Out of My League (Madison Musicians Book 2)

by Jennifer McCoy Blaske

  “Yeah, we need to see what he looks like, don’t we?” Christy said. “What’d you say his last name was again?”

  “Stewart,” I said as The Hair Woman brushed a strand of my hair, then quickly used a gloved hand to wrap it around the curling wand. “Scott Stewart.”

  Christy whipped out her phone and started typing as Elle walked behind her and peered over her shoulder. “Scott . . . Stewart . . .”

  “Uh . . . what are you doing?” I tried to crane my neck to see. Hair Lady slid the wand off with a tutting sound, and the strand of hair bounced into a cute little ringlet. God, listen to me.

  “Looking him up on Facebook,” Christy said simply.

  “Yeah, we wanna see what he looks like,” Elle said.

  It had never occurred to me to try to look him up. On one hand, I was dying to see some photos of him, and on the other hand I was afraid to see what they might find.

  If his profile picture was him with his arm around a beautiful woman, I think I would have started crying right there, on full display for all the mall shoppers passing by. One curly ringlet and all.

  “Let’s see,” Christy said, studying her phone. “That guy looks like he’s about fifty, that guy lives in Kentucky . . . ooh, this must be him!” She tapped the screen, then held the phone up to me.

  His profile picture was him sitting in the grass playing the guitar, not even looking at the camera. I wondered who took the photo. His cover photo was an outdoor landscape with a lot of trees and a creek running through.

  My heart rate quickened. “Yeah, that’s him,” I said as The Hair Woman produced another ringlet then picked at it with her fingers.

  Christy and Elle looked at the photo again. “He is cute,” Elle said.

  “No kidding.” Christy tapped the screen. “Okay, let’s see what we can find out.”

  “Find out?” I echoed, jerking my head around toward them but not able to get very far because my hair was wrapped around the wand. “What? Are we stalking him?”

  “It’s not stalking,” Elle said. “It’s Facebook.”

  “Yeah,” Christy said. “That’s what it’s for. He chose to make this information public. He wants people to look at it.”

  I tended to doubt that people created Facebook profiles so that strangers could study their personal information, but what did I know? I didn’t even use Facebook. And, of course, I was dying to find out anything I could about him. “So, what does it say?”

  Christy frowned. “Hm . . . he doesn’t post much. Most of this is just memes and articles that other people tagged him in.” She scrolled a little more.

  “Does it say that he’s in a relationship with anyone?” Elle asked.

  I held my breath.

  “I don’t see anything like that,” Christy said.

  I exhaled. The Hair Woman walked around to the other side of me and started brushing another section of hair.

  “Oh, look—he attends Madison Community College, and he works as a barista at Blue Mason Coffee, which is . . . on Church Street in Madison.”

  “Church Street!” I said. “That’s right around the corner from the theater.” I wondered if he’d been on his way to or from work when he came to pick up the score that evening.

  “There’s not much else here,” Christy said. “It’s kind of a lame Facebook profile. “He listed some bands he liked . . . I’ve never even heard of most of them . . . Dire Straits . . . Cream . . .” She shrugged and put the phone back in her pocket. “Oh well.”

  But I wasn’t disappointed at all. So, Scott was a college student too, he liked classic rock, and he worked at a coffee shop. To me that was a wealth of information, a valuable insight into his life and mind. It made him more real, more human.

  “So, do you love it?” The Hair Woman asked us, pulling gently on the many ringlets she had created, then stepping back so I could admire myself in the mirror.

  I wasn’t sure if I did or not. It looked kind of . . . fake.

  “Uh . . .” I glanced over at Christy and Elle questioningly.

  “Oh, it’s so cute, Annie!” Elle squealed. “I love it.”

  Christy nodded in approval. “Very peacock-like.”

  I thought it looked more reminiscent of a poodle than a peacock. I certainly couldn’t picture myself looking like this every day. For one thing, I didn’t want to take the time to fumble with a curling iron every morning when I’m still half-asleep. I could just picture myself either burning my neck or frying a piece of my hair off. It was an accident waiting to happen.

