by Ted Michael
“SHE is my problem.” Mia jabbed a finger in Jess’s direction. “Don’t think you can fool these college admissions reps like you did the panel of locals that felt sorry for you when we were in middle school. We both know that’s the only reason they ranked you higher than me and why my parents had to go into hock to send me here while you got a full ride. Least you could have done was prove them right. But aww, you can’t, you’re afraid. So quit already. You’ve always known deep down that I was the star. Maybe that’s what always has you so spooked. A few extra sessions with Langdon isn’t going to cut it.”
Mia breathed in fast through her nose again and let out a shake-it-off sigh. “Have fun practicing.” She closed the practice room door and left.
Stella and Jess waited for Mia to be truly gone. When they heard the outer hallway door close behind her, they looked at each other incredulously.
“You okay?” Stella half laughed.
“Yeah, but what was that?”
“Oh please, are you kidding? Obviously, she heard you singing and freaked out because you are amazing. She knows the only thing keeping you from outshining her is your stage fright. Talk about spooked!” Stella said.
Jess took a second to let this register.
“You really think so?” She hesitated again before asking, “Was it really that good?”
“Um, duh. Yes, Jess, it was. You are really that good.”
“Thanks. Okay, let’s just take it from the top.”
“You got it,” Stella said.
They ran through the song a few more times. Jess picked apart the lyrics, and the girls talked about the different things they could mean and how Jess might want to approach them. Satisfied, they quit for the night.
. . . . .
On Friday afternoon, the City Arts kids filed into their seats. The U Michigan rep was among them, clipboard in hand. Jess sat on the floor in the wings, knees curled up to her chest, arms wrapped tight around them, and head bent. Lost in thought.
Someone walked right up to her toes. She looked up.
Mia.
She was prattling on about something.
“. . . don’t worry, the rep won’t pay much attention to you anyway . . . such a shame . . . stage fright always got the best of you . . . could have been so good . . .”
Jess never broke eye contact with Mia, but didn’t say a word as she finished her rant. She got up off the floor, walked over to her stash of paper bags, pulled them out, looked back at Mia, and threw the entire stack in the garbage.
Jess strolled back to where Mia was still standing.
“You know Mia, once upon a time, we were friends. I’m sorry I got ranked higher, and I’m sorry you think I didn’t deserve it. But are you really so small and mean that you have to put me down every chance you get?”
Jess’s eyes widened as what Stella had said to her earlier really sunk in. “Or maybe, you’re just scared that when I finally lose my nerve you’ll have a real challenge on your hands. Well, guess what? My nerves? They’re gone.”
The hand Mia had on her own jutted-out hip dropped, as did her raised eyebrows.
And just like that, it was time.
Time to shed the stupidity of fear. What was she so afraid of, anyway? What’s the worst that could happen? That she forgot some words? Missed a high note? Didn’t get into U Michigan? What she had been doing all along was way, way worse. Wasting time. Wasting energy. The fear had turned into a bad habit; its small walls had become its own safety. She was sick of being afraid.
Jess walked on to the dark stage in a simple blue sheath dress, barefoot. Smooth wood on the soles of her feet a new comfort. She was grounded.
She looked out at the audience and felt welcomed by them. As if they were a group of children sitting at her feet, waiting for her to tell them a story. She sat on the black stool and took a moment to think about the answers to Langdon’s questions: Where was she? What was she feeling?
She imagined herself in Mia’s bedroom. She was eleven, holding a hairbrush as a mic, belting her brains out without a care in the world.
Unadulterated joy swept in, carrying with it the brightest, bluest light ever.
The spotlight came up and the piano played the opening notes of “I’m Not Afraid of Anything.”
She was the girl in the song; the girl in the song was her, as she sang about things people are afraid of—the water, the darkness . . . love.
She got to the chorus and got up off the stool, bare feet firm on bare ground. The music swelled to the climax, her mouth open wide, arms outstretched, and she let loose, singing to the world that she was not a girl who would give up what she wants to a stupid thing like fear.
