I bitched if I had to get up before noon. Instead I found any excuse to burn the midnight oil. I watched reality TV on the sly and the only books I cared to read were whimsical stories of fantasy and romance that my mother warned were nothing more than fairy tales. A successful life in the city romanced by a billionaire? That didn’t happen to simple, plain girls from Iowa – or so my mother so firmly asserted.
But I didn’t care because unlike my mother, who relished limitations and structure, I wanted to spread my wings and soar off the biggest cliff I could find. I wanted to believe that if I could have a dream, I could find a way to make it come true. And I was willing to sink my teeth into anything and everything that encouraged me to do just that.
That didn’t include a church hymnal or boring, dusty textbooks.
Instead I crafted Vision Boards with pictures cut carefully out of magazines to piece together the life of my dreams.
And it was a life that was so big it didn’t fit in Oswen, Iowa.
Because frankly… neither did I.
I closed the bedroom door behind me as I made my way to my closet to get dressed. There, tucked behind the boring, shapeless clothes in size 3X, was that carefully crafted Vision Board. Despite my mother’s White Rabbit urgency, I pulled out said Vision Board to remind myself exactly what kinds of dreams I thought were worth believing in.
My fingertip danced over the glossy photos that were framed with glitter and cheerful, positive affirmations. On one side was a big house facing the Pacific Ocean, pictures of CDs and gold albums – and a Grammy award. On the other side were pictures of a penthouse with a view, Times Square and the Great White Way, along with a Broadway playbill my Aunt Jackie had brought back from New York.
These were the secret dreams I harbored as I daydreamed my way through high school, and most certainly nothing my mother would have ever encouraged me to pursue. She thought the best my passion for singing could amount to was a position as choir director or music teacher. But she often cautioned me that even those dreams were far too lofty. She reminded me that skill was far more marketable than talent. Skill was what you had for yourself, she’d say. Talent was what other people decided for you.
If she knew I daydreamed about being a platinum-selling singer, she’d furrow her brow and stare down her straight nose at me like I was some delusional idiot. In her mind, living off one’s talent was like living off one’s beauty. It was far too subjective to bank on for the long term.
And she’d waste no time telling me that to make it as a pop singer, I’d need both talent and beauty to sell even one album, much less a million.
I couldn’t even get a date to my prom.
With a sigh my eyes traveled to the class photo tucked between all my dreams of grandeur. Eddie Nix was the most popular boy in high school, and every girl (and probably a few guys) wanted to be on his arm. He was a star quarterback of the Fighting Otters, with a scholarship to take him to Des Moines in the fall. He had wavy blond hair and crystal blue eyes, and a smile that could make any dentist proud.
I’d been in love with him since third grade, when he told me how much he enjoyed my performance as the Cowardly Lion in the school’s production of The Wizard of Oz. We remained fast friends up until puberty, when girls and boys finally discovered each other. He turned into a teen dream and I turned into a pudgy, acne-ridden butterball with greasy hair and a mouthful of metal to straighten my unfortunate overbite.
After that we went down very different paths. He hung out with the cool kids and managed to date all the cheerleaders from middle school on. I ended up in drama class with all the other performing freaks. The jewel in my crown? A starring gig as the Fighting Otter mascot, Oscar, from freshman year until senior year, so that I could have an excuse to travel around the tri-state area with his team.
Our biggest connection was my best friend, Brianna. Bree was one of the few who could orbit in both galaxies in the high school universe. She was pretty and perky enough to be with the cool kids, and just geeky enough to fit in with all us outcasts.
Thanks to her (and Oscar the Fighting Otter, of course,) Eddie still considered me in his inner circle. He even took pity on me and gave me my first kiss during a late night study fest in tenth grade. I played it cool and never pressured him for anything more, which was a good thing because I think he might have thought better of it in the bright light of day. We never talked about it after that, and he made sure we never ended up alone again.
