Starry-Eyed

by Ted Michael

  I know that look because I’ve seen it a lot over the past three evenings as we’ve honed our performance—direct hits on every note and near misses on every kiss. I’m surprised it doesn’t bother me more that we only kissed once. I’m surprised it doesn’t annoy her that I’m too scared to make a move.

  Kendra Nielson heads through the double doors that lead to the stage. She has just enough trouble with the door handles to disrupt everyone’s flow. To make amends, she turns to us and smiles sweetly, offers an apology we haven’t asked for and certainly don’t need. And then she’s gone, having ensured that we’ll all be listening to her through the door.

  “Come on,” says Tamia. “We’re up next.”

  In six minutes, we’ll take the stage in my school’s auditorium. In ten minutes, we’ll accept the audience’s applause. In twelve minutes, the judges will grade us. In less than an hour, we’ll know if we’ve won. Then we’ll say good-bye, and our collaboration will come to a sudden close. I’ll continue to practice and compose every evening, but I don’t believe it will feel the same. I don’t want to be alone anymore. I want what we have to last.

  “Here.” Tamia adjusts the sleeves of her black dress, reaches into her purse, and pulls out an envelope. She hands it to me.

  “Can I open it now?”

  “Yeah . . . or later. I mean, it’s up to you.”

  The stationery feels fancy. Expensive. I slide my finger under the flap and tear it open. Inside is a letter, folded perfectly in three. It has been handwritten in calligraphy—must’ve taken her ages. There’s a voucher to a local music store too.

  As Tamia wanders around the room warming up, her dress swirls around her ankles. I read the letter twice before she returns.

  “Thank you,” I say.

  She waves me off. “You’re welcome. I mean it. When you play, I feel . . .” Her eyes drift toward the floor. She looks embarrassed and demure all at once.

  When she looks up again, she adjusts my bow tie. In heels, she’s face to face with me, close enough that I can hear her swallow. “I guess what I’m saying is: We’re in tune, you and me. And that’s a beautiful thing.”

  “Yes,” I agree. “It is.”

  The applause for Kendra is long and enthusiastic. Someone in the audience is very proud of his wolf whistle, which seems kind of weird. I hope it’s her boyfriend.

  When the noise dies down, there are a couple minutes of judging. Tamia warned me about this—it’s kind of the point of a talent contest—but I don’t like having my work graded five seconds after it’s done. I’m a pretty good judge of when I flunk a test, and I really don’t need the graders confirming it in front of my peers.

  As if she can read my mind, Tamia gives my hand a reassuring squeeze. “It’s okay,” she says. “We’ll kick ass.”

  A teacher nods at us, giving us permission to go into the auditorium. We open the doors together, stride through, and wait in the wings as Kendra saunters off the stage.

  “Ah, geez.” Tamia puffs out her cheeks and exhales slowly. “I didn’t realize my singing teacher was one of the judges.” She snorts. “Think Bethany will notice this isn’t the song she gave me?”

  I can’t believe she’s laughing it off. Not only will Bethany notice, but she’ll have plenty of questions about the song we’re performing too. I’m second-guessing everything now, but there’s no time to talk about it.

  The emcee introduces us and we walk onstage to enthusiastic applause. Pretty much everyone has seen Tamia in school musicals; I’m probably not the only one who thought she was amazing in them. The audience is a couple hundred strong, shadowy figures in orderly rows. The spotlight is fixed on us.

  I adjust the piano stool down a couple inches and rest my fingers on the keyboard. It’s a Steinway concert grand, a beast of an instrument. I’ve played on it before when I’ve accompanied the instrumentalists at my school, but there’s still something intimidating about the immensity of it. Compared to my piano at home, it’s like shifting from a Mini Cooper to a limo.

  Tamia stands in the curve of the piano, watching me over her shoulder. When our eyes meet, I can tell she’s not nervous at all. Impossibly, as the spotlight rains down on her, she seems to grow, not shrink from the glare. My fingers murmur above the pure white keys; my armpits are itchy with sweat.