  “Well . . . thank you,” I said to The Hair Woman as I rose from the chair. “It’s . . . very nice.”

  “Now I have a question for you,” she said. “What color do you like better, pink or black?”

  “Uh, I guess black.”

  She picked a box of the black curling wand off the shelf and handed it to me. “Here you go. Come, I’ll ring you up. You’re in luck. These are normally two hundred dollars, but this week only they’re on sale for one hundred fifty. Will that be cash or charge?”

  “Uh . . .” I looked helplessly over at Christy and Elle, but they were chatting with each other and completely oblivious to my plight. “Wait. I didn’t mean that I . . . I don’t think . . .” I took a couple steps and set the box gingerly back on the shelf. “Thank you, but I think I’m going to pass.” I gave her a feeble smile.

  Her face fell. “You don’t like the curls?” she asked incredulously.

  “Oh, it’s not that I don’t like them. I love them!” I forced a big smile. “It’s just . . . a hundred fifty dollars is still an awful lot of money. I just can’t afford it.” I hung my head slightly to imply that I only wished I could buy this wonderful curling iron if only I weren’t so pitifully poor.

  I started to turn around to leave, but she stepped right in my path and thrust a coupon at me. “We’re having a special offer. If you trade in your old curling iron, you get an additional fifty dollars off our sale price.”

  “Oh, well see, I don’t have any old curling irons, so . . .” I shrugged. That was easy.

  But, of course, it wasn’t easy. The Hair Woman put her hand on my shoulder and leaned in to me like we were best friends. “Listen,” she said in a soft voice, cupping her hand to her mouth, “I really like you, so I’ll tell you what . . .” she raised her head and looked around as if we were being watched, “just don’t tell anybody I did this, because I could get in trouble . . . but I’ll give you the fifty dollars off even without you giving me an old curling iron!”

  Drat.

  “Well, thanks, but I can’t even afford a hundred dollars right now.”

  “We’d be happy to take a credit card if you don’t have the money right now.”

  I’d had enough. Something in me snapped.

  “Look!” I yelled. “I don’t want to buy the curling iron! Not at this price! Not at any price! In fact, I don’t even want it for free because I’m probably never going to use it. So, I’m leaving now. Good-bye!” I turned around, half expecting her to physically grab me, and walked as fast as I could past Christy and Elle in the direction of the mall exit.

  They both ran to catch up with me. “Wow, Annie, that was great,” Elle said. “I’ve never heard you talk to anybody like that before.”

  “Thanks,” I said, kind of surprised myself. I didn’t dare turn around or slow down because I was still a little afraid that The Hair Woman was behind me trying to catch up.

  “This is exciting,” Christy said. “You only had the Spanx on for about ten minutes, and it unleashed a whole new side of you. Imagine what’ll happen when you wear it for real.”

  As ridiculous as it sounded that new underwear could create an exciting new change in my life, I hoped that Christy was right.

  Four

  Step #2: Get Out and About

  You’re never gonna catch that guy by sitting at home daydreaming about him. Get out and have fun! Find out where he tends to hang out, then simply go there and have a good ti
me. No flirting required! By hanging out where is, he’s more likely to notice you. And he’ll be sure to be attracted to this fun-loving girl who is out and about, loving and enjoying life.

  ****

  I really did have every intention of hitting the practice rooms and working hard on the Godspell score after I got back to my room, but when I took my new outfit out of the bag, I was surprised to discover that I had the urge to try it on again. I wasn’t sure if it was my new-found confidence from yelling at the saleslady, the fact that I had a head full of curls and didn’t feel like myself, or just curiosity what the hair and outfit together would look and feel like.

