by Nessa Morgan
But I do nothing of the sort.
Damn, I love him too much for violent sass.
Instead, I turn to him and smile. That’s it, just a polite smile, not even a sarcastic bitchy one. I still need to think of something to do to him to make him understand this was a bad idea. But I have time. Standing up from the chair, I make my way out of the library, toward the nearest sign for the Idol auditions. Tomorrow after school. Great, another thing for me to freak out about.
By the time of the audition, I’m sweating through my clothes. I swear I’ll punch Zephyr the next time I see him. I am eighth on the list before I have to sing in front of that really old camera the school rents out to students. Really, I could just leave, tell them to fuck off, but I’m a little curious to see if I’d make it.
And I kind of want to make it.
Person after person, girl after boy after girl are called into the room. Some come out happy and in good spirits, the others look like they’ve been shot.
This is only a school competition, people, nothing to get your knickers in a twist about.
Finally, someone with platinum blonde hair calls my name, and sneers as I stand. I can tell that she’s not my biggest fan by the way her nose—an obvious plastic one—turns up when I approach her. I can make that nose look a little better, honey, if you do that one more time. Could I get disqualified by flicking her nose into the right direction? It’d be an improvement, really.
Weirdly, I expected Zephyr to be here whispering good things in my ear like you can do it and I believe in you, but he had a practice he couldn’t miss. So Harley is waiting at the end of the hall for me, staying away so I can focus and prepare myself. I only sent her away because she was more nervous than me—unbelievable, but it’s true—and her jitters made mine worse.
I walk into the cold room, the choir/orchestra room, and suddenly wish they’d have left the window in the back of the room closed. All the chairs have been cleared from the room, probably locked in the instrument storage closet. In the center of the room is a thin table; one that you’d normally find pressed against a wall holding important paperwork in the front office; behind the table are three people, seated with their hands neatly folded in front of them. Two very pretty girls and one boy; from what I know, everyone seated at the table are seniors in the top choirs that require auditions to join. The girl that called my name takes a seat on a stool behind the ancient video camera sitting on a tripod next to the table.
“State your name and the song you’ll be delighting us with,” she mumbles flatly, bored. I glare at her, hoping she can feel the metaphorical daggers I’m shooting at her. I didn’t ask you to do this, lady, I want to tell her but I feel that that’d be a bit too much right now.
My polite upbringing kicking in, I plaster a wide smile on my face and say, “My name is Joey Archembault and I’ll be singing Ain’t No Other Man by Christina Aguilera.” It was the first song that popped into my mind this morning when I thought about it. On the way to school, I shoved my ear buds into my ears, ignored Jamie and Zephyr as they tried to engage me in conversation, and listened to the song repeatedly to make sure that I actually know and could remember the lyrics.
The bottle blonde behind the camera snorts in derision and rolls her eyes as she aims the camera at me. I’m surprised she doesn’t aim it toward the ceiling in spite for whatever I did to ruin her pretty little world today. I know from that sound, she doesn’t think I can do it.
This is going to be fun wiping that scowl from her face.
The door creaks open behind me, the sound to0 loud in the quiet room to go unnoticed. I turn and spot Harley trying to sneak into the room, sending me an apologetic look. The judges don’t seem to mind. I don’t either.
I tuck my hair behind my ear, pop my wrist, then untuck my hair and let it fall over my shoulder—I’m a weird nervous person.
Here goes nothing.
After what seems like an hour of preparation, I take a deep breath and start from the beginning of the song, letting the words, the music, flow from my mouth in a swirl that, I swear, I can see. If I could play this on the piano, I would do so much better with my hands guiding the music. It doesn’t matter anyway, they cleared the piano from the room to prevent people from using it. In my mind, even though I’m royally pissed at him for signing me up for this without my permission, I picture Zephyr, dedicating the song to him when he can’t even hear me. He’s the one I want to be singing to.
I hit the high note, perfectly I might add, before one of the judges wave an over accessorized arm through the air, signaling me to stop.
