He defies his parents at every turn, though. It drives them crazy. His rebellious streak reminds me of Jake, and makes me think Jake might like him—that is, if he weren't from a rich family. Jake isn't much like his father, but dislike and distrust of wealthy people is definitely something Jake and his dad have in common. Jake's dad can't stand me, either. He's not overtly rude, but he's distrustful and sullen and makes pointed comments about yuppies when I'm around. Referring to my parents, I guess. I sure as heck am not a yuppie.
Anyway, Granville is super bright and amazingly musical. He can play any instrument he can get a sound out of, including any kind of guitar or stringed instrument. He also sings, and he writes music. He sang some of his band's songs and sounded incredible, bringing to my mind the very first time I heard him outside my practice room, singing along as I played Chopin. Granville's style is quite different from Jake's. Granville has had vocal training and has a polished tenor voice, which he uses to sing pretty much any style, whether rock, art songs, or singer-songwriter stuff. Jake has a husky voice, and gravelly sometimes, depending on what kind of bluegrass song he's singing, feisty, reverent, or tender.
Granville is also a scientific genius. Like me, he turned down a scholarship to a prestigious school, but not because he was shy. He was too rebellious. It's funny, because if we'd taken our scholarships, we both would have wound up in Massachusetts. Boston Conservatory offered me a scholarship, while MIT offered Granville a scholarship. He refused it because, as he put it, he doesn't want to be a rat on a treadmill at some fucking Ivy League school. In talking like that, he again reminded me of Jake, which squeezed my heart. Granville rebelled against his parents' wishes and stayed in Tennessee, going to UT and staying here for graduate school, too. He's a physics whiz and is studying cosmology. An amazing guy, to be sure. His IQ is 150. He told me, but only because I asked him and wouldn't let it rest until he told me. He says he wants to go into scientific research and work on crazy black box projects out on the very fringes of speculative science. Says he might work for the CIA someday.
I don't know if he's kidding or not. He probably is. But he cracks me up. If anyone could do that sort of thing, he could. I have no doubt.
Something about hanging out with Granville has made me a little more relaxed around my roommate and her friends, and they actually stay in the room sometimes when I'm here instead of getting uncomfortable and going off to another room. I don't know what I think of that because I still don't really know what to say to them. I'm not good at making small talk, and we really don't have that much in common.
My cell phone plays the first couple of bars of Beethoven's “Fur Elise,” telling me I've received a text. It's Granville, telling me he's waiting outside. My stomach ties itself in knots, thinking about what we'll be doing soon, singing together in front of an audience.
Am I ready for this?
Am I really?
Well, it isn't as though I'll be alone on the stage. Granville will be there with me, and even if I get nervous, he'll help me through it. He's so calm and reassuring. I can lean on him if I choke, and with his easygoing and encouraging nature, he'll help me get through it, and then, wow, I'll actually be able to say I've sung in public. I will be on my way—just maybe—to being able to fulfill my dream of becoming a singer-songwriter.
Mom wouldn't like it if I changed paths like that. She'd probably hate it even more than she hated my refusal to rush the sorority. But as I told her then, it's my life. Hey, if I make progress along the road of becoming a singer-songwriter, she ought to be happy. It would mean I'm overcoming my shyness.
Just not in the way she'd want me to do it.
Well, she'll just have to deal. I'm not going to constrain myself to living life on her terms. Not any more.
I get in Granville's car—a sleek, black BMW sports car that would make Jake hock a hairball. Well, Jake probably wouldn't hock a hairball over the car. It's a great car. What would make Jake hock a hairball would be the car's cost and the fact that I'm going on a date with a guy who can afford its price.
Granville looks adorable. Handsome as can be, and yes, spiffy. His hair is adorably messy, and his intense eyes are filled with enthusiasm and anticipation for our upcoming adventure together. He leans over and gives me a lingering kiss on the cheek. “You look lovely,” he says. “You'll knock 'em dead.”