  Once I wiggled into the Spanx which, I’m sorry to say, was not any easier the second time and put on the dress and sandals, I peered into the mirror. My face didn’t match the rest of me, and looked noticeably boring and pale in comparison. I took out my makeup bag, which normally sat unused unless I had a concert or recital, and applied the full works: foundation, lipstick, mascara, even some eyeliner, and blush. Then I took a step back, swung my bouncy hair back and forth, struck a couple poses, and looked at myself.

  I didn’t look anything like me.

  And that, I decided, was a good thing. This new girl in the mirror was the type of girl that could catch the eye of someone like Scott Stewart. Or at least have a chance.

  And then I had an idea . . .

  ****

  This was not stalking, I told myself as I parked along one of the side streets in Madison and got out of the car. I was simply doing what the article said, getting out and about and having fun where he hangs out.

  Well, if you could call working as a barista ‘hanging out.’ Close enough. I would have to work with what little I had.

  I walked slowly along Church Street, feeling slightly wobbly in my high-heeled sandals, but telling myself that taking small steps gave me an elegant air. I resisted the urge to tug at my crotch and my rear end and everywhere else that the Spanx was bugging me and told myself that it all an important part of the package and that hopefully I would get used to it soon. There was a new Annie O’Connor in town, and she was going to make things happen.

  Blue Mason Coffee was an artsy looking, independent shop that had hardwood floors, homemade-looking artwork on the wall, and a tall bookshelf in the corner that had both books and coffee cups of various sizes and colors. I casually walked over to the counter, pretending to look at the display of pastries but really eyeing to see if Scott was anywhere around.

  Yes! There he was, putting a drink in the blender. He had that relaxed look of someone who enjoyed his job and knew what he was doing.

  I sighed to myself as I watched him while trying to look like I was deciding between a blueberry scone and a cheese danish. He looked so handsome, so competent. A guitar player and a hard worker who could make people happy by whipping up delicious drinks with skill and ease. What a guy.

  Of course, I could only get away with staring at the pastries for so long before I actually had to order something. “A mocha latte.”

  The cashier nodded “What size?”

  “Small.” I didn’t even really like coffee that much, and the idea of eating a pastry or one of those milkshake-looking drinks seemed oddly unappetizing with me stuffed inside this Spanx.

  “We don’t have small. Do you mean tall?”

  “Uh . . . sure. Tall.” Whatever. I probably wasn’t going to drink most of it anyway.

  I paid the cashier, then sat at a table I chose strategically, where I could keep an eye on Scott without looking too obvious waiting for the magic moment when he would call me, and we would be face to face as my high-heeled, fancy haired, elegant silhouetted self.

  “Mocha latte,” I heard him say in that mellow, deep voice of his, making a part of me melt. It was like he was calling my name . . . beckoning me to come and partake of the special drink that he had lovingly prepared just for me.

  I went over to the barista counter, put my hand around the cup, flashed my best smile as my new self . . . and realized that Scott was so busy making the next drink that he didn't even see me.

  I went into slow-motion mode, letting go of the cup, casually pretending to be looking for something, taking a deep breath then realizing that I could only take a shallow breath, and slowly reaching for the cup a second time.

  Scott shot a glance in my direction, then stopped what he was doing and turned toward me.

  It worked! I had gotten his attention. He laid eyes on this new version of me and . . .

  “Is something wrong with your order?” he asked.

  “What? No.” All illusions I had of myself as the type of beautiful female that could snag a cute guy went flying out the window, and suddenly I was just the same old unremarkable Annie O’Connor again. I wasn’t alluring, I wasn’t flirty, I was just another customer—and one who was being a pain. “Everything’s fine,” I said. “Um . . . thank you. For the drink.” I held it up and laughed nervously.

  “Sure,” he said, nodding, and giving me the faintest hint of something resembling a smile before he turned away again.

  Well.

  I wasn’t sure exactly what I had expected to happen, but it certainly wasn’t that.

  I went back to my table and took a few sips of my mocha latte, which still tasted like coffee, despite its fancy name. The longer I sat there, the more ridiculous I felt. I was no new person. I wasn’t some sexy girl gliding through life and turning heads. I was the same old Annie, only wearing uncomfortable shoes, barely able to breathe, and with a ridiculous hairdo.

