Now I was really confused.
“Look,” he said, seeing the expression on my face, “the thing is . . . aw, geez.”
I waited.
Scott took a deep breath. “The thing is, I wanted to talk to you, but you made me nervous,” he said, not looking me in the eye. “But it was safe to talk to that Elle girl. So, I went over to her . . . so I could indirectly get to talk to you.” He shook his head back and forth and chuckled. “I know that must sound really stupid.”
“No,” I said. “No, Scott, it doesn’t sound stupid at all.”
For a moment, I thought about telling him about Veronica Versaci’s article and how I had spent the entire week trying to get his attention, but decided that might be too much too soon.
I could share that story with him another day.
“So . . .” Scott said, reaching across the table again and taking both my hands in his. “Maybe you’re the one I should be giving my phone number to.”
I smiled at him. “I’d like that.”
****
Maybe there were really no such as thing as leagues, I thought later as I sat on the piano bench as we waited for the evening show to begin. Maybe there was no species from any Perfect People Planet. Maybe we were just all humans . . . maybe with different experiences, different gifts, and different insecurities, but deep down sharing a lot of the same concerns and worries and fears that all humans did. We all had something to share, and we all had something good to offer.
I looked over at where Bill was sitting in his chair, patiently waiting for our cue to begin the show. I had never realized before how Bill always looked like he was smiling, even when he wasn’t. He was a friendly guy, and he obviously cared about his kids.
“Hey Bill,” I said, turning to face him. “How is your son doing? Has he gotten his driver’s license yet?”
Nine
“So, I’m seeing him next weekend,” I said to Christy and Elle during lunch on Monday. I had just told them the whole story.
“Wow.” Elle sighed. “I’m so happy for you Annie.”
“I can’t believe it,” Christy said. “He really liked you and not Elle.”
“Gee, thanks,” I muttered.
“Eh, you know what I mean. So, what are your plans for the weekend?”
“Well, he mentioned us going to . . .” I tilted my head to the side and peered past them. “Hang on a second, guys, I’ll be right back.”
I walked past three tables until I got to where Lizzie was sitting alone writing in a spiral notebook. “Hi, Lizzie. Do you want to come join us . . . or are you too busy working?” I gestured over to our table.
She looked up, surprised. “No, I’m not too busy . . .” She frowned as she looked in the direction I was pointing. “Are you sure there’s room for me?”
“I’m sure,” I said with a grin. “There’s plenty of room.”
Lizzie hesitated for a moment, then said, “Okay,” gathered up her things, and followed me back to my table.
“You guys remember my roommate, Lizzie, don’t you?” I said as she sat. “This is Christy and Elle. They live along the hall.”
“Oh yeah, I remember you two,” Lizzie said. “You’re the ones that have that cute photo of you on your door sitting back to back.”
“Tell them what that kid said,” Elle said to Christy, gesturing toward me and Lizzie. “Christy’s an assistant in the three-year-old class at The Cottage School,” she said to Lizzie.
Christy leaned toward us. “So, the kids were coloring,” she said, “and I was walking around the table checking on them, and this little girl named Sophia looked up at me with this big smile and said, ‘Miss Annie, my parents love to laugh.’” So, I said, “Aw, that’s nice Sophia. I’m glad they like to laugh.’”
I nodded, waiting for the punchline.
“And she said, ‘Yeah . . . then after they laugh, they go in their room and lock the door.’”
“Oh my!” Lizzie giggled and clapped a hand to her mouth.
“I’m sure Sophia’s parents would love to know she’s talking about them,” I said, shaking some salt on my fries.
Lizzie eagerly leaned in toward Christy. “My mama was a second-grade teacher, and she always told the parents, ‘I’ll make a deal with you. I won’t believe everything I hear about you if you don’t believe everything you hear about me.’”
Christy was about to take a bite of her sandwich, but stopped and looked at us. “Wow. I never thought about it that way. I wonder what horrible things the kids are telling their parents about me and Miss Tammy.”
“Think of it this way,” Elle said. “Maybe you’re providing some great family dinner entertainment.”
“Yeah. It could be worse.” Christy shrugged, then took a bite of her sandwich.
Lizzie was gazing past us, as if she were thinking of something. “Mama always had a lot of stories too,” she said. “Like, one Christmas a little boy brought her this worn-looking gift bag and said, “Here, Mrs. Parker. My mom got this gift and didn’t want it, and she asked around, and nobody in our family wanted it either. So, she said I should just give it to you.”
“Ha! That’s hilarious,” Christy said.
“So, what was the gift?” Elle asked.
Lizzie paused for dramatic effect, and then said, “A bright pink flamingo night light.”
All four of us laughed. “So, what did you guys do with it?” I asked.
“I don’t remember,” Lizzie said. “I know we never used it. Maybe we gave it to charity.”
“I wonder if the charity was offended,” Christy said. “Like, ‘Why are people giving us this crap? We don’t want it either.’”
Lizzie laughed. “Like that Seinfeld episode about the muffin tops!”
I turned and looked at her. I never would have guessed that Lizzie watched Seinfeld.