“I hope so.” I'm heartened he thinks I look pretty. I'm wearing a black top and a multicolored rayon skirt, kind of what I think of as my Stevie Nicks look. I love dressing like this. Jake likes it, too. I push the thought of Jake from my mind. He's making his choices. I must make mine. I miss him, yes, but I mustn't let thoughts of him ruin my night with Granville.
And ruin the first time I sing in public.
“So, what are we going to sing?” Granville asks me as we head out to the Old Grind.
“‘Dreams’ by Fleetwood Mac.” I actually made up my mind the other day. “Dreams” is a great song, and it's easy enough to sing so that the only pressure will be my shyness, not the difficulty or range of the song.
“That's a good choice, and you definitely look the part.” He reaches over and puts a hand on my rayon-covered knee.
As we drive, he begins singing a gorgeous operatic aria. Holy shit. This guy can sing. He could be an opera singer if he wanted. I stare at him, awed, and his incredible voice combined with the beauty of the piece nearly leaves me swooning in the car seat. I guess he could do pretty much anything he wanted, really. He's what I think of as a Renaissance Man, out-and-out brilliant.
“That was flat-out gorgeous,” I say when he finishes. “What was it?”
“‘Nessun Dorma’ from Turandot. My favorite tenor aria ever, and that's saying something. I love opera.”
“I can tell. You sing it beautifully. Is opera something you've thought about going into?”
He shrugs and starts to sing it again. I shiver all over with delight. The combination of his voice with the aria's soaring melody makes me break into happy chills, though it isn't cold. Granville could give Pavarotti a run for his money. Then he says, with a wide grin, “It's my favorite song to sing in the shower.”
I break into giggles. I can't help it. Shower time at Granville's place must be a delight. And at the thought of him naked in the shower, singing so beautifully and surrounded by hot steam, I flush.
He glances at me out of the corner of his eye and smiles a little. “Frannie, have I told you that you're adorable?”
My flush deepens. “Yeah, a few times.” What I don't say is that it would be impossible for me to grow tired of hearing it. The tenderness and warmth in his voice wrap me up like a cuddly blanket of joy.
Maybe Jake was right about the two of us, him and me. I've had a thing for Jake since we were kids. His paradoxes and contradictions, his big, long, rangy body and rugged face, his fascinating and sometimes frustrating moods, his fierce self-reliance and independence married to his incredible tenderness and passion. But sometimes my passion for him feels like terra incognita, as if Jake's heart is a strange, frightening landscape in which I might easily lose my way. Granville's heart is its own land, too, but it's a landscape whose contours I more readily recognize and to which I might more easily accustom myself if I can loosen up and adapt. Granville is wonderful at encouraging me, and already I notice a difference in my attitudes, behavior, and confidence levels. That hasn't happened in many years of knowing Jake. So maybe, just maybe, Jake is right, and Granville is the better guy for me.
We get to the Old Grind, and despite the ease and comfort of Granville's presence, I'm getting really freaking nervous, and I'm feeling nauseated. Can I really do something this brave after only a few weeks of singing in the vicinity of someone else and only a few days of singing in that person's direct presence, no matter how encouraging? An audience at the Old Grind won't necessarily be encouraging. They aren't there to encourage me. They're there for fun and entertainment, and if I suck, if I fail to deliver, they won't hesitate to le
t me know what they think. But I can't bow out now. If I did, I'd hate myself. This is a challenge, and it's a good one. No matter how much it terrifies me, I'll go through with it, meet it, and hopefully triumph over it.
I wish I could tell my mom, but this isn't the kind of activity she'd want me to do and I just don't want to deal with her flack. She'd be happier if I were at a sorority party.
Oh, well. I'm doing what's right for me. I welcome challenges, but they need to be challenges that push me in the direction I want to go. Not in the direction Mom would have me go.
God. I hope I don't make a fool of myself.
We get out of Granville's BMW, and I look nervously around at all the cars in the parking lot. The Old Grind isn't very big, but their Karaoke Night is popular, so the parking lot is pretty much packed. Granville and I park in one of the farthest spots and walk in and find a table.