At least that held true until the night the Fighting Otters kicked the butts of the Mid-City Jaguars, 21-3 in the regionals junior year. The team got ahold of a case of cheap beer and played quarters into the night. That night I ended up in the backseat of Eddie’s car out on Makeout Bluff.
Just like before, we didn’t speak for a week or so afterward, and then when he did pay me attention neither one of us broached the subject of our night together. Eventually he’d start flirting again, start calling again, and we had ended up at the Bluff three times since.
Nobody knew, and we never talked about it. It just sort of happened, even when I’d given up hope that it would ever happen again. He’d never ask. I’d never offer. But somehow or another we’d end up at the Bluff, hidden amidst the old maple trees and sleepy, weeping willows.
All he had to do was give me that knowing grin after he unbuckled his seatbelt and I was toast. In his arms I forgot I was some awkward teenaged outcast. He was the popular quarterback, and for some reason I couldn’t fathom he kept coming back to me – the girl that nobody else seemed to notice. As such, Eddie became the ideal and earned a spot on my Vision Board.
Somewhere along the line I decided I wouldn’t be living the life of my dreams if he wasn’t in it.
Ironically, of all the dreams on my Vision Board, he was the most attainable. But he was still as far away as the moon.
And just like any other time I knew I may get to see him, my heart leapt a little as we climbed into my mother’s minivan and headed for the church. The one good thing about the First Baptist Church of Oswen was that Eddie and his folks were members, and they were going to be there for the carnival that happened to coincide with my monumental day.
In fact, my mother was so preoccupied with her duties running the bake sale that she had so far neglected to mention my birthday at all. Instead she barked orders and delegated responsibilities, making me run around as much as she did. The apron I had put on over my brand new royal blue crushed velvet birthday blouse was soon covered in flour and powdered sugar, with precious few to even notice.
Finally I saw the smiling face of my bestie, Bree.
“Happy birthday,” she greeted in a sing-song voice. She had been my choir buddy since we were in grade school, although my voice tended to be far more bombastic. I learned early on to tone it down or else drown everyone else out, especially my best friend with a whisper soft voice.
The spotlight was reserved for a solo artist. No outcast in her right mind wanted to fly solo through the treacherous terrain of adolescence.
“You’re the first one that remembered it was my birthday,” I told Bree with a wry smile.
She shrugged. “They’re just busy,” she said. “They’ll remember.” I mirrored her shrug but said nothing. She gave me a big smile as she reached into her purse. “I was going to save this for later, but I think you should have it now.”
My eyes met hers in surprise as she handed me a thin box tied with a red, glittery bow. “What’d you do?”
“Open it,” she said with a smile.
Carefully I pulled the box open. I found a gold charm bracelet inside. It had to cost her all of her paycheck down at the Buy and Grab local market. “Bree…”
She held up her arm to show me a matching bracelet. On hers was one half of a “best friends” heart, and on mine was the other. I couldn’t even speak as I reached for a hug. She really was my best friend. “Thank you,” I whispered.
“Sisters in spirit,” she affirmed as we pulled apart, paus
ing only to wipe the tear from my cheek. “So. Are you ready for our star performance tonight?” she asked. We had earned the distinction of being spotlight performers for the choir in a concert that would top off the day’s festivities. Given the way this day was going, it was pretty much one of the only things that I had to look forward to. Like I said earlier, I’m always happiest when I’m singing… even if it’s in front of half of Oswen’s most religious and devout.
“I was born ready,” I smiled. I glanced down at my dusty, dirty blouse. “Guess I’ll have to clean up a bit, huh?”
“You look delicious,” a male voice said from over Bree’s shoulder. My face flushed bright red when I realized Eddie was standing there, giving me his lopsided grin.
“Shut up,” I said as I furiously began to dust off my shirt.
He just laughed as he draped an arm around Bree’s shoulders. “Someone tells me it’s your birthday. Have you gotten your swats yet?”
He blushed even deeper as I glanced away. “Not yet.”
