Tori let out a sigh and then leaned against the counter, facing me. “Look, I’m not sick,” she said in a quiet voice.
I waited, puzzled.
“Sometimes I get really nervous before a show,” she said. “Not always, but . . . often enough. And I discovered years ago that when I get so nervous that I feel like I’m gonna be sick, I just make myself be sick and get it over with.”
Make herself be sick? “Wait a minute. Do you mean you . . .?” I made a hesitant gesture of sticking my index finger into my mouth.
“It’s not as bad as it sounds,” Tori said, seeing the look on my face, which I guessed showed how grossed out I felt. “The first few times were tough, but I don’t even think about it anymore. Just poke and heave a couple times, and I’m ready for a great show.” She turned back around toward the sink and pulled a purple toothbrush and a small tube of toothpaste out of her purse and squeezed some toothpaste on the brush.
I didn’t know what was stranger. The fact that Tori got so nervous before every show that she made herself throw up, or the fact that she was talking about it so casually.
“But you’re so good!” I said. “You’re easily the best performer in the whole show.”
“Thanks . . . what was your name again?”
“Annie,” I said.
“Right. Thanks, Annie.” She gave me a wistful smile. “Yeah, I know I’m good. In a way that makes it worse, though. It means everyone’s expectations are higher. My expectations are higher.”
I had never thought of it that way. I would have assumed that someone like Tori, who had gorgeous looks, a voice to match, and seemed to charm everybody everywhere she went—didn’t have a care in the world.
Which was a really silly thought to have, now that I thought about it.
Tori was about to start brushing her teeth, but then said, “Hey Annie, can you do me a favor?”
“Sure.”
She hesitated, then said, “Could you not tell anyone? It’s not, like, a huge secret, but I’d rather not have more people know.”
I smiled. “No problem.”
“Oh, and Annie?”
“Yeah?”
“The band sounds great.”
“Thanks, Tori.”
I headed back along the hall, past the costumes and the green room, took my seat on the piano bench, and let that conversation sink in.
****
The show started off well. We had a surprisingly large audience for a Saturday afternoon, I thought, and they were a loud audience. The cast seemed to feed off their energy.
Tori was incredible, as usual.
The problem didn’t come until the song “All Good Gifts.” The first verse was just Scott on guitar, and then the rest of the band came in on the chorus.
But something weird was happening after the first few measures. It sounded like Scott fumbled, then stopped playing for a few seconds, and then when he came back in, he and the singer were in different spots.
Everything seemed to go in slow motion, and I felt like I could feel the entire band and cast holding their breath. What was going to happen? Would the entire song be off? Would the singer make the cardinal mistake of stopping so that she could catch up? If he stopped singing, would Scott stop playing? And if so, then what?
It clearly wasn’t resolving itself. The singer’s voice was wavering a little, like he didn’t know what was going on or what to do.
I didn’t have time to think about whether it was a good idea or not. I jumped in and started playing along, following the singer, and keeping a really strong beat. After what felt like an eternity, but was really only a measure or two, the three of us were all in the same place and at the same tempo. Everything sounded fine again, time stopped moving in slow motion, and we could all breathe again.
As far as I was concerned, that was a success story. But Melanie obviously didn’t agree.
“What the hell, Scott?” she asked as soon as intermission began.
“Sorry, I . . . I guess I lost my place,” he mumbled, flipping a page in his score and not looking up.
“Well, that could have been a complete train wreck. Make sure that doesn’t happen for the second show.” She muttered something to herself as she grabbed her bag and walked off.
I pretended to be studying my score while I watched Scott out of the corner of my eye. He looked as gorgeous as ever, and a casual observer might have described him as aloof, maybe even slightly ticked off at Melanie in an arrogant sort of way. To a casual observer, he was a good-looking guy who could play a mean lead guitar and constantly had his pick of cute girls, and he couldn’t care less what some bitchy woman at some stupid theater thought of him.
And that’s what I would have thought too, only a few days earlier.
But now I wondered if what appeared to be aloof arrogance was really his way of hiding that he felt discouraged and embarrassed.
As Scott turned off the amp, leaned back in his chair, and quietly played a melody to himself, another thought struck me.
I had never seen any supermodels hanging around Scott. Not at the coffee shop, not during the rehearsals, and not after the show. There were no hot guys from the Hot Guy Club who came to pick him after the shows and all leave together, high-fiving each other as they headed off to pick up models and sorority babes or do whatever it is that Hot Guys from the Perfect People Universe did together.
In fact, in the brief time I’d known Scott, he was almost always . . . alone.
He hadn’t even interacted much with the cast. He was pleasant to rest of the band, mostly in a quiet way. I had just assumed that he didn't have much to say to us because we weren't perfect-looking rock gods, and therefore not his type of people.
But I realized that he also hadn't been interacting with anybody in the cast. Even during breaks and after the show, when people were hanging around and being noisy and silly, I never saw Scott hanging around with any of them. And there were plenty of people who fit into Scott's universe more than Melanie or Bill or I would. Tori was the obvious example, but she wasn't the only one. Almost half the cast was beautiful and outgoing and confident and seemed like they never had a care in the world and could talk to anybody about anything, hang out with anybody, and do whatever they wanted.
