A surge of anger suddenly breaks through all the self-hate I’ve been feeling since what happened with Beau and Colin. My grandma’s right. I’ve been hiding my light for a really long time. And now it seems a little messed up that Colin gets to control what happens to my songs, make sure no one ever hears them. Like he still possesses me, even though he threw me away like a bag of trash back in Alabama.
A dangerous thought comes into my head and I know then that my grandmother is right. I’m not nearly as boring as she or I thought I was.
It takes about an hour of fiddling with the mic Colin sent me way back when our relationship was still sort of innocent, then figuring out the camera on my laptop, and last but not least, setting up an account on a popular site for uploading videos you want the world to see. But soon enough, I’m ready.
And maybe because no one’s actually looking at me, my voice doesn’t shake as I sing the first line of the first song I wrote after moving back into my grandma’s house.
“I’m an asshole. I’m an asshole. I’m an ass-hoooole,” I croon into the mic, then I grin and sing, “It’s a family curse.”
A couple of hours later I’ve uploaded twelve songs, including the three I wrote before I went on my writing binge, onto the video site. My voice is raw, as are my emotions. But my mind… it’s finally at peace.
Afterwards, I switch off the computer, sure I’ll never look at the site again. So many people upload videos there everyday, I can’t imagine anyone will ever bother with mine. But the point is that they’re there. My songs now have a place to live. Somewhere Colin can’t touch them.
And it only kind of hurts when I glance at the time and date on my computer screen and realize it’s now the day after Christmas—the day of Beau and Josie’s wedding. I hope they’re happy now, without the shadow of what I kept from them hanging over their special day.
Despite that realization, the peaceful feeling stays with me, and the sleep that’s mostly been dodging me for the past few weeks suddenly comes crashing down on my shoulders as I crawl into bed. Next month, I decide. Next month, I’ll go to the community college and get registered for something. Start looking for a new job, something easy enough that I can do it while taking classes.
But tonight, I’m going to sleep, because it’s something I finally feel like I deserve.
35
“Has it been half a month of Sundays yet?” my grandma asks me as I leave out the front door the month after Beau and Josie’s wedding. Despite the temperature, she’s sitting out on the porch. She’s been doing this more and more lately, sitting on the porch, still as a wood dove, as she stares off into the tree-lined horizon.
She misses the Sunday Dinners, I can tell. And she seems sad because she doesn’t have much to do. Seriously, I can’t wait for it to be spring again. Not just because I miss the fried chicken, but because she has less energy without it. Like a Duracell Rabbit that’s lost its drum and can’t be bothered to turn itself on without anything to beat.
“I’ll be back in about an hour or two,” I tell her, ignoring her question. I drop a kiss on her papery brown cheek. “I’m just going over to the community college for a little bit.”
“What you want with the community college?” she asks my back. “I thought you was supposed to be focusing on your music.”
“Music won’t pay our bills, Grandma,” I answer without turning around.
“It would if you got it on the radio!”
This time I don’t answer. I just get in the car, because I know it’ll only open up a whole can of back and forth talk if I do. Grandma’s not one to let a subject rest if she hasn’t had the last word. There were a couple of reasons my mother took a job all the way down in Alabama. One was the opportunity to make better money than she would have here. The other was just plain ol’ wanting to get away from Grandma, who like all grandmas, was a different story to her daughter than she was to her grandbaby.
But as it turns out, she might have a point about community college. I know from the moment I step out of the car that I don’t belong here. I feel no excitement as I walk through the halls, crowded with students in hoodies and jeans, laughing and talking about plans for the weekend. Plans that involve words like “kegger” and “bar” and “wasted.”
Strange, I hadn’t felt all that old before I stepped onto this campus. I’d thought it would be like an episode of that sitcom, Community… zany and fun. But walking down the hall toward the registrar’s office, I just feel washed up. And sad.
I don’t want to do this. College is a fine choice for a lot of people, but my heart just isn’t in it. It feels like another delay. Another pause button hit in a lifetime spent not living my dreams.
But then I think of my mother, who’d spent nearly her whole life and all of mine chasing after things she could never have. Like my already married father, then country music fame, then who knows what in L.A, before she finally settled on being a backup singer, most famous for being the star of a documentary about backup singers who’d settled for being backup singers.
I don’t want to be like that.
I get into the long line in front of the registrar’s office, ignoring the sad country guitar twanging in the back of my head.
“You ain’t going to write that down?”
Ugh! It’s Colin again. I’ve now become used to the fact that it’s his voice I hear in my head whenever I’m struggling with my music, but I can’t say it’s ever going to be anything less than completely unsettling.
“Use it or lose it. Nice sad song like that, you don’t want to lose it. Better get out your journal, Blue.”
I try to ignore him.
“You know you could have done this on the computer,” Colin’s voice points out. “Nobody does it this way anymore.”
That’s not true. There are like twenty plus students in front of me, so obviously I’m not the only one who decided to show up in person. Plus, this was the last day to register for classes for the winter semester, so it wasn’t like I had much of a choice.
“Nobody but the idiots who missed the online registration deadline because they’re too busy smoking weed and the senior citizens who don’t like to be bothered with technology.”