The audience believed her.
She believed her, too.
The song ended; the music stopped. Jess paused, smiled, and bowed.
The audience went nuts.
Whooping, hollering, feet stomping, and fist pumping, they cheered for her. Not sympathy cheering, or glad-you-got-through-it cheering, but true reaction, raw response.
She could see Dylan and Stella bursting with excitement. Jess put her hands over her mouth trying to conceal her utter glee, then gave up and started laughing. She couldn’t fully feel the floor. It was as if she was floating.
Hers had been the last song of that Friday’s lineup and no one waited for her to walk offstage. Within seconds, her classmates surrounded Jess, complimenting and congratulating her. Toward the back, she could swear she even saw Mia clapping for her just like she used to, back when they were eleven. The response from her peers made Jess float even higher, but it was the gravy on her very own mountain of mashed potatoes.
ANECDOTE: LISA HOWARD
When did I know I wanted to be a performer?
There were many stages of understanding what that actually meant, but I know that I fell in love with musical theater in elementary school. My parents took me to the theater from time to time, but I wasn’t exposed to that much really. We lived in Akron, Ohio, so we could see local shows or touring companies that would come through town. I can distinctly remember seeing a touring production of Annie at E. J. Thomas Performing Arts Hall and thinking that was the most amazing thing I’d ever seen. I hoped and dreamed that one day I’d be up on that stage.
I went to an audition for a local community theater’s production of Annie, but I didn’t make the cut. Disappointed but not deterred, I tried out again the next year for The Music Man but didn’t make it then either.
I did, however, have the record albums to several movie musicals, which were the next best thing. I used to sit in front of our record player in the dining room and listen to these albums over and over again. My favorites were The Sound of Music, Grease, and of course, Annie. I would pour over the album jackets, studying the pictures from the movies and pretending that I was a part of it all. I knew every word to every song, and I would sing them at the top of my lungs. My brothers used to yell, “Mom, tell her to shut up!” and my mom’s reply was, “Let her sing. You never know, she might become a singer one day.”
Thanks, Mom, you were right.
After I landed a solo in the fifth-grade holiday show, someone suggested to my parents that they get me voice lessons. They did. That year, when our teacher asked the class what we’d like to be when we grew up, I said, “I want to be on Broadway.”
The road to Broadway wasn’t always an easy one, and to a kid from Akron, Ohio, many times getting there seemed like an impossible dream. To my fifth-grade self, a Broadway stage felt like it was a million miles away, but with a lot of hard work, encouragement, and maybe a little bit of luck, my grown-up self is always happy and grateful to call Broadway home.
LISA HOWARD costarred in The Twilight Saga: Breaking Dawn—Part 2, portraying the role of Siobhan. Her Broadway credits include Priscilla Queen of the Desert, 9 to 5, South Pacific, and the Tony Award—nominated 25th Annual Putnam County Spelling Bee. She has also appeared in George Street Playhouse’s production of It Should Have Be
en You, directed by David Hyde Pierce. Television credits include Ugly Betty. Lisa’s voice can be heard on her debut album, Songs of Innocence & Experience. Please visit www.lisahowardNYC.com and follow her on Twitter @LisaHowardNYC.
A LOVE SONG
Antony John
“I’m Tamia,” she says, and I’m about to say, “I know,” when I stop myself. She’s not really telling me her name; she’s inviting me to share mine.
“Cooper.”
Her skinny jeans disappear into black leather boots and a white camisole peeps out from under a gray cardigan. She’s curvy, with shoulder-length chestnut hair and gently contoured features. Dark brown eyes narrowed, she watches me watching her. Her full lips are closed in an expression of quiet contentment. If she were a photo in a magazine, the caption would say she looks relaxed yet radiant. If I were looking at the photo, I’d have to agree.
