Like a Love Song

by Gabriela Martins

  I press my lips together.

  “It’s not that I don’t like talking to Vovó. I do. I love her. She’s really sweet.”

  Mom touches my foot over the sheets. “Then what is it? Help me understand why everything about my family is so painful to you.”

  “No, Mamis, no,” I say, crawling to her. I put my hands in hers. “It’s not that it’s your family. I just—and it isn’t painful, either—I just know that…that I don’t fit in. I know what they think of me.”

  She snorts. “What do they think of you, Natalia?”

  My stomach turns. “That I’m a sell-out. That I’ve given up on being Brazilian to be American. They don’t think I have the right to any of the Latinidade that’s so important to them.”

  It’s so difficult to admit that. Mom squeezes my hand with a worried look. “Nobody’s ever said that, Nati. It’s in your head, baby. Everybody loves you and misses you.”

  I try to swallow the rock that’s stuck in my throat.

  My hands are cold against hers.

  “My cousins think that. That’s why they refuse to speak English with me.”

  She shakes her head. “They want you to talk in Portuguese with them so you practice your native language. Remember your prima Renata? She moved to Uruguay for work and now she struggles with Portuguese, keeps getting it confused with Spanish. Everyone does the same to her. It’s not to make your life hard.”

  I want to tell her that I don’t buy it.

  I want to tell her that she’s wrong.

  But everybody knows you can’t just tell a Brazilian mom that she’s wrong.

  “You remember your primo Caio, don’t you?” She tries, squeezing my hands again. I nod. He’s maybe ten years older than me, ridiculously cute. I used to have a harmless crush on him as a kid. “You know he has a five-year-old, right?”

  “Yeah. She’s adorable.”

  “Little Vera is in love with you. She listens to all your songs, talks about you in school, about how you’re her famous tia.”

  I breathe out as slowly as I can, as if it will somehow clean my mind of all these thoughts that I don’t like.

  It doesn’t work. They’re all still with me when I give Mom a staged smile and announce, feigning confidence, “I’ll call Vovó later today. I promise.”

  Mom finally lets go of my hands. She knows me well, but not well enough to get past the smile that’s designed for the cameras. Or maybe she does know and is choosing her battles again.

  “Good. That will make me happy.” As she sighs again, more deliberately this time, she glances around, and her eyes pause on my laptop, still open from last night. “Oh, you fell asleep watching something? What was it?”

  “Um,” I start, biting the insides of my cheeks. “It’s a, um, it’s a Romeo and Juliet retelling. But very, very different. Like, it was a heist movie, too. Weird. In a good way, I think? But weird. It’s very darkly shot, and the leads are…well, Juliet didn’t convince me much. But Romeo was…” I trail off.

  Mom raises her eyebrows, encouraging me to continue.

  “He was okay.” I shrug.

  “All right. I’m sorry the movie wasn’t what you were expecting.” She gets up from my bed, and I don’t feel like correcting her. “Don’t forget to call Vovó.” She winks. “Going to work now. Tchau, filha.” She blows me a kiss.

  I blow her a kiss back.

  And then I’m alone in my room, groaning to myself, trying to gather the courage to either call my grandmother or close the movie tab from my computer.

  I grab my pillow, bury my face in it, and scream at the top of my lungs.

  * * *

  It’s three in the afternoon, and I have had my guitar on my lap for what feels like the past six hours, even if realistically it was probably one. I cross out all the lyrics I’ve written on the notepad next to me on the bed. I hate it, I hate it, I hate it.

  Times like these I really wish we had a puppy or a kitten. A cute distraction.

  Instead I’m doing my best to pretend I’m still working, even if nothing’s coming.

  I set my guitar aside and grab my phone. I go straight to my emails, and check that everything is all set for the superhero movie premiere on Saturday. My dress is ready for pickup. The hair and makeup artist will be waiting for me at a nearby hotel. I technically have a date for it, as I’m pretty sure William’s schedule is clear. It’ll be our big we’re-a-couple moment, since we’ll be together on the red carpet for the first time.

  I put my phone down and stream the first notes of the theme song I wrote for the superhero movie. I recorded it so long ago I barely remember the lyrics.

  I wrote “The Outsider” in Paris last year, after an event where I was supposed to mingle, but ended up only feeling self-conscious of how alone I was. This was before I met Trent. The song talks about feeling inadequate. Technically it’s about the hero’s powers overpowering him instead, his search for justice alienating him from his real life.

  But whatever. Art can be interpreted in more ways than one.

  I open my phone and text Brenda:

  NATALIE:

  can’t write anything new

  i’m freaking out

  BRENDA:

  have you considered writing about the existential dread

  and i mean DREAD

  that applying to college brings?

  NATALIE:

  fdosighshi how can i help you?

  BRENDA:

  stop procrastinating

  go write

  I grab my guitar for emotional support and send another text, to a different person.

  NATALIE:

  so apparently i’m supposed to write new songs

  I keep staring at the screen until I can see the little dots that show he’s writing. I suck my bottom lip and watch the screen intently until a message appears.