  Then I begin: a fluttering of arpeggios like dappled sunlight, chromatic harmony as subtle and complicated as love itself. I lose myself in it until Tamia joins in too. After that, it’s a dialogue—a perfect conversation, perfectly in tune. And though I ought to be nervous, I’m not. Sharing the stage with Tamia frees me. Everything I do is on display here, but no one will be looking at me as long as Tamia is singing.

  I’m in the music. I am the music. Silence and darkness surround us, but in our bubble, the world is as it’s meant to be.

  Tamia opens up on the higher notes, strikes them with laser-like intensity. Still she climbs, until at the climax of the song the lovers finally come together. Then she floats, as if we’ve left the real world and entered a dream. Or heaven itself.

  Tamia’s contribution over, I bring things back to earth, closing with a gentle rallentando. I haven’t even let go of the keys before everyone cheers. I ought to be happy, but the applause feels rude and intrusive. Several seconds pass before Tamia takes a bow.

  She signals for me to stand too. Reaches across the piano and takes my hand, eases me around the keyboard until we’re side by side. It’s standard practice, but when we bow, she continues to hold my hand, even slips her fingers between mine.

  There’s nothing standard about this anymore.

  We bow again. On the third bow, we begin to laugh—partly because of nerves, and partly because it feels over the top. People are standing, cheering, whooping. I hadn’t really thought about the reception we’d get, and it means a lot to see everyone appreciating Tamia’s skill. I can stand losing, but I couldn’t have stood anyone disrespecting her.

  When the applause dies out, we stay exactly where we are. She still hasn’t let go of my hand.

  Mr. McCutcheon, her music teacher, leans across the table to speak into the microphone. “That was a beautiful performance, Tamia and Cooper. But, uh . . . it’s not what we expected to hear.”

  Tamia gives a respectful nod. “There was a last-minute change of plan.”

  Bethany leans back in her chair, hands pressed together, watching us. Or rather, watching me. Her eyes drift down to our hands.

  “It says Der Lindenbaum here,” Mr. McCutcheon continues. A couple of people in the audience boo halfheartedly. “I’m just saying . . .”

  Tamia squeezes my hand. “Different song, same composer. We wanted to show what we can do.”

  Mr. McCutcheon gives up the microphone and Bethany takes over. “Looking at the entry form you submitted, I see that the rules are stated quite clearly. You chose Der Lindenbaum, and we must judge accordingly.”

  Again, the audience expresses its displeasure, but Bethany doesn’t even seem to notice. “I’m intrigued to know where you’re getting your advice these days, Tamia.” She pauses, as if she’s giving her pupil a chance to respond, though it’s clear there’s nothing for Tamia to say. “But I’m even more intrigued to hear you explain how Schubert set to music a poem written half a century after his death.”

  Tamia’s still smiling, but it’s forced now. “I don’t understand,” she says.

  Bethany looks straight at me, but addresses Tamia. “Of course you don’t, dear. Because it’s impossible. Schubert died in eighteen-twenty-eight. When Richard Strauss set that poem, Morgen, in eighteen-ninety-four, it was still quite new.”

  “So this piece is by Strauss?” Tamia’s voice shakes.

  “Not by a long shot. It is impressive, though. Truly a shame that a world premiere should count for so little—especially a love song.” She addresses me now. “You have a remarkable ear, Cooper. But whom exactly were you trying to fool?”

  Tamia loosens our fingers, and I feel t
he space where her hand used to be. She wants to face me, ask me if it’s true, but the audience is whispering and snickering.

  Besides, she already knows the answer.

  I can’t breathe. The distance between us is only inches but may as well be miles. In the frozen moment, I can’t recall a single reason why I didn’t just tell her the truth.

  Tamia takes a deep breath and stands up straight. She refuses to cave to the humiliation. “Thank you for your consideration,” she tells the judges.

  She walks offstage, and I follow. When she turns the corner and the curtain hides her from everything that has happened, she runs. I try to keep up with her, but I’m barely into the warm-up room when Kendra Nielson stops me.