I guess there’s a lot I need to learn about her. We’ll have to hang out more often.
****
“And of course, a trip to the Historic District isn’t complete without a visit this place,” Scott said, opening the door to Wren’s Nest Toy Shop.
“A toy store?” I giggled. “You’re kidding, right?”
“I would never kid about toys,” he said, holding the door open and gesturing for me to walk through.
It had been the perfect day. Scott, being a gentleman, had driven all the way to Orchard City to pick me up, then brought me here to take me on a tour. We went to the candy store, where he bought us salted caramel fudge, and then went to the vintage CD and record store, where Scott introduced me to all the employees. Apparently, he was a regular there and knew them all well.
“This place is huge!” I said, walking into the toy store and looking around. Not only did it go further back than I would have guessed, but there were wooden stairs that led up to a second floor.
“Yup,” Scott said. “And they have the coolest stuff, too.” He picked a green and blue Koosh ball out of a bin and tossed it to me.
“I love these,” I said, tossing it up and catching it repeatedly as we walked down the aisle passing a huge display of Barbie dolls and accessories. “Should I be embarrassed to admit that I was a huge Barbie fan?” I asked. “My favorite was one called ‘Totally Hair Barbie.’ Her hair came down to her ankles, no kidding.”
“Why should you be embarrassed?” Scott asked. “I was a huge fan of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.”
“Seriously?” I laughed. It was funny to picture Scott as a little boy.
He nodded. “You bet. I think there are still some in my parents’ garage.”
We spent over half an hour looking at toys, talking about our favorites from when we were kids, and playing with the Slinkys and yo-yos. How interesting, I thought to myself. Less than two weeks ago Scott had been an intimidating, superhuman creature that I was afraid to even speak to. That day he had told me details about his Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle collection and tried to show me how to “walk the dog” with a yo-yo.
W
hen we had finally gotten our fill of playing, we headed across the park area to go have dinner at the local Thai restaurant. I had never tried Thai food before, but Scott had suggested it. I figured it was good for me to try something new.
It was just as we walked past a child going down one of the slides that I felt Scott’s hand lightly brush against my right wrist and slide down until he gently grasped my hand.
I looked up at him and smiled, and he smiled back.
We passed the fountain on my left and I saw two little girls, both with their hair in braids, each toss a penny into it.
“What was your wish?” the younger girl asked.
“I can’t tell you, or else it won’t come true.”
I squeezed Scott’s hand. I didn’t need to throw a penny into the fountain. My wish had already come true.
****
After dinner, Scott drove me back to Orchard City, but suggested we take a walk together before he went home. I guess he was as reluctant as I was to have the day end.
We held hands and walked down the trail behind the music building, following it all the way to the eastern edge of campus where it looped around the lake. Three ducks promptly climbed out and walked over, quacking as we approached.
“Sorry, ducks,” Scott said. “We don’t have any food.”
The sun was setting beautifully behind the lake, creating orange-yellow lines above the horizon. The combination of the beautiful view, the feeling of Scott’s hand in mine, and the sound of the persistent quacking of the ducks made me want to freeze that moment in time, it was so perfect.
Scott must have been thinking the same thing, because he stopped walking and turned to face me, taking both my hands in his.
My heart fluttered as he looked me in the eyes, leaned forward and started to kiss me. His hands gently let go of mine and he moved closer, putting his arms around my waist as his kiss grew deeper.
I slid my arms around his neck, and kissed him back.
Maybe new adventures aren’t so bad after all.
End of Book Stuff
And now it’s time for the “End of Book Stuff,” where I write a few unedited pages about the creation of the book and anything else that pops into my mind. This is one of my favorite parts of finishing a book.
When I was a teenager, one of my very favorite authors was Ellen Conford, and one of my favorite books by her was Seven Days to a Brand-New Me. It’s about a high school girl who has a crush on a cute senior who has the locker next to hers and she uses a self-help book to try to become the type of girl she thinks he would like.
I knew I wanted to write a book about a romance in a musical theater setting. Somehow – I’m not exactly sure how, when, or why—I thought of Seven Days and decided to write my own version of that premise.
I wanted very much for it to be its own story and not just Seven Days with different blanks filled in. Personally, I think I succeeded doing that, and I hope that anyone who has read both books with agree that, while they have obvious similarities, they are two uniquely different stories.
Speaking of which, if you enjoyed Out of My League, I would encourage you to read Seven Days to a Brand-New Me, especially if you know – or are – a teenage girl. Unfortunately, it’s out of print now, but there are used copies on Amazon.
And speaking of used copies on Amazon, I bought one when I began this project (and it was just as good as I remembered). The copy, which I had paid maybe five bucks for, including the shopping, just happened to have a signed message from Ellen Conford, dated 1983! Is that cool or what?
Sadly, I learned that Ellen Conford passed away in 2015. I would have loved to be able to share this story with her.
Christy and Elle
When I was a freshman in high school, I wrote a short story for the school literary magazine called “I Ran for Freshman President.” (As an aside note, that story later won a county-level fiction contest, which I was quite proud of.) The main character had two friends named Christy and Ellen, who were very loosely based on the dynamics of my two best friends at the time.