I frown, noticing an awful lot of the people in the line either look like they’ve stepped out of a stoner comedy or have gray hair.
And Colin’s voice inside my head turns suspicious. “You’re not a stoner or a senior citizen, so why didn’t you register for classes before the deadline? If you’re sure this is the road you ought to be taking, why’d you put it off so long?”
“Shut up,” I hiss. “Just let me be.”
“I’m just saying…”
“And I’m just saying get out of my head!”
Colin’s voice goes quiet, just in time for me to notice there are a number of people in line now looking at me. The guy standing behind me, in a beanie reeking of weed, takes a visible step back, like I’m the one with a questionable mental state.
Luckily I’m saved by the sound of my phone going off in my purse.
“Hello?” I say without even checking the number. I don’t care who it is. I’m happy to talk with anyone who will save me from the embarrassment of getting caught talking to myself.
“Hello, is this Kyra Goode?” a woman asks on the other side of the line.
“Yes, this is her,” I answer carefully, wondering who wants to know. The voice is unfamiliar. Not Southern, and not quite as rehearsed as a telemarketer’s.
“The one who posted the videos of herself singing online a few weeks ago?”
“Yes,” I answer. A few alarm bells start going off as I ask, “How did you get this number?”
“Believe me, it took some digging,” she grumbles. “You don’t exactly have a large online footprint, and I had to try a couple of other numbers before this one. Please hold for Wyatt LaGrange.”
“Wyatt LaGrange?” I repeat. “Like the head of Stone River Records, Wyatt LaGrange?”
&nb
sp; “Yes, that Wyatt LaGrange.” The woman on the other side of the line answers. She sounds less annoyed and more amused now. “Please hold.”
“Okay,” I agree, despite being real confused. Stone River is Colin’s label. Why would they be calling me? Is it about the videos I posted online? Maybe they’re calling to tell me to take them down on Colin’s behalf.
“Kyra Goode, you are one hard woman to track down!” a big voice booms on the other side of the line before I can get to worrying too much. “Who posts videos online when she doesn’t even have a Facebook account so people can find her if they want to talk? What kind of aspiring singer songwriter are you?”
“Ah… I’m not a singer songwriter,” I tell him. “Just a songwriter, and I didn’t think anybody would actually look at those videos. I was just putting them up there to put them someplace.”
“To put them someplace,” he repeats, like I’m speaking an alien language. “So let me get this straight. Colin Fairgood announces to everybody that he’s dating you. Then a few weeks later, you post videos of you singing, and you don’t expect anybody to take notice? Do you have any idea how many hits you have on that site?”
“No,” I admitted. “Again, I wasn’t really looking to do anything official when I posted those.”
“Oh, Kyra, I was looking so forward to this call, but now I got a headache. So what are you telling me? You’re just running around throwing up your work without a plan?”
Actually that is exactly what I’ve been doing, but when he puts it that way, it makes me feel like an idiot.
“I didn’t think it was possible for those songs to ever get published.”
“Why not?” he asks.
“Because...”
I look around and then step out of line because I don’t want the other people to hear what I have to say next.
“I’m Colin Fairgood’s ex-girlfriend now, and it ended… bad,” I say in a low voice when I’m out of earshot. “Like really bad, and it was all my fault. There’s no way he’s going to let you or any other country label do business with me.”
A moment of silence. Then Wyatt LaGrange bursts out laughing, like I’ve just told the funniest joke in the world. When he’s finally done cracking up, he says, “Darlin, Colin Fairgood came in here two days ago and announced that not only was he not going to re-up his contract with the label that put him on the map, but that he was taking his new album over to Big Hill Records, because he’d just signed a deal for his own imprint with Geoff Latham.”
“He did that?” I say. Both surprised Colin had managed to produce a new album and impressed he’d gone ahead with his dream to start his own imprint.
“Yes, he did,” Wyatt answers, mistaking my surprise for same-mindedness. “So believe me when I say I am extremely interested in working with somebody on his shit list right now. Now please tell me you don’t already have a publishing deal.”
“I—I don’t,” I say. “As a matter of fact, I was just in line to register for community college.”
“Well, you can step out of that line, sweetheart, because I’m going to want to meet with you in Nashville as soon as possible.”
* * *
A publishing deal. I can’t believe it! I drive home faster than Burt Reynolds in Cannonball Run, still unable to wrap my head around the opportunity that just fell out of the sky. Stone River Records wants to sign me to a publishing deal! Wyatt LaGrange even says he’ll have the papers ready for me when I meet with him on Monday and a list of the artists he wants me to work with to write more songs.
At the thought of signing my first official publishing contract, I remember what Colin said to me back when I was supposed to have a meeting with Geoff Latham. About not signing anything until I let him look the contract over first, on account of there being no such thing as a label that wouldn’t try to screw a new kid for rights.
Then I have to swallow down a lump of regret, because I’m sad this opportunity is coming out of Wyatt LaGrange wanting to get back at Colin. And, of course, Colin was probably right about me needing somebody to look over the paperwork before I sign anything.