  BRITISH BOYFRIEND:

  You could always release an album of covers.

  Sex Pistols, maybe?

  I’m sure there’d be a public for that. ;)

  I laugh, putting my guitar aside, and hug my legs.

  NATALIE:

  or i could suck it up

  and make a new song

  BRITISH BOYFRIEND:

  That’s a possibility too, of course. If you’re into that.

  Why can’t you write? What’s troubling you, mate?

  I frown at the screen. Mate? Okay, then. I guess we’re buddies now. Pals. Bros.

  NATALIE:

  it’s my grandma’s birthday today

  i mean, i haven’t been able to write anything new in a while

  but i think i was tired from the tour

  and my life’s been total chaos since…what happened

  i’m in a slump

  and

  i’m afraid of calling her too

  I stare at the phone, waiting for a response. But the little dots never appear.

  When my phone vibrates instead I nearly throw it away from me with the surprise. He’s a caller. How could I possibly forget? Frowning, I slide right to answer his call and put the phone to my ear.

  “Hello?”

  “Why are you afraid of calling your grandma?”

  “I guess…” I sigh. Okay, so we’re doing this. “There’s a lot there. And I don’t know how to talk to her. I don’t know if I am what she wants me to be. And that kind of scares me a bit. I’m lucky enough that I know Mom loves me unconditionally. But I’m an only kid. Grandma has so many options of grandkids she can love.”

  “Ah yes, as it is common sense that only parents with one child will love all their kids.” He pauses. “I’m sure your grandma loves you. Like she must love all her grandkids.”

  I roll my eyes. “Yeah, but i
t’s different. They’re there with her. I’m…here.”

  He’s quiet on the other end for a minute. I think he’s going to lecture me or maybe insist that she must love me very, very, very much. Instead, he asks, “Do you miss Brazil? Do you miss your family?”

  I don’t know how to answer that.

  I look down, then close my eyes.

  William hums in acknowledgment. “It’s hard. I get that. I’m on the phone every day with Mum and my sisters, but I still miss them. I don’t have anyone here in the States other than Cedrick, and that’s…not the same. Do you think talking to her could make that feeling change?”

  Eyes still closed, I feel some type of comfort falling over me. I don’t know if it’s the acceptance that I’m going to call my grandma, or if it’s the softness of his words. Either way I find myself saying, “Maybe. But I’d like to find out.”

  “Brilliant!” he says, a bit too excitedly. “Let me know how the call goes. Bye!”

  And then he hangs up.

  I take the phone away from my ear and stare at the screen until it goes dark again. I can’t believe he expects me to call her right now. But, at the same time, that was absolutely to be expected.

  I Google the time zone differences, and then…

  I take a deep breath and take the plunge.

  When she doesn’t answer on the first or the second ring, I tell myself that it’s okay, and I should probably end the call now. She won’t answer, and it won’t be my fault that we don’t talk today.

  But on the third ring, she picks up, and my heart starts beating fast.

  “Alô?” she asks.

  I gather all my courage—and Portuguese—to reply, “Alô. Natalie aqui—” I shake my head, correcting myself, “Natalia. É a Natalia.”

  “Nati, meu amor!” she exclaims on the other side, so loud that I’m sure the majority of my family will now know that I called.

  The way she says both things, both my childhood nickname with the Brazilian accent and all—Nah-tchy—and calling me meu amor, my love. It makes my eyes tear up, and I don’t know why.

  “Miss you, Vovó.” I hold my breath. “Saudades.”

  Grandma chuckles, then says something I don’t quite catch. I only know she’s asking about Christmas. Natal. I don’t respond right away, because if I’m honest, I still think it’s for the best if I stay in Los Angeles this Christmas.

  “Feliz aniversário,” I tell her instead. “I hope you get a lot of love this year. You deserve it. Merece muito, minha vozinha.”

  I’m not sure how much she gets of what’s English, but she starts making kissing noises on the other end. It makes me smile and cry at the same time. I want to hold the phone close to my heart, but instead I keep it very still next to my ear, as if a sudden movement could make the moment evaporate.

  “Obrigada, filha! Obrigada!” she says.

  “Te amo.” I want to say I love you to the moon and back, though I don’t know how to say that in Portuguese. I do know that moon is lua, but prepositions make it difficult to translate. Instead I say it again, “Te amo.”

  She says, “Te amo! I love you so much, so much.” Her thick Brazilian accent, I lovie yu sou muchie, makes my heart so warm. I think she’s crying, too.

  “Okay. I have to go now, Vovó. Tenho que…irmos?”

  “Tenho que ir,” she corrects me. “Okay, filha. Vai. Nos falamos em breve? Talk soon?”

  “Sim,” I say. I suppose we could.

  When we do hang up, I bring my phone to my chest. And before the adrenaline wears down, I’m already calling William to tell him about it.