He orders a club sandwich. I'm too nervous to eat and I'm still nauseated. But I order a bowl of broccoli soup and sip on that as Granville and I chat. He's clearly been here before—he waves at a couple of the servers and at some of the people who are sitting around. He seems well-liked. No wonder, with his warm, sunny personality. By contrast, Jake would be sitting here with me, looking dour and feeling out of place.
Me? I don't feel out of place, but at the thought of singing in front of all these people, I want to shrivel up into a husk. I look at Granville and scan for even the slightest sign of nervousness. I don't find it. I wish I could be like him.
“Don't worry,” he says, smiling at me. “You're going to be great. In fact, I think you're going to surprise yourself by how much you relax up there.”
“Really?” I stare at him as if he'd grown a horn out of the middle of his forehead. He can't be serious.
“Yeah. When you're up there singing in front of people and they like what you're doing, there's a feedback loop that gets going. Then you relax even more and sing even better, and they like you even more, and the feedback loop grows and grows.”
Fascinating. I've seen that kind of thing happen at live shows, especially some of the first recordings I've seen of Nikesha Sloane's concerts. There's a give-and-take between performer and audience, which can spiral up to immense heights of pleasure for both sides.
I'd love for that to happen to me tonight. It would give me a lot of confidence to continue with singing in front of people and maybe playing and singing my own songs for audiences one day.
But what what if I suck, despite Granville being up there with me for support?
I don't want to think about that possibility.
“I guess you've done karaoke here before?” I ask him.
“Oh, yeah. Lots of times. It's great fun.”
Man, I wish I had Granville's easygoing nature. I don't think he has ever felt shy, awkward, or uncomfortable a day in his life. It'll be great to have him up there with me. I hope I won't need him as life support, but if I do, I know he will buoy me up and hopefully carry me through the tidal wave of shyness to the shore of confidence.
The sooner I do this, the better. I have a life to live, not a life to fear.
A big, middle-aged fellow is first up for Karaoke Night, and while he doesn't have a great voice, he's funny and engaging, and the audience loves him. People don't have to possess buckets of talent to be entertaining, as anyone can see demonstrated by some of the musical acts that are doing well on the pop charts. Mom has a good point that in the eyes of many people, an outgoing personality is far more important than either talent or brains, and if most people care more about a gregarious personality than anything else, then I'll truly be fucked. If that's the case, I'll have to change my personality in order to have any kind of life at all, and what if I just can't change?
“Okay, it's now or never,” Granville says, taking my hand.
“Oh, no.” My mouth turns to dust. “Give me a few more minutes.”
“But...” My utter panic must show on my face. He relents. “Well, okay. But really, Frannie, I strongly encourage you to do this with me. It will be good for you” He leans closer in to me and says, intensely but warmly, “I'm here for you. I'll help if you need it. I've done this before, lots of times, and I know you'll be able to relax and do fine, and you'll feel so good about yourself after it's over. Trust me.”
“Really?” I hate how I sound, like a scared little kid. But it's how I feel.
“Really.”
“Okay,” I say. “After this girl.”
He nods and gives me a reassuring smile. We watch the girl who's up front. The words to the song flash across the screen that's mounted high above the Old Grind's front counter. I love the song she's singing, “Fat Bottomed Girls” by Queen. Her voice is pretty good, but as with the guy who sang first, her personality is better than her voice. She's filled with energy and fun, though. She clearly loves the song and gyrates around on the floor while singing it. People laugh and clap.
“Now we're up,” Granville says.
I try to swallow past what feels like a bowling ball in my throat. “Shit. I just can't do this, Granville.”
“Yes, you can.”
He takes my hand and leads me to the space where people sing karaoke, toward the side of the Old Grind's front counter. He tells the guy who operates the program what song we want to sing. The intro chords play, and Granville and I stand close together, facing the audience. He's holding the mic. He starts to sing the song. I open my mouth with every intention of joining in, but I catch the hard gazes of several people in the audience who are looking at me speculatively, skeptically. Hell. They've already pegged me for a shy loser. And they're right. God, they're right. Why did I let Granville talk me into this?