So I figured, why not pull up some old friends instead of having to invent characters from scratch? I changed Ellen’s name to Elle, thinking that an 18 year old in 2017 named Ellen might seem weird. (My oldest daughter strongly confirmed this.)
Christy originally was boy crazy and kind of an airhead, while Elle, like her Ellen counterpart, was the sensible, bookish one of the three girls. However, the Christy and Elle of 2017 quickly took on lives of their own.
Christy kept taking over every scene that Elle was in, to the point that both Elle and I started wondering if Elle should even bother being in the story. At this time, Elle was Annie’s roommate and wrote for the college newspaper, and she and I both agreed to throw out the newspaper angle and forget about making her the “wise one” of the trio. (Although I do really like the idea of creating a campus newspaper/journalist character in the future.)
Once Elle moved down the hall to Christy’s room, she slowly started taking on a bit of a life of her own – and interestingly, she morphed a little into my younger daughter, who is a natural blond who seems to be good at everything she does, and even has an Etsy shop of crocheted animals called Sew Stuffed Friends. (Which, by the way, you should consider checking out. It’s not even just animals; she has a stuffed peas-in-a-pod which is super cute. She also sells a stuffed Hobbes.)
Anyway, once Elle took on some of my daughter’s qualities, I realized that Elle should be the one who Scott was interested in – or appeared to be, anyway.
Originally Scott’s character was going to be a drummer named Chris, but I started to realize that the logistics of a keyboardist and drummer talking to each other during a rehearsal were a little more clunky (for example, the last musical that I played for, the drummer was actually in a cage). More importantly, it was easier to picture a guitar player having to adjust to a musical theater setting and written scores and things.
As soon as the character become a guitarist (which was almost as soon as I began writing), I knew he could no longer be named Chris, because I actually played in a production Godspell once alongside a guitarist named Chris, and that would have just been too weird. So for a while the character had no name, and I literally called him “Guitar Guy” while I was writing. Then one day I was writing a scene with him in it and the name “Scott” just came out of nowhere and I decided that, yes, he was Scott.
Since the name just appeared and had no significance, I figured I should his last name personally significant, and ... hee, hee ... well, let’s just saw I have my own rock star crush. I’m not even going to come out and say it, because that’s my own private Idaho, but it’s not too hard to figure out; there’s even a blatant hint in the story.
I’ll let you, the reader, have the fun of figuring it out if you want to. And let’s make it interesting: the first person who emails me ([email protected]) with the right answer gets a gift card. Seriously.
Scott’s character wasn’t particularly based on anyone or on any particular experience. Let’s just say that I’ve had that feeling of being intimidated by a guy that seemed way out of my league more times than I can count.
The idea of writing about musical theater seemed like such an obvious choice because of all the behind-the-scenes drama I’ve gotten glimpses of over the years. For example, I was in a show once where, 30 minutes before the show opened, two of the people in charge got into a fight and the cops were called in. In another show – again 30 minutes before opening – the bass player suddenly threw up, then literally keeling over backward in her chair, passed out on the floor. (The audience was told that we had to delay the show due to “technical difficulties” which everything got cleaned up.) The bass player, a girl of about twenty, went home for the night and was later fine.
And I won’t even get into the crazy rumors I’ve heard about some of the relationship stuff going on duing these shows.
Anyway, I originally thought I would work some crazy chara
cters, incidents, and relationships into this book, but every time I tried to go in the direction, I completely stalled out. It just felt too forced.
So finally I quit trying to make the theater scenes full of “colorful characters” and crazy interactions, and only included things that directly related to the story, which is probably not a bad strategy anyway. I unintentionally captured a few different theater personalities in the character of Melanie, who started out as a tired, disorganized mom who worked as a music director, and who turned into a shrill bitch.
I was torn between writing about RENT or Godspell, and decided on Godspell because I’ve played for it so many times that I know it inside and out, and it’s a little less complicated on a show. I played with the idea of doing a made-up musical (kind of like The Simpsons did with “Streetcar!” and “The Planet of the Apes”) and that could have been really funny ... if someone else had written it. My own mind couldn’t come up with anything clever, and I know one of the worst things can be someone trying to be funny and failing, so I didn’t want to risk that.
All three of my fiction books involve some sort of classroom scenes or mention of teaching. I didn’t really do this on purpose; I guess it just comes naturally to me. I taught music and drama in public school for three years, I was a substitute teacher for longer than I care to admit, and I homeschooled my own kids for many years. Even now, I volunteer every week in the children’s ministry at my church.
I had several friends when I was in college who were early education majors, and some of them did their practice work at what I think was called “the child development center” on the campus. Obviously, that’s what Christy’s “Cottage School” was supposed to be like.
Years ago a woman I was in a Bible study with a woman named Karen who was a preschool teacher. She always had the most hilarious stories about the kids, and she told them really well too, in this kind of deadpan delivery. I used to tell her she should write a book – or better yet, do a stand-up routine about it.
Out of My League (Madison Musicians Book 2) Page 8