And yet Scott didn't gravitate toward them. I never saw him leaning against the wall smooth-talking Tori, never saw him shooting the breeze with any of the guys in the cast, or even in the backstage crew.
Scott wasn't with them. Scott wasn't ever with anybody. The only things I saw him do when we weren't actually rehearsing was quietly playing the guitar, in his own little world, or sitting in one of the auditorium house chairs either just waiting patiently or looking at his phone.
I was stunned by this realization. Why had I never noticed this before?
Was it possible that Scott wasn’t as different from me as I had thought?
And if he was anything like me, then he probably felt bad right now. I know I would have been mortified. He could use a little encouragement. And he probably wouldn’t care if the person offering encouragement was gorgeous, had any ‘inner sexy,’ or spent time frolicking with her many girlfriends.
He would just want that person to be kind.
I stood slowly and gulped. “Hey, um . . . Scott?”
He stopped playing and looked up.
“Melanie was out of line,” I said, walking around the keyboard to face him. “Don’t let her bother you.”
“Thanks,” he mumbled, avoiding my eyes. “And, uh . . . thanks for covering for me.”
Clearly, he was upset.
“Listen,” I said, swinging around on my bench so I could face him better. “Melanie’s making a bigger deal out of that than it was. I doubt anyone even noticed. And it’s not just you—I’m covering for the singers right and left. You know, like how Debbie always misses her entrance in the middle of ‘By My Side.’? We’ve both been covering for her all week.”
“Yeah.” That seemed to perk him u
p a bit. “Yeah, you’re right.” He grinned. “I always get nervous on that song, because I never know what she’s gonna do there.”
“No one ever knows what she’s gonna do there!” I laughed. “Hey, maybe she’s doing it on purpose. Maybe she’s just trying to keep us on our toes.”
Ugh, that was kind of a stupid thing to say. But fortunately, Scott didn’t seem to mind. “Have you played for a lot of musicals?” he asked me.
My insides did a happy little flip-flop. We were having an actual conversation! And he was asking me questions! He was interested in me!
Well, not that kind of interested in me. But he was showing some interest, or at least pretending to show some interest, in something about me.
“This is actually my first show,” I said, then added quickly, “but I’ve been accompanying for a long time, since I was a freshman in high school.” I thought about the very first time I accompanied and cringed. I had totally goofed up, and was embarrassed and thought people were mad at me, and . . .
I felt a lot like how Scott might be feeling now.
And in that moment, I was able to stop worrying about whether I had any ‘inner sexy,’ or whether I was making the right kind of eye contact, or anything else about what I was ‘supposed’ to do, and I just decided to share something.
“My chorus teacher let me play one song for the fall concert my freshman year,” I said. “It was awful. I was on this big stage playing on a baby grand, and I was so nervous, and I wasn’t used to following a conductor when I played. And right in the middle of the piece, where there was no singing and it was just me, I totally lost my place in the music and fumbled and hit some chords, and it sounded awful.” I grinned. “And I didn’t even have any guitar players to cover for me.”
Scott smiled faintly.
“But that’s not even the worst part,” I said. “The worst part was that after the concert one of the girls from chorus came over to me and said, “Wow, were you embarrassed when you hit all those wrong notes?’”
“Ouch.” Scott grinned. “Did you slap her?
I thought for a moment. “You know, I wasn’t even mad. I was just so mortified that I wanted to disappear.
“Been there, done that,” Scott said with a nod.
I winced in surprise. He has?
“Hey . . . Annie . . .” he said hesitantly. “Do you want to go get something to eat before the second show? The Madison Pizza Company is just around the corner.”
I almost fell off the bench, I was so shocked.
“Yes,” I said, trying to keep my voice calm. “That sounds great.”
****
This is not a date, I told myself sternly as the two of us headed out of the theater and along the street together after the show. Don’t get your hopes up. He’s simply killing time before the evening show and he invited me to come along because he’s being friendly. And because no one likes to eat alone.
Although it was interesting that he invited only me, and not anyone else in the band . . .
No, it’s not really that weird, I told myself. The drummer has barely spoken to any of us, and Bill disappeared right after the show was over as if he had his own plans. And why would any of us want Melanie to join us?
So, again . . . This is not a date.
“So,” Scott said as we entered the Madison Pizza Company and sat at a table, “you said this was the first musical you ever played for. Do you think you’ll do another one?”
I might if you’re here again, I thought to myself.
“Maybe, if they ask me to come back,” I said. “What about you?”
He frowned and shook his head. “Nah. This . . . hasn’t really been a fun experience for me.”
My face fell. “Oh . . . I’m really sorry to hear that.”
“I don’t mean it that way. It had nothing to do with any of you guys.” He paused. “Well, maybe Melanie, a little bit.”
I smiled. “Melanie is . . . interesting, isn’t she?”
“She’s a lousy music director, that’s what she is,” Scott said, then grinned shyly. “They should ask you to music direct. You’d do a better job.”
That completely took me by surprise. “Uh . . . thank you,” I said as the waitress showed up to take our drink orders. “Coke, please.”