  I gave one final, longing glance in Scott’s direction before I stood, ditched the remains of my drink, and left the shop.

  Five

  Step #3: Learn How to Flirt with Style!

  Knowing some simple flirting basics can go a long way toward getting that special guy’s attention.

  Physical contact may not come to you naturally, but it is a key element in flirting. Just watch any animal show on the Discovery Channel, and you’ll see animals nuzzling, stroking, and licking to seduce and mate. The human animal is no different.

  If this doesn’t come to you naturally, then build up to it slowly by starting with eye contact. Practice holding that cute guy’s gaze just a little longer than you normally would. As your confidence grows, you can move on to things like greeting him with a hug, touching his shoulder when you talk to him, or “accidentally” grazing his arm while reaching for something.

  ****

  Needless to say, I did not wear my red dress, Spanx, or new sandals when I got ready to go to the first rehearsal on Monday evening. The last thing I wanted to be doing was spending the rehearsal gasping for breath and fighting the urge to grab at certain parts of my body. I would save the outfit for . . . well, I wasn’t entirely sure for what exactly.

  However, I had a new awareness of how drab my usual look was, and how it felt nice to look . . . un-drab for a change. As unnatural as my supposed ‘new look’ had been, the fact was that I looked surprisingly nice with a little more color than usual. And while I didn’t exactly want my boobs to look like they were about to leap out and introduce themselves to people of their own accord, it was nice to realize that they actually existed.

  Maybe I could try for some sort of happy medium. I went through my closet and drawers looking for anything that wasn’t grey, brown, black, a t-shirt, or sweat shirt. Eventually I found a light-blue blouse that I hadn’t worn for months. I put it on, looked at myself in the mirror, and then after some consideration, undid the top button. There. That had just a slight feminine touch while still looking, and feeling, like me.

  Next, I opened my top dresser drawer and took out the white jewelry box with pink and purple flowers that said ‘Annie’ in purple cursive letters. I’d had it since I was in elementary school. I fingered through the various items, including some little-girl jewelry from when I was a kid, a couple watches with dead batteries, and several pairs of stud earrings, until I found the eighth note pendant necklac
e that my Aunt Laura had given to me for my sixteenth birthday. I had forgotten all about it. I put it on, applied some peach lipstick and a little mascara, and studied myself in the mirror.

  It was an unusual feeling for me, but I liked what I saw.

  ****

  The auditorium—which I later learned was called ‘the house’ by theater people—was a sloping room with soft chairs that folded back and a center aisle, reminiscent of a movie theater.

  The band was set up in a little area on the floor in front of stage right—or was it stage left? I always get that mixed up—between the stage and the first row of seats, and slightly off to the side. Scott was already there, sitting in a chair to the left of the keyboard, looking at his guitar while playing a little unplugged riff. On the other side of the keyboard an overweight man who looked almost as old as my father was taking what I assumed was a bass guitar out of its case. Melanie was sitting facing them with a music stand in front of her that held a copy of the score on it.

  “Hey,” Melanie said as I approached. “You already met Scott.” She gestured to the Gorgeous One, who casually lifted his head toward me while he continued playing. “And this is Bill. He’s our bassist.”

  Bill gave me a big, goofy grin and took a step toward me, extending his right hand. “Nice to meet you.”

  I shook his hand and smiled. “You too.”

  “Unfortunately, we have no drummer tonight,” Melanie said grimly, reaching forward and flipping open the score. It was so stuffed with post-it notes of different colors sticking out in all directions that it must have added at least a quarter inch to the total thickness of the book. “I had one, but he flaked out on me yesterday, so I’m still looking for somebody. Oh yeah, that reminds me.” She picked her phone off her music stand and spoke into it, “Text message . . . Daniel Smith . . . Did you talk to your cousin about whether he can play for the show this Friday?”