  The driver is Sean, the same one who had picked me up for my picnic date with William. We’ve been talking about superheroes for the last ten minutes with the partition down, and when he suggests that the most important hero is a guy I’ve never heard of, I say, “Now it will sound bad if I say I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

  He slaps his hand against the steering wheel with laughter. “I won’t go to the tabloids to say that you don’t know comic book superheroes, Miss Natalie, but you have to promise me you’ll check out his movie.”

  “Deal, Sean.”

  He looks at me in the rearview mirror and then asks, “Are you nervous about the premiere?”

  Writing a theme song for a blockbuster superhero movie? Piece of cake compared to the anxiety about facing my first red carpet after Trent dumped me.

  But I’m more nervous about where we’re headed first, picking up William. I clear my throat and start to talk, then stop myself. Sean gives me another look through the rearview mirror, and I go with “Yes, a bit. It’s a big night.”

  I’m glad that I’m not performing tonight, because I’d be in no way prepared. I’m hardly prepared to be photographed as it is. This is my first time being around important people since the People’s Choice Awards event. Since my disgrace.

  “I have a son who likes your music,” he says out of nowhere, and when I don’t immediately respond, he explains, “I know the tabloids have been giving you a hard time. But if you can make him dance, you’re all right in my book.”

  While that’s not enough to make my leg stop going up and down, warmth spreads through my chest. “That’s…thank you so much. How old is he? What’s his name?”

  Sean starts telling me everything about his son and my nerves ease. I ask question after question about the boy, and I’m almost completely able to ignore the gift wrapped in silver on my left.

  I’ve been preparing for tonight all day. My stylist, Erin, arrived at the crack of dawn to deliver my look for the evening. A perfectly tailored top that wraps around my neck fitting snugly over my breasts, finishing an inch above my belly button. With a thin strap around the back, the drama is in leaving most of my back exposed. A perfect long dark red skirt falls to my shoes, silver platform heels that make me four inches taller but still able to walk properly. My hair is up in a very high ponytail that cascades down my back, straight and silky. Long Swarovski earrings are exposed like a shower of crystals. A perfect tiny Salvatore Ferragamo black purse with a golden chain strap adorns my wrist.

  Perfect, perfect, perfect.

  When we arrive at William’s hotel, my heart won’t stop beating like it wants to break free from my rib cage. William’s already waiting downstairs, in a beautifully tailored suit to go with his styled hair. He’s not wearing a tie, but his crisp white shirt looks good against the navy of his suit. His hair is combed back and staying there, so his curls don’t seem wild, only charming.

  He’s not wearing socks.

  It happens to work with the outfit.

  With an expression that’s hard to read, he comes to the car. Sean opens the door for William, and after William spends a moment greeting him, he slides into the back of the limo and sits across from me.

  Sean rolls up the partition without saying anything.

  “Hi,” William says.

  “Hi,” I respond slowly. I want to say that he looks gorgeous, but he doesn’t seem ready for compliments. “Are you all right? You seem…off.”

  William rubs his hands together, then breathes in and out real loudly.

  He’s acting so weird.

  “No, it’s fine. Nothing much. Had a bit of a meeting with Ashley, but it’s—it’s okay.”

  I blink slowly. My Ashley? I suppose my Ashley is also his Ashley.

  “What did she say?”

  William glances around, as if Sean could possibly rat him out to Ashley.

  “William,” I press. “What did she say?”

  “Just…,” he starts, then pauses, staring down at his shoes. They’re an excellent pair of black oxfords. “She really has a problem with my socks. Did you know that? She hates my socks.”

  That startles a laugh out of me. “They are…fun.”

 
He raises both of his eyebrows at me. “Brilliant, so you also hate my socks.”

  “I didn’t say that. I’m just saying I guess I could see where she’s coming from. Her job is to pick apart your image and predict your audience’s reaction. Don’t take it personally. She wants you to sell more.”

  I’m not entirely sure what would’ve been the right thing to say. But this wasn’t it.

  William stares at me as if he’s seeing me for the first time.

  I really don’t like it.

  His words are emphatic, an earnest look in his face. “I’m not a product to be sold.” And then, in a nearly accusative tone, “Neither are you.”

  “Well.” I snort. “Once we become famous, it’s part of the deal.” I point at my hair. “You think I like straightening my hair every day? Wearing this much makeup? Actually, the makeup I do like—” I throw my hands up. “But that’s not the point! The point is that I accept it as part of the package. Because it is what it is. We have to look a certain way. I have to look a certain way.”

  He rests his elbows on his knees, surveying me.

  I hate that he’s so damn gorgeous in this suit and with his hair like this, because it makes it difficult to focus.

  “Are you sure about that? Or are you molding yourself into something you think is more profitable?” Before I even have the chance to reply to that, he asks, “Are you happy changing who you are for fame?”

  And maybe he doesn’t know the right thing to say, either, but that? Definitely wasn’t it.

  I cross my arms like a shield across my chest.

  “Listen, fame is a big deal. It’s only through fame that I have the creative freedom to write my songs and do what I love. If you look down on fame, this is clearly the wrong business for you.” I tilt my chin up. “Nobody makes it in Hollywood with art. But once we make it in Hollywood, we get to make art.”