“Thank you,” the lone boy says, a small smile tugging on the corners of his mouth as he winks, congratulating me without showing any favoritism. I think I like him for that little gesture alone.
“We’ll post the list, like, later tonight on the school website,” the girl in the middle with long auburn hair tells me, her smile large and fake on her face but she still looks impressed.
I fake a smile and walk out quickly, hearing Harley’s steps as she follows me, taking one brief glance back to the bottled blonde taping the auditions. Her gray eyes are wide with shock and envy, even a little confusion, as if I couldn’t sound like that. I smile at that, happy with myself. And I did wipe that look from her face, yay.
“Um, we have a problem,” Harley tells me as we grab our things leaning against the wall in the hallway to leave. Another girl is called into the room as we walk past, paying her no mind as she gulps and slowly walks into what she probably believes to be the lion’s den.
“What’s that?” I ask, absently checking the time on my phone before I click off the screen of my HTC and slide the phone back into the front pocket of my jeans. That only took ten minutes, not bad.
Harley scoffs loudly. “That you could sing, Joey,” she nearly yells in the empty halls. It would’ve echoed.
“I never thought it mattered,” I tell her with a shrug she doesn’t see, following her to her car in the student parking lot. With Zephyr at practice, she’s my ride home for the afternoon.
“It matters, you idiot,” she snaps angrily. Does she think I was keeping this as a secret? It just never came up, dude. Why is she throwing a hissy fit? “That was incredible, you were better than Christina Aguilera herself,” she tells me.
“Now that’s overreacting, Harley.” I roll my eyes. “I’m just decent.” She clicks her car unlocked from five feet away using the tiny remote on her keychain.
“Not an overreaction, just stating a fact.”
Whatever.
***
She drives me home and I decide this is the perfect time to start applying to some colleges. Or tonight, I should clarify. The University of Washington and Washington State University applications don’t take too long, and I’m quick to pay the application fee with my debit card. I bookmark a few schools in Colorado, Montana, Oregon, and Idaho. While lazily perusing through the University of Oregon website—Go Ducks!—I decide that’s the school that I really want to go to, so I start the application. I’m halfway through when my aunt walks in.
“What are you doing?” Hilary asks sweetly, plopping down next to me on my bed, leaning over to check the screen on my laptop. She’s trying to be parental, making sure I’m not surfing porn or reading large amounts of Twilight fan fiction—because I am so addicted these days, it’s getting too hard to stop reading about Bella and Edward.
“Looking into my future,” I tell her when she sees the Oregon application. I type something into the search bar, looking more into their Pre-Law program.
“University of Oregon, huh?” she asks, making conversation when the silence overwhelms her. “You want to be a Duck?”
“Quack, quack,” I answer, wanting to add Mr. Ducksworth, but that may be too much. “And I look spectacular in green, even hotter in yellow.” Adding a laugh because she knows I despise the color yellow.
“So…” she starts, her hand playing with my curls. Hilary pulls one straight and wa
tches it spring back to form. She used to do it when I moved in with her; it was the only way she could make me smile, but I grew out of it too soon. It’s not as funny as it was before but it’s still nice for her to do.
But… I know that voice.
“What do you want?” I ask with my attention still on my computer screen, clicking the links on the page.
“What makes you think I want something?” my aunt asks, attempting innocence, but failing like I did last week. We both really need to take a few acting classes, we can’t lie or scheme worth a damn.
“Seriously, Aunt Hil,” I start with a huff. “It’s last week all over again,” I remind her, glancing to her briefly. “Only, we’ve switched roles. Now you want something from me, what is it?”
She pauses a moment, her green eyes glowing greener as she stares at me, pondering what she should say. Eventually, she blurts out, “Fine,” and giggles playfully. That’s new. “Patrick is coming to dinner,” she says quickly, looking at my eyes to gauge my reaction.
It’s nonexistent.