“Cooper,” she says, trying out the name for herself. She tucks a stray tendril of hair behind her ear and gives me one half of a nod. I guess she’s embarrassed for never having noticed me before.
Which kind of makes sense. We go to single-sex Catholic high schools in St. Louis, but once a year there’s a jointly staged musical. As the finest singer, Tamia has won a lead role for the past three years. As the finest pianist, I’ve performed in the orchestra for just as long. I’ve watched her onstage, bathed in light. But I’m not surprised that in the darkness of the orchestra pit, she hasn’t seen me at all.
She opens the door to her school’s best practice room. (“Best” being a relative term that means the piano is a Kawai baby grand, unlike the upright piano next door, which sounds like it has been stolen from a Western saloon.) The walls are coated in disintegrating acoustic tile. The carpet is threadbare.
“Really makes you feel like you’ve hit the big time, doesn’t it?” Tamia asks.
“Yeah,” I reply. “I mean, not exactly.”
She opens a small leather portfolio and removes her music: Der Lindenbaum by Franz Schubert. She hands me the piano part and puts the vocal score on a music stand. I’m willing to bet she has already learned the song by heart. I certainly have.
“You ever done a classical music talent contest before?” she asks.
I lower the piano stool so that I can fit my knees under the keyboard. “No.”
“Me neither. I think it’s just an excuse to bring the two schools together. It’s senior year, though, you know? I’d kind of like to go out on a high.” I can feel her watching as I play a chromatic scale over four octaves of the keyboard. The mechanism is a little fast, the timbre aggressively bright, but the piano sings. “Dave says you’re the best accompanist around.”
It takes me a moment to realize she’s talking about Mr. McCutcheon, head of music at her school. I’ve never even thought of Mr. Jeffries, my head of music, as having a first name.
“He says I’m lucky you’re playing for me,” she continues. She drums her fingers against the piano lid. “He also says you’re a nerd. Which is a good thing, by the way. Nerdy is, you know . . . cool? So, uh, what have you heard about me?”
I’ve heard that she loves the sound of her own voice—which, as it happens, is a pretty incredible voice, especially when she sings—and that she wants to go to the Eastman School of Music. No one doubts she’ll get in.
“I saw you in West Side Story last year,” I say.
She raises an eyebrow. “And?”
“And . . . I wished you hadn’t died at the end.”
Tamia narrows her eyes as if she’s searching for a hidden meaning in my comment. There’s no hidden meaning, though—it’s just as stupid as it sounds.
I flatten the music against the stand just for something to do. Then, so I won’t have to say anything else, I begin to play.
The song opens with a piano introduction that sounds difficult but fits neatly under my fingers. Still, it’s always a strange moment, the beginning of a collaboration. It’s how I imagine a first date must be. Feeling each other out, trying to work out how much is too much, too fast, too soon.
“Faster,” she says.
I stop playing. I’d only reached the third measure. “What?”
“You need to go faster.”
I point to the music. “It says mässig. That’s, like, moderato. A medium tempo, right?”
“We have a four-minute time limit. They’ll cut us off if we go over.”
“Oh. So why are you singing this piece at all?”
“My teacher, Bethany, chose it. I like Schubert lieder, and she thinks this one will stretch me. You know, a challenge.” She produces air quotes for the last word.
It’ll be a challenge to perform it in under four minutes. But I keep that to myself.
I start again. My fingers dance across the keys, almost trip in their haste to move along. So much for the music making me sound good. I haven’t practiced playing this fast. Now I’m a kid on a bicycle with no brakes, flying downhill, blocking out any thought of where I’ll land or how messy it’ll be.
It’s a relief when Tamia finally joins in.
She’s quiet at first, the German poem delivered in hushed, almost secretive tones: about sleeping in the shadow of a linden tree. But as she moves through the second stanza, her voice becomes more focused. When she sings about carving words of love into the trunk, there’s a purity to her tone that fills the room even though she’s not singing very loudly. She sounds relaxed and in control.