Finding a lawyer is definitely something I’m going to have to talk over with Bernice, but meanwhile, I have a publishing deal in the making. An actual publishing deal! I still can’t believe it.
I get home in record time, tires kicking up the dirt outside our cabin. I jump out of the car without even bothering to cut the engine and run up to Grandma, who’s sleeping on the porch swing.
I’ve told her before about falling asleep in this cold, but I’m too happy to chide her about it today. I just shake her, saying, “Grandma, wake up! My songs are going to be on the radio! All your praying over it worked.”
Grandma’s eyes stay closed, and I shake her again. “C’mon, Grandma, that celebration lunch at Red Lobster ain’t going to eat itself.”
My grandma loves Red Lobster, and I expect this to wake her up good as a bucket of ice water.
But her eyes stay closed.
And then it feels like someone’s thrown a bucket of ice water over me as I realize…
I reach out as I have so often with sleeping patients. Check her wrist, then her neck for a pulse… but unlike with those other patients, her pulse is non-existent.
“No…” I shake my head, wanting to deny in full what’s right before my eyes. But I can feel it. Right down to my bones. She’s no longer here.
I say “No!” again, crying because she’s my grandma. My Best Grandma. And truthfully, the best mother I’ve ever had.
“No!” I crumple to my knees, my head falling into her lap, as I sob, “No, Grandma. Please, no…”
But even my wild sobs can’t keep what’s already happened from having happened. My grandma’s gone home. She’s with Paw Paw now.
36
I don’t remember much of what happens after they take Grandma’s body away. A brain made of cotton as I make a whole lot of calls. First to all the Sunday Dinner relatives, and then to the ones further away, and lastly to the one in L.A. The one I haven’t called in a very, very long time.
I get her voicemail. “You found me, now leave a message,” my mother’s down home voice tells me.
So I do. “Mom—I mean, Valerie. I mean Goody,” I correct myself, remembering that’s her stage name now. “This is Kyra. Grandma… she’s gone home. And I know you weren’t able to make it for Paw Paw’s funeral, but I thought you might want to try to make it for this one. Here’s the information.”
I quickly give her the details for the funeral, then I say bye, and then I hang up. I’m not surprised she doesn’t call back.
I don’t need her anyway. There’s a steady stream of relatives in and out of the house, checking on me from about fifteen minutes after I make the first call to Bernice. Making me grateful for the family who does love me… and sad, because I can barely bring myself to eat any of the delicious food they keep dropping off and warming up for me.
I call Wyatt LaGrange’s assistant on the Monday I’m supposed to meet with him, and tell her we’ll have to reschedule because my grandma passed. She expresses her condolences like any decent person would, and then she tells me to call her just as soon as I’m ready. “Wyatt really is very excited to meet with you,” she assures me.
I tell her I’ll call back as soon as I can. I don’t have the heart to tell her the meeting will now have to be about something very different, a selling of the songs I’ve already posted online, because I don’t think I’m going to have any other music to write for a very long time.
After I get off the phone with Wyatt LaGrange’s assistant, I go and lie down on my bed. I’m all slept out, but unable to face the gang of relatives outside my door. So I just lie there, listening to them talking and moving around. My whole mind has gone even quieter than when Paw Paw died. Not a song to be heard. Just dull gray cotton as far as my mind’s eye can see.
A knock sounds on the other side of the door.
“Kiki!” one of my cousin’s
calls out.
Rhonda. I ignore her. Maybe if I don’t answer, she’ll go away and leave me to my silent room with my empty mind.
But another knock comes, and this time it’s accompanied by my cousin Bernice’s soft voice, “Kiki, I think you’d better come out,” she says, almost apologetically.
“There’s another fine-ass white boy here asking for you!” Rhonda adds, so loud, her voice has probably carried to the front door.
Some serious shushing sounds from Bernice, and a “What? I’m just telling her who’s at the door!” from Rhonda.
“If you really trying to tell her, say it’s that one football player that got knocked blind.” My cousin Tyrone’s voice charges into the fray, making me wonder exactly how many cousins are outside my door right now.
I sit up in bed. “Do you mean, Beau?” I ask. “Beau Prescott?”
“Yeah, that’s him,” Tyrone answers. Then he asks, “Kiki, how you know him?”
* * *
It’s him. It’s really him. I find Beau Prescott, my brother, standing on the front porch in the same pair of gold, mirrored aviators he was wearing when he came to Colin’s hotel room to win Josie back.
“Hi,” I say when I see him. Feeling awkward… and confused.
“Hey,” he says. “I… um… I mean, Josie—Josie told me about your grandmother’s passing and I…”
He trails off again.
“And you came to see me?” I ask, my voice filled with wonder, because I still can’t quite believe Beau is actually here at my home, even though he’s standing right in front of me.
“Yeah,” he says. “Josie mentioned you told her your grandma basically raised you. And I know when my dad died, I was a little—I don’t know, bummed because I didn’t have any other real family around except Kitty. And you’ve met Kitty.”
I smile, getting his meaning exactly. I couldn’t imagine the walking reenactment of Gone with the Wind that was Kitty Prescott suddenly turning into a pillar of strength after her husband died.
His Pretend Baby Page 54