  “You’re such a jerk,” she says. “If you did that to me, I’d—”

  I brush past her and cross the room. Everyone is looking at me. They’ve already worked out that I wrote the song for her. They probably think I did it to impress her, but that wasn’t the main reason. I did it so that she could be comfortable onstage, and so that for four precious minutes, everyone in the audience would understand what an astonishing instrument the human voice is. Now I’m faced with a mix of glares and sympathetic nods. No one is without an opinion.

  I pull the door open, but she’s not in the stairwell. She’s not in the corridor at the bottom. I don’t hear her footsteps anywhere.

  Tamia has left the building. I can’t kid myself that she wants me to find her.

  . . . . .

  I sit on my bed in the darkness, staring through the window at the streetlight outside. My parents haven’t said a word to me. I don’t know what they think—if they’re shocked or confused or angry—and they don’t know what I think either. It doesn’t even bother me. Only one person’s opinion matters anymore, and she’s gone.

  It’s late, close to midnight, when a car pulls up. The driver doesn’t get out, but I know it’s her. She sits behind the wheel, as still as I am.

  I tell myself she doesn’t want to speak to me, but why is she here, then?

  I tell myself that no apology will ever be enough for humiliating her, but does that mean I shouldn’t try?

  I go downstairs, slide on shoes, and head outside. It’s her chance to drive away, but she doesn’t. She climbs out of the car and closes the door almost silently behind her.

  We stop a couple yards short of each other—a safe, respectful distance. Beneath her duffel coat, she’s still wearing her dress.

  “I’m sorry, Tamia.” The words almost trip out of me. “I’m so sorry.”

  She doesn’t react at all. It’s like she doesn’t even hear me. “I’ve just been to see Bethany. Said I should’ve talked to her, told her how I felt about things.”

  She runs a gloved hand across her nose. In the streetlight, her cheeks appear orange-red, the color of sunset.

  “My parents were there,” she says.

  I close my eyes. “I’m sorry.”

  “Hmm. Well, don’t be. Even though they like Handel and Puccini, they’re actually pretty smart people. They asked me if I thought you did it to embarrass me—”

  “Of course I didn’t.”

  She holds her hand up to stop me. “I know that. And so do they. So then they asked me if I thought Bethany tried to embarrass me.” She purses her lips. “And the answer is . . . yes. A grown woman, someone I’ve trusted for years, humiliated me tonight, just because she was annoyed with me. Just because she could.”

  Tamia has been stoic all evening, but now her eyes well up. I want to hold her, tell her I’m sorry again. Only, I don’t think that’s my place anymore. And so I just stand there, as helpless now as I was during the contest judging.

  “I told her I’m going to find a new singing teacher, Cooper.”

  I can barely breathe. “But your auditions—”

  “Will be fine.” She blinks and the tears fall, but she laughs right through them. “Music is where I go to escape the world. Not to be reminded how ugly it can be.” She sniffs, makes even that seem cute. “You wrote me a song. Our song. And I love it, and it’s more perfect for me than anything I’ve ever sung. That’s the world of music I want to live in.”

  I’m shivering like crazy now. I’m not wearing a coat, and when I rub my hands together it doesn’t help at all. “I didn’t know about the competition rules, Tamia. I promise I didn’t. I only wrote Schubert’s name on the music to see if you’d be able to tell. But then you said how perfect it was, and how it must’ve taken me hours to find, and I . . . I got scared you’d think it was weird. Or freaky, or something.”

  “Weird that you took the time to compose me my own song? That you know my voice better than anyone?” She takes off her gloves and stuffs them in her pockets. When she holds my hands, her fingers are warm. “I didn’t get it when you said you wanted to know what makes Schubert, Schubert. I’ve never really thought about music like that. But after tonight, I understand. You gave me the gift of a song Schubert never got to write.”

  She pulls me closer and tries to wrap her duffel coat around us. It only reaches my arms, but we’re touching now and her warmth radiates through me. Our breaths condense and mix in the cold night air until there’s no space between us at all.

  We’re back where we were on Saturday night, just outside my house. This time, though, Tamia kisses me and I kiss her back. As snow begins to fall around us once more, we retreat to the happiness of silence, like a love song come to life.