“Let me be the first,” he growled as he reached over and swatted my backside. “There’s more where that came from,” he said near my ear before he chuckled to himself and walked away.
Bree glanced over my flustered expression. “Something going on I should know about?”
I shook my head. She was the best friend I had, but my dreams were a precious commodity. As long as no one knew about them, no one could talk me out of them.
I figured this was never truer than with the boy I wanted to take away from every other girl in our senior class.
And of course as my best friend she would have felt compelled to talk me down from the rafters, reminding me not to lose my heart on some unattainable dream so she could spare me the ultimate heartbreak of learning that painful lesson on my own. Bree would have gently told me that he wasn’t the kind of guy who was going to settle down and live in Oswen, as if that was all we could ever hope for anyway.
Little did she know that was a big part of his appeal.
“Jordi!”
I glanced around where my mother was calling from the kitchen. With a sigh I told Bree that duty called. I trudged over to where my mother stood, with not a hair out of place. Her face skewered into a scowl when she saw the state of my brand new top.
“Jordi, you’re a mess. What a disrespectful way to treat your brand new blouse. We had to get this specially made, you know.”
Of course I knew. She made sure that I knew from the moment I found it on the Internet. It came from a specialty store, had to be specially altered and was shipped special order. As far as my mother was concerned the only thing that wasn’t special about the shirt was the girl who happened to be wearing it.
“You better go wash up,” she said. “Sister Racine wants you to warm up a bit before your performance. But get right back to the kitchen when you’re done. I’ll need your help cleaning up.”
I nodded. I didn’t bother to ask her if she would see my performance just like I didn’t bother to remind her it was my birthday.
After eighteen years, I had learned such things were pointless.
So I took off my apron and headed toward the tent in back of the church, where the choir had been instructed to congregate to prepare for their performance.
What I didn’t expect when I walked through that flap was the entire choir, aged 12 to 92, to start singing the very same song I had performed all by my lonesome in the shower that morning. The chorus hit me like a thunderbolt, taking me completely by surprise. Even Bree was up front and center with our choir director Racine Larchmont, as they serenaded me with one of my favorite songs.
I was laughing and crying as I walked into their embrace when they finished. “You guys!” I think I said, or some variation thereof.
All the greetings of “Happy Birthday” I had been denied all day began to rain down on me by those who understood me best. I was passed from hug to hug all around the room until I ended up face to face with Racine. I knew in an instant she had coordinated the whole thing. I hugged her strongest of all.
“Thank you for remembering,” I whispered in her ear.
“How could I forget?” she admonished. “You’re my best student, after all.”
Sister Racine was not only the choir director of the church, she was also the musical director at Oswen High School. I had been under her wing since my freshman year, and pretty much thought she ruled the world. Racine came from Memphis, Tennessee, where she had worked as a backup singer for a blues band throughout the 1960s when she was just a teenager. She ended up following her heart to Oswen when her husband, Wayne, decided he’d had enough of the show business life and wanted to return to his roots.
He had escaped Oswen, but only briefly.
They came back, found God, and never once thought about what might have been in Tennessee.
In my mother’s mind, this is what the life of a singer entailed. You go, you try to live out your dreams, you fall miserably on your face and then you come home to get a real job.
But oh, how I envied both Racine and Wayne that they got their time in the spotlight… if only for a while.
I had bugged Racine relentlessly to tell me every single one of her tales from Memphis. I could sit for hours and listen to her melodic Southern lilt regale the ins and outs of the music industry, and how it had impacted society as it swept the nation during the turbulent 60s.
“Music is the cord that ties us all together,” she would say. I didn’t remember much of what the pastor had to say, but I knew deep in my heart Racine spoke the gospel truth. In all my life, she had been my wisest teacher. Only she had any idea that I wanted something much bigger for myself than a regular life in Oswen.
Racine took me by the arms. “You’re free now,” she said. “Where are you going to fly, baby bird?”