He puts his arm around me and continues to sing the song as it moves into the chorus. I've already missed the first verse, and people are smiling at Granville, enjoying his performance, while giving me glances as though to say, What the hell is she doing up there with him? He's doing a really great job. None of the guys in Fleetwood Mac could do any better. He gives me a sideways look, nothing but warmth and encouragement in his expression, as though to say, You can do it. Go for it. Just sing with me.
Okay. It can't be worse than standing up here like a lump. I start singing the chorus along with him, softly, with my eyes closed. Granville's voice dominates over mine, but it's fine. It even sounds good. Then I think, maybe, since I'm singing so softly, I could add a harmony to what he's singing and it would sound cool. I start doing it, thinking, hey, this just might just work.
A loud stage whisper to my right reaches my ears. “What does that mousy little girl think she's doing?”
My eyes pop open, and I see, standing in front of Granville and me, a tall, slender, gorgeous girl, a bit older than me, with long, curly black hair down to her waist, heavy eyeliner around gorgeous black eyes, and bright red lipstick. She's wearing black from head to toe, although given the scant amount of skin covered up, it's generous to say head to toe. Her skin is almost ivory. She's beautiful, incredible-looking, even, except the look in her eyes, which is far from beautiful.
It's ugly. And mocking.
She thinks I suck. And she's doing her best to let me know it.
I stop singing while Granville continues. But he's looking at her, too. It isn't admiration in his gaze, though, but something strange—something that looks like dread. To my horror, she comes up to us, stands on Granville's other side, and joins him in the chorus after the second verse of the song. Holy hell, she has an amazing voice. Powerful. Rich. Gorgeous. She sounds like she could be somebody famous.
For all I know, she is somebody famous.
She blows me away. Even if I sang for a thousand years, she would always blow me away. In the pit of my stomach, I realize beyond any doubt the horrible truth: I don't have the personality to sing for audiences. I don't have sufficient singing talent or technique. And I don't have enough charisma to do it well. I don't have any of those necessities, not really. I've been kidding myself.
/> Screw this scene. I've got to get out of here. How, I don't know, because I came with Granville. I could call my mom, but I'd rather die than face her right now, following the most horrible humiliation I've endured in my life, and all because of my miserable, rotten shyness. No, I'll call a cab. It's worth the expense not to have to face Mom and to get the hell away from here before I'm humiliated even further.
The song finishes, and it's only the girl who's singing now. I don't know where Granville is, maybe he's trying to follow me or find me, but it doesn't matter because I've ducked into the ladies' room, where he won't follow. I call information to find the number for the local cab company, then I call for a cab. I stay in the restroom until I figure the cab will be waiting outside. When I leave the ladies' room, I don't see any sign of either Granville or the girl with the long, black hair. That's good. I don't know what's going on between them, and I don't want to know. Forget it.
When I get in the cab, I tell the driver to take me to UT. The campus isn't far away from the Old Grind, so it's a mercifully short ride. Soon, I'm back in my dorm room, all alone. No roommate—she goes home for the weekend. I don't know the other girls on the floor well enough to talk to even if I wanted to share my misery with them. My rotten shyness isolates me. No more Granville in my life after this, surely. I've let him down. I've disappointed him, after all the care, encouragement, and time he put into me.
God, I miss Jake.
He would call me Wildflower and hug me and tell me everything will be okay, to not let the bastards get me down.
But he isn't there for me anymore, either.
I lay down on my bed and sob. There isn't anything else to do.
Chapter Eleven (Granville)
Rowan is standing next to me, singing the chorus of “Dreams.” What a nightmare! I sure didn't expect this. But if Rowan had been sneaking around while Frannie and I were making plans, she would have overheard. I didn't think about Rowan when I asked Frannie to do this.
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