“When?” I ask. I don’t care, she can invite Barack Obama and the Pope to dinner and I wouldn’t mind. “Wait—who is Patrick?” I ask, realizing something new. I don’t remember her mentioning a Patrick to me before.
“He’s that doctor I told you about,” she starts, her cheeks flushing red in a blush that matches her bright hair. “The one—”
I cut her off quickly with an excited, “Is he McDreamy or McSteamy?” I set down my laptop and transition my body to sit on my knees, moving closer to her to learn the answer. I’m sure that my eyes make me look crazy. I don’t care, I’m Grey’s obsessed.
“Joey, come on—”
“McDreamy or McSteamy?” I demand in a loud, shrill voice. For some reason, this excites me. And my aunt needs to choose because I’ll call him this name until the end of time.
“I don’t know, Joey, I—”
I still cut her off. “If you won’t answer the question based on observation,” I ramble out. “Based on his name, I’ll have to guess McDreamy.” I tell her with a sly smirk on my face. “When is this even supposed to happen?” I ask.
The doorbell rings, or creepily sings, through the house.
I had no idea our doorbell still worked. We’ve had that thing replaced thirteen times since we’ve moved in here. It’s a real pain in the ass.
“Now,” she answers. From her body language, I can see she’s scared, nervous, anxious, and excited at the same time. Hilary reminds me of a Mexican jumping bean with the way she’s shaking.
That was eerily perfect timing, I don’t think anyone could have scripted that better.
“I’m going to let him in; you just come down whenever you’re ready.” She backs away from the bed, heading backward toward my door, nearly tripping over a lone shoe I’ve neglected shoving in my closet every time I’ve passed it this week. My aunt recovers, still smiling gleefully. “I can’t wait for you to meet him.” She claps her hands together and bounces out of my room—literally freaking bounces like a rubber ball—and makes her way briskly down the stairs.
This should be very interesting.
Instead of delaying the inevitable and camping out in my room until I’m absolutely positive the dinner has grown cold—a very angst ridden teenager thing to do—I walk down the stairs and watch my aunt throw open the front door with gusto, holding it open for a very tall, very large man. And I don’t mean large is in fat, I mean large as in why is this man not playing professional football or throwing people of similar size around in a square ring? He has to bend his head forward just to enter through the front door. I feel that we should’ve prepared more and built this man his own personal entrance, one suited to his enormous size.
Holy balls, man!
As he stands in the living room, I take in the sight of him—having to lean back to get the best look, but it’s a nice view. He’s very clean cut, his blonde hair very trim and coiffed, I can see he’s trying to make a good impression. He’s in a nice pair of dark jeans and a button-up, very casual while still trying to look nice. He’s even wearing a dark blazer. The most stunning thing about him, other than his smile, which takes my breath away, by the way, is his eyes. They are the most beautiful shade of blue I’ve ever seen aside from the sky on a sunny summer’s day.
My aunt has very great taste in men, just saying.
Speaking of, seeing him stand next to my aunt is a hilarious thing because she goes up to the middle of his forearm when she stands up straight. I might go to his elbow. I think Zephyr would go to his shoulder, maybe, and that’s pushing it for his six-foot-two frame.
“Patrick, great to see you,” Hilary nervously gushes. Why do I have the strongest feeling that I’m about to chaperone a middle school type date. Yay me, I get to play adult.
“Thank you for the invitation, Hilary,” Patrick replies in a deep voice. His cheeks also turn a nice shade of red.
Yep, I’m about to see the corner of Cute and Adorable with these two.
Oh, sweet baby Jesus, this is going to be entertaining. I should embarrass them and take a picture like parents do.
Where’s our camera?
Hilary collects herself, trying to calm the blush still blazing on her normally pale cheeks. “Let me introduce you to my niece,” she begins, pointing to me—the spectator gawking at the Hulk-sized man standing in the living room—standing by the stairs. “Joey, this is Patrick Walsh, a neurosurgeon at the hospital.” Definitely McDreamy. “Patrick, this is my niece, Joey, a junior in high school.”