“I don’t know,” I told her honestly. I had dreams, sure, but not one single clue of how to make them come true. I had a very small savings from my part-time job at the local Burger Palace, but it wasn’t nearly enough to buy a car and all the gas it would take to get to Des Moines, much less New York or Los Angeles.
Plus there was that pesky 262 pounds to contend with. If only I could break 200, then I could break free.
From my mother, to my job, to my size, I felt stuck. And I knew it had to show on my face to anyone who gave a damn.
Fortunately for me, Racine Larchmont gave a damn.
She pulled me to the side and offered me a small, gift-wrapped box. I’d gotten enough Bibles in my day to know it was a book, but I couldn’t contain my gasp when I opened it. It was a songbook of all the songs she used to sing in Memphis, complete with notes in the margins.
“Racine,” I began, ready to refuse such an important gift. This was her past. I couldn’t take that away.
“Don’t you dare say you can’t take it,” she said. “It’s just collecting dust at my house anyway. Collecting dust just like all my memories, and it’s worth way more than that. Music is a living thing. It won’t mean anything as long as it’s silenced in some box somewhere. And just like it was passed along to me when I was ready, I’m passing it along to you. Because I think you’re ready.”
There were tears in my eyes as I took her in a big hug.
That night I belted out our songs with no hesitation, which blew nearly everyone in our choir away. Bree was stunned as she tried to keep up, but her voice was effectively thinned out and squashed by my enthusiastic rendition of a gospel classic. I did feel free. I did feel liberated. It was such a little thing but someone out there believed in my dream.
It was like being given the keys to heaven itself.
Afterwards, even though several folks wanted to stop me and congratulate me on my performance, my mother pounced almost immediately to remind me we had cleanup duty. This was especially annoying to me because I had hoped to meet up with Eddie again after the concert, but he was nowhere to be found. Racine wished me a happy birthday once again as I followed my mom back to the
kitchen.
I said nothing as I wrapped up the food and cleaned off the tables. The longer she went without telling me what she thought about my performance, the more I sensed that she was angry at me for some reason.
It wasn’t until the car ride home when she finally leveled the boom.
“So is that what your showing off was all about?” she asked without even glancing sideways. “It’s your birthday so you wanted to steal the thunder of the whole choir?”
I opened my mouth to tell her that I hadn’t intentionally stolen anyone’s thunder, but before I could say anything she forged ahead.
“Pride is a very slippery slope, Jordi. Singing in the choir at the church isn’t supposed to be about you. If you want to be vain, do it elsewhere.”
“How is it vain to use the voice God gave me to sing his praises?” I wanted to know.
“Because you did it for you. Not for him.”
I couldn’t argue that. I did sing for me. I just always kind of hoped God would understand. “Fine. I’ll quit the choir.”
“You made a commitment to that choir. You can’t just quit.”
I felt exasperated as I stared at her. “Is there anything that I can do to make you happy, Mother?”
We pulled into our driveway. Without looking at me she answered, “Yes. Put up the food.”
She slammed the door shut and headed toward the house.
It occurred to me she still hadn’t said word one about my birthday.
I tried not to let it get to me as I lugged in container after container of food. All these leftovers would fill our fridge until I could bear the temptation no longer. As much as my mother derided my weight, she really didn’t change her cooking or shopping much to help me tackle it. There were still cakes and cookies and fried chicken and macaroni and cheese. After all, I was the only one in my family with a weight problem, so surely the problem was with me rather than with her shopping or her cooking.
I sighed as I flopped down at the kitchen table with a slice of Mississippi Mud cake. All its gooey fudgy goodness and sticky marshmallowy topping stuck to my fingers as I lifted the piece to my mouth. Apparently it was as close as I was going to get to a birthday cake, so I might as well enjoy it. I would have polished it off with a soda, but that was the one thing my mother never allowed into the house. Instead we got sweet tea by the gallon.
The Complete Groupie Trilogy Page 82