In the middle, the poem turns darker. The music shifts to a minor key. Finally, things become frantic. She sings about icy winds, and the already too-quick tempo becomes faster still. We’re not together anymore. Tamia sounds like she just wants to get the song over with, or worse, as though she doesn’t know what the words mean.
We end the song with a reprise of the opening—different words, but same music. But that’s not all that has changed. Her heart doesn’t seem to be in it anymore.
A piano solo closes the song, but I don’t bother playing it. I spend every evening practicing alone in a cavernous room where each chord echoes, and composing music that exists only in my own head. It suits me well, being alone. But now I have an audience, and I don’t want Tamia to think I’m wasting her time.
She slides a water bottle from her knit purse. “Okay, then. Thoughts?”
“It was pretty good.”
She takes a swig. “And?”
“I’ll need to work on keeping the tempo up. We don’t want to get cut off.”
“Agreed.”
There’s an awkward pause. “So what did you think?” I ask.
She wipes her sleeve across the piano. A cloud of dust rises up. “We weren’t together in the middle. Or the beginning. Actually, the end wasn’t much better either. You know?”
She looks disappointed. It was just one performance—not even a performance, a rehearsal—but Tamia acts like the problems are insurmountable. I don’t know what to say to that.
“Okay, then,” she says, filling the silence. “I think we’re going to have to watch our balance when we get to the ‘icy winds’ bit.” Another pause. “I can’t compete if you play that loud,” she says, spelling it out for me.
If she wants faster, I’ll give her faster. If she wants quieter, I’ll give her quieter. “Let’s run it from the top,” I say.
I don’t wait for her to reply, just launch into the opening. She has thirty seconds before she has to sing. That should be plenty of time, even for a perfectionist like Tamia.
When she’s about to come in, I look up and make eye contact. Tamia opens her mouth, and closes it again.
I stop after a couple measures. “I think you were supposed to come in there.”
“I know.” She won’t look at me. “I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“The stuff I said just now. I do that a lot. Fill the silences, you know? Mom always says, ‘If you never stop talking, you’re bound to say the wrong thing sooner or later.’”
She hesitates and waits
for a response. Only, I’m not used to shooting the breeze with girls like Tamia. Or any girls at all, come to think of it. I suspect her mom might be right.
Tamia leans against the piano. “You don’t talk much, do you?”
I give a lopsided shrug. “You’re the one with the vocal part.”
For a moment, she looks confused. Then her face opens up in a grin, toothy and unselfconscious. “That’s actually pretty witty,” she says.
I didn’t really mean to be witty, but I like the effect it has on her. She has a cute smile. “Thanks.”
“Okay, then. Now that we know you’re witty and insightful, how about you tell me what I’m doing wrong?”
“Nothing,” I say.
“Nothing?” She narrows her eyes. “Seriously?”
I can’t tell if she’s disappointed that I have no criticisms to offer, or if she’s disappointed that I’m unwilling to share them. Either way, saying nothing again will not impress her.
“Well,” I begin. “Except for the stuff you already know.”
“And what would that be?”
I swallow hard. “Your voice loses focus at the bottom of your range—it’s why you want me to play quieter. In fact, the whole piece is too low for you. I’m guessing this has something to do with Bethany challenging you. Problem is, you’re holding back. I can’t even tell if you like the song—”
“I don’t,” she says quickly. “I mean, it’s beautiful . . . for other people. Just not me.” She lifts her water bottle but doesn’t drink from it. “Bethany does this to me all the time—makes me sing stuff that doesn’t sit well. She’s really picky. Kind of intimidating too. She always says ‘comfort breeds complacency.’”
“No way! Comfort is what lets you inside a song. Lets you own it.”
Tamia sighs. I’m preaching to the choir here.
“What if I transpose it for you?” It would take me a couple hours, but it’s easy work, and it’s not like I’ve got a million other things going on besides schoolwork and piano practice. “Put it in a higher key, you know?”