Scott asked for a Coke as well, then turned back to me. “What I meant about it not being a good experience was that I’ve just been . . .” He looked uncomfortable. “Well, I’ve felt really intimidated all week.”
What did he just say?
He’s been intimidated? The Guitar Playing God, with dexterous fingers and his blond hair hanging in his eyes and his rock star sex appeal and his . . .
I shook myself back into reality and looked at him. Surely that was some sort of joke. I waited for him to grin or roll his eyes, but he looked completely serious.
“You felt intimidated?” I asked. “Why?”
He shrugged. “I don’t feel like I fit in here. I don’t know anything about the theater, and everyone seems to know each other and they’ve already done shows together and stuff. It’s like some sort of big club that I don’t have a membership to.”
“Then you’re just like me,” I said, maybe a little too eagerly. “I don’t know anything about the theater either. You’re not the only one who isn’t part of the club.”
This didn’t seem to make Scott feel any better. In fact, he looked uncomfortable.
“Yeah,” he said. “But you . . .” He squirmed a little, like either he couldn’t find the right words or he wasn’t sure if he should actually say them.
But I . . .
But I what? My brain went into fast-forward trying to figure out how that sentence was supposed to end.
“But you . . . you’re kind of a dork.”
“But you . . . well, let’s just say that I’m used to hanging out with cute girls.”
Or something even worse that I couldn’t imagine.
Scott reached across the table and touched me lightly on the arm. “You . . . you’re a really good musician. You make me kinda nervous.”
I was so blown away that I couldn’t even enjoy the hand-on-the-arm thing as much as I deserved to. Which might have been a good thing, because if I hadn’t been so distracted by what he just said, I might very well have swooned to the point of almost passing out.
“I make you nervous?” I managed to say. “Why?”
He slowly pulled his hand back. Drat.
“I’m sorry . . . I probably shouldn’t have said that. You don’t do anything. It’s just that . . . well, you’re really good.” His eyes were wide with admiration.
I was still confused. “But you’re really good too! You always play so effortlessly . . . you don’t even need music. You’re, like . . . some sort of musical genius!”
Not to mention a guitar god with amazing blue eyes and hair that I run my fingers through in my dreams, I thought to myself. But I probably don’t need to mention that part to him right now.
It would have made sense if he’d responded to my comment by tossing back his hair, grinning, and saying, “Yeah, I know . . . that’s what all the babes tell me.” But he didn’t
Instead he looked surprised.
“I totally don’t know what I’m doing,” he said, looked baffled that he had to explain that to me. “I’m not used to playing out of a book. I usually play by ear. This is not my thing at all.”
“Well,” I said, “you could’ve fooled me. I think you sound great.
The waitresses brought us our Cokes and took our orders.
“Hey, are any of your friends coming to tonight’s show?” Scott asked me.
I felt like I’d been punched in the gut.
I had let myself get so elated about hanging out with Scott that I totally forgot that it was Elle he really liked. How stupid of me! Here I was, getting all excited that he was touching my arm and confiding in me, as if last night had never happened. At best, this was just a one-time friendly meal with a co-worker.<
br />
At worst . . . and it made me feel sick even entertaining this possibility . . . he was just talking to me in the hopes he could learn more about Elle.
“No,” I said, trying not to let the expression on my face give me away. “Sorry, but Elle wasn’t planning to come see the show a second time.”
Scott looked puzzled. “Who’s Elle?”
He must be one of those people who isn’t good at remembering names. “You know, my blond friend that you were, uh . . . talking to . . . last night after the show.”
“Oh. Her,” he said with a shrug.
I was a little surprised by his reaction, but figured he was just playing it cool with how he felt about Elle. Or, more likely, he was such a gentleman that he knew it was kind of tacky to flat-out ask the girl you’re sitting with for another girl’s phone number.
I swallowed hard. It was nearly going to kill me, but I had to get over myself and my delusions and do the right thing. Sure, Elle had said to tell him she already had a boyfriend, but I knew she was just saying that for my sake. If she knew that I was okay with it—well, as okay as I could be—she probably would enjoy seeing him again. “Did you . . . did you want me to give Elle your phone number? Because I’m sure she wouldn’t mind.”
Scott frowned. “Why would I give her my phone number? Does she want guitar lessons or something?”
Good grief. I appreciated him trying to be subtle, but he was making it more difficult than it already was. “Well . . . because you like her,” I said. “I thought you might want to see her again. It’s okay, I don’t mind.” I gulped.
“Your blond friend?” He shook his head. “I’m not interested in her. Why’d you think that?”
Now I was started to get confused. “Well . . . you came over to talk to her.”
“Oh, that . . .” He looked down at the table and chuckled nervously.
Of course. He was just embarrassed to admit it. I should have known.
“Don’t be embarrassed,” I said. “Who could blame you? Elle’s so pretty.”
He looked up, surprised. “Yeah, I guess,” he said with a shrug, “if you like blonds. I’ve always preferred brunettes. Oh.” He blushed, realizing, I guess, that I was a brunette.
Out of My League (Madison Musicians Book 2) Page 7
