend and she won't disappoint them.
“Thank you, Jake,” she says. “You helped.”
“I did?” I'm glad to hear it, but I don't see how.
“You help more than you know, simply by liking me. By accepting me.”
Oh, God. It goes so much deeper than just liking her. If only she could know how deeply I still feel about her. I love her. I adore her. I would marry her if she would have me, if she could have me, even as young as we both are. But she just can't know. I have to put her first, over and above myself. If I act on how I feel, it would be selfish.
When we get to her house, she gets out of my truck, then walks all the more slowly the closer she gets to the front door. I hope her mom is in bed. I want Wildflower to be able to go to her bedroom, go to sleep, and have a peaceful night without dreams of failure, rejection, and never being good enough haunting her rest.
Is it selfish to hope she might dream of me?
Chapter Four (Frannie)
It's early morning and I'm back in my favorite practice room, playing piano until time for my English Composition class. I just came from eating a bite of breakfast in the student center, which was pretty depressing since I ate by myself. I don't mind eating alone—it isn't that—but what bothers me is the way other people look at me. They seem to be judging me for eating alone, without friends, without a boyfriend, without anybody. Maybe it's just my imagination, but that's how it feels.
It feels the same way in my dorm room, which I share with my roommate, Andrea. She's a senior. Very nice, but disinterested in me. When we found last summer we'd be rooming together, she emailed me and we corresponded back and forth. We built up a warm, friendly feeling for each other through email, because I'm a lot less shy in writing than I am in person. But when we met, she could tell right away how shy and awkward I am, and though she's pleasant, she doesn't care to spend time with me. Her best friend from high school lives down the hall, and her best friend's roomie is friends with them both, and they all spend a lot of time down there. Sometimes, though, they're all packed into my room. And I feel like the odd person out. Just really uncomfortable. Especially when they occasionally glance over at me with quizzical expressions that seem to ask me, Why don't you talk? Why are you so lumpish and rigid? Why are you such a Woodenhead? It's the same stuff I've gotten from people my age as long as I can remember.
I guess they've got plenty of reason to behave that way. It isn't as though I go out of my way to make people feel comfortable or reach out to them. I don't. I wish I could, though. I've love to be able to do it. But I just can't. Each time I try, I only come across as more shy and awkward, if that's possible, creating an endless, bottomless spiral of awkwardness and pain.
The only place I feel comfortable on campus is here in the practice room. Even then, when I hear people's footsteps outside, I get a little edgy, thinking about them listening to me, but I can usually make the nerves go away. I've been playing piano for people since I was just a little kid, before I became quite as self-conscious as I am now. I guess that's why I can do well—most of the time, anyhow—with recitals and competitions. But even at home, I never dream of letting go with playing—let alone singing—my own compositions. I don't know why I am more shy playing my own stuff than the classical pieces. It doesn't make any sense, but there it is. I feel extremely self-conscious playing my own compositions at home. I just don't want anyone, even people in my family, to notice me too much. Most spotlights just don't feel good to me.
Even Jake's spotlight. I could tell, last night, that he wanted me to sing with him. He's always trying to encourage me without pushing too hard. But I just can't bring myself to do it. Most of the time, when I hear my own voice, I feel like I want to cringe. Why, I don't know. I have a good voice when I can sing with confidence. But there are so few times I can do anything with confidence.
Once in a while, though, I can let myself go. Like this morning. I got up very early especially to come to the practice room, figuring there would be fewer people in the music building at this hour. I wanted to play a song that's been forming in my head so I can hone it, polish it, and see where it wants to go. I might even sing with it. Maybe if I can pretend I'm Nikesha Sloane instead of Frannie the Fuckup Forsythe, I'll be able to do it. I haven't heard anybody in the halls, outside this practice room. The music professors are probably here, but they'd be in their offices, and not many students are up and around yet.
I need a me moment. No, a better-than-me moment. A Nikesha Sloane moment. To show myself that maybe, someday, I can excavate myself from my paralyzing blanket of shyness and that maybe, someday, I can let out the magic I know is buried inside me. Let it breathe a little bit so it can stay alive.
I play the intro to my as-yet-unnamed song. Though I haven't practiced it on an actual piano, I've played it in my mind many times, quite a few times when I was with Jake. For just a little while last night, I allowed myself to imagine playing that song for Jake in a practice room like this, with him standing near the piano, or perhaps behind me as I sit on the bench, his hands maybe moving closer, closer to my shoulders to grip them w
armly, or maybe his fingers moving slowly and tenderly in my hair before he gently pulls me up from the bench, takes me in his arms, and kisses me.
These things can no longer be. We aren't a couple anymore.
I think all the time about us getting back together again, though. The sexual tension between us is as enormous as it has ever been, maybe even more so since we don't touch much. I'd love for us to get back together, except for one thing. Mom. She would go back to harassing me about Jake, constantly being on my case about what she sees as his shortcomings. She tolerates him as my friend—barely—but as my boyfriend?
No. She'd give us as hard a time as she did before. Maybe worse this time, now that I'm in college and he isn't. And while I still have strong feelings for Jake, I feel nothing but dread at the thought of more drama and disapproval from Mom's quarter.
I play my song through one time, then I start the intro again, in its haunting minor key. I hear the melody line in my mind as I begin the first verse, and I close my eyes and imagine I'm Nikesha Sloane, playing a newly composed song in her studio, a song she's getting ready to sing for the first time. I imagine the confidence that must blaze through her every time she gets ready to sing a new song, imagining the delight with which her throngs of fans will receive it. I imagine what it must be like to be a person who creates music for an audience who receives it with love and appreciation. I imagine the confidence that such a reception would inspire in the music's creator.
Then, softly and almost in a whisper, I sing the lyrics I'd come up with for my song:
Who are you to tell me what I can or cannot be
I think you know that's not me in your mind
Why can't you see that I'm not your sweet imposition
I'm not the demon you're desperate to find
In a rush of excitement, I launch into the chorus, singing with more power, carrying the words—wailing them, really—over several measures apiece while, on the beginning of each line, I hammer the piano in the bass register, and then toward the end of each line, I roll up to the treble:
Shy Page 3