“Pleasure to meet you,” he says, his voice vibrating my bones as he speaks. He holds out his hand, his very massive, meaty hand, for me to take. His hand swallows mine instantly. If it wasn’t attached, I’d never think that I’d see it again.
“Likewise,” I mutter, feeling his grip tighten uncomfortably as my hand slips into an awkward, bone-crushing angle. He notices my wince and loosens his grasp, making the gesture more comfortable.
Turns out Hilary has been cooking all afternoon, preparing for this important meal. Honestly, I had no idea; I was so set on being angry at Zephyr and turning in some applications that I didn’t even notice the delicious aroma wafting from the kitchen. If I wasn’t so wrapped up in my own world, I would’ve noticed she made lasagna and garlic bread. I think she even made dessert.
“This is delicious, Aunt Hil,” I praise, sliding the fork from my lips after my last bite.
“Thank you, honey.” She beams and blushes. I should compliment her in front of this man more often, I love the nervous look on her face.
“Ant hill?” Patrick asks, his stunning sky blue eyes turn to me, briefly looking at me through long, thick lashes that make me jealous.
“Aunt Hil,” I correct, watching my aunt’s face fall into her hands as she tries to hide the embarrassment of her nickname.
“That’s interesting, I didn’t even notice that,” Patrick remarks, turning his amused grin toward the woman we’re discussing. He reaches to take a second helping of lasagna. “How long have you been calling her that, Joey?” he asks me, genuinely taking an interest in me. Damn.
“About as long as I can remember,” I answer with a shrug. “An even more awesome fact is that I have an Uncle Sam.”
Patrick’s eyes widen. He turns to my aunt and asks, “Uncle Sam?” It is hard to believe.
“My brother’s name is Samuel.”
“I also call my grandparents Graham Cracker and Popsicle.” I smile widely.
Hilary shrugs. “We’re very unfortunate people wherever this wordsmith is concerned.” She gestures to me at my end of the table.
Ain’t that the truth. My grin grows wider.
They start laughing, as if it is the funniest thing they ever heard. I just think that Patrick likes my aunt a lot, he’ll laugh at anything she says. That’s so cute.
“I’m finished,” I tell my aunt. “I’m just going to head on up to my room.” I grab my plate and slide my chair back, ready to
leave the love birds and give them some much needed alone time.
“Okay, honey, we’ll be down here,” she tells me, her subtle way of letting me know what’s going to happen tonight: Nothing. Thank, God. As much as I think my aunt should get some, that might—no, will—be a little too much for me, especially if I were to hear anything. I’d like to keep my traumas down to a minimum number.
I clear off my plate, stuffing the scraps into the garbage disposal and running it quickly so as to not disturb them too much, then I slide the dish into the dishwasher, and head up the stairs to my room, wishing Patrick and Hilary a good rest of their evening, and leaving my door open. I check across the alley to the window on the neighboring home, seeing the light is still out. Zephyr still isn’t home.
I sigh and fall back onto my bed, gazing at the ceiling wishing I could see the stars. I would spot and point out—to no one—the constellations I remember from that astronomy course I took at the community college over the summer. The night air would graze my skin in a soft breeze, smelling of morning dew and sweet dreams, the air thick with melodic lullabies.
Whenever I gaze at the stars, I see hope flash before me, even if fleeting and brief, I know that there’s a happy ending out there for me, even if I have to suffer to achieve it. It’s all the work that we do that’ll make that happy ending worth it. We will suffer, we will cry, we will sing in front of a terrifying group of strangers, and when we win, everything that scared us will be worth it.
Which reminds me…
I sit up and throw my hair over my shoulder, grabbing my computer, I type in the school’s web address into the top bar of Google Chrome. A large picture of the school and depressing mascot pops up surrounded by blue links for me to click depending on what it is I’m looking for. I see the stupid Idol link and click it, waiting for it to load so I can see if I made the stupid list.