  ANECDOTE: LEA SALONGA

  You’d think that the audition was the start of everything . . . the genesis, the “big bang” of an actor’s career. With how the audition is one often-spoken-of step in the process of casting a show (and possibly launching someone into superstardom), it would seem as though it all starts here.

  No, it does not.

  There is no one actual first step (much like no two people have the same fingerprints or hair color). Everyone’s story begins in very different ways. I can’t speak for how others began their journeys, but I can speak about my own.

  According to my mother, my journey began at the age of three. As a child, she said that I would stand on top of the coffee table and sing, using the plug of a nearby lamp as a pretend microphone. Whenever my cousin Betsy came over to babysit me, she’d whip out her guitar and teach me a few pop songs. It’s strange, but I remember “We May Never Love Like This Again” performed by Maureen McGovern, and “Have You Never Been Mellow” recorded by Olivia Newton-John. My mother actually recorded those renditions on cassette, but unfortunately, we no longer have those early recordings. You’ll just have to take my word for it.

  Since it was quite easy to convince me to get up in front of other members of my very large family, another cousin took notice. Ria, who was at the time very active with a local theater group, Repertory Philippines, suggested to my mother that maybe, just maybe, I should be brought to audition for Rep’s upcoming production of The King and I.

  My memory of this actual audition is quite selective. I remember standing on the stage at the Insular Life Auditorium . . . reciting my Girl Scout Oath in lieu of a prepared monologue or a nursery rhyme . . . and feeling very, very comfortable.

  The next memorable audition came for another of Rep’s big musical productions, Annie. By then I was a veritable veteran with a few plays and musicals under my belt. I was told to prepare “Tomorrow” for the audition, and so with unrelenting commitment, I played the song over and over again to make sure I was absolutely ready. I made sure I memorized my song (I also prepared “Maybe” just in case another one was asked for) to avoid anything untoward on the day.

  Oh, the day. I have no idea how it happened, but I had major allergies the day of my audition (I can’t remember if I ate something or took medication that provoked an attack, but there it was). My eyelids were very swollen (I looked like bees had stung them), and I may have had some trouble breathing. But since this was the only audition day, I was not about to miss it. My mother wasn’t going to let an opportun
ity like this slip by either.

  My name was called . . . I got up onstage . . . and I opened my mouth to sing “Tomorrow.” Those few minutes went by like a blur . . . the next thing I knew, the whole house was on its feet in front of me. I don’t know why the audience gave me a standing ovation: for my actual singing ability, or for the fact that I didn’t let an allergy attack stop me from making this moment come true.

  Yes, there were more auditions that followed (including the one that would ultimately change my life and career, the audition for Miss Saigon), and while I remain active as an actor, there will be more. I’ll win a few, I’ll lose a few, but that’s the name of the game. However, as I prepare for all of the ones coming up, I’ll always remember those first few . . . and those early dreams and songs that got me there.

  LEA SALONGA is a singer and actress who is best known for her Tony Award—winning role in Miss Saigon. She has also won the Olivier, Drama Desk, Outer Critics Circle, and Theatre World Awards. On Broadway, she has starred in Flower Drum Song, and was the first Asian to play Eponine in the musical Les Misérables on Broadway. She returned to the beloved show as Fantine in the 2006 revival.

  Lea began her career in the Philippines, making her professional debut at the age of seven in the musical The King and I. She went on to star in productions of Annie, Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, Fiddler on the Roof, The Rose Tattoo, The Sound of Music, The Goodbye Girl, Paper Moon, and The Fantasticks. Lea was also the singing voice of Princess Jasmine from Aladdin and Fa Mulan for Mulan and Mulan II. In honor of her portrayal of the beloved princesses, Disneyland has bestowed the honor of “Disney Legend” to Lea.

  To learn more about Lea, please visit her at www.leasalonga.com.

  TUESDAY AT MIDNIGHT

  Nina LaCour

  To: Monica Livingston

  From: Tori Fields

  Date: 9/14/2013

  Dear Monica,