My Unscripted Life

by Lauren Morrill

  I wonder how I would’ve reacted if my rejection letter had only said, This art sucks. Would it have hurt more, or less? What if it had been public, splashed online for the world to see? The thought makes me feel like my stomach is filled with dirt.

  “Well, we’re certainly a pair of losers, aren’t we?” I say.

  “Hey, I wouldn’t go that far. We’re both Hollywood heavy hitters.”

  “Uh, you’re a heavy hitter. I’m just the bat girl.”

  “Please, between the canvases you’ve done for the film and the stuff in this book? It’s only a matter of time before you’re a bigger deal than I am. So let me be the first to say I knew you when.” He reaches out his hand, and I shake it, though what I really want to do is hug him, because somewhere deep in my brain I feel the tiniest flicker of the old flame of confidence that used to burn bright for me.

  “I think my parents have you beat on that front. Half the frames on our walls are filled with my work. They’re very proud parents.”

  Above us, the sky goes abruptly gray, the cool breeze suddenly feeling less calming and more ominous. The clouds have covered the sun so thoroughly I can hardly believe it was shining just a few minutes ago. I’m pretty sure we’re about to get some serious weather. Milo glances up, his hair blowing down into his eyes.

  “I think it’s time we blow this Popsicle stand,” he says. “Let me treat the artist to a meal?”

  I smile. “I know just the place. It’s not far.”

  Lowell’s Roadhouse doesn’t have one of those “since 19-blahdy-blah” notations underneath the big orange block letters that are faded nearly beyond recognition, but if I had to guess, I’d say it’s at least sometime in the fifties. Dad and I found it on yet another one of our epic wanderings. We’d taken a series of left turns and stumbled upon it just at the moment that we realized we were a) pretty lost, and b) pretty starving. We come back whenever Mom gets heavy into drafting mode and needs total silence in the house. They even let us bring Rubix in, which is good, because he likes to bark at squirrels, which drives Mom batty when she’s trying to work.

  Milo pulls the truck to a stop next to a row of pickup trucks of various eras, some maybe even original to the restaurant (and with rust to match). I hop out, my sandals hitting the gravel with a satisfying crunch, but Milo pauses to dig a faded blue Dodgers cap out of the center console. He folds the bill in his hands, rounding it out, then pulls it low over his eyes.

  “What’s with the disguise, Double-Oh-Seven?”

  “Just avoiding, you know, uh,” he says, swallowing air as he fumbles for an explanation that won’t make him sound like a pompous ass.

  “What, reporters? Gossip columnists? Paparazzi?” I can barely suppress a laugh imagining someone lurking behind the scraggly boxwoods planted helter-skelter in front of Lowell’s, waiting to jump out and snap a photo with a camera as large as the building and probably costing three times as much. “Don’t worry. We’re out in the county now. No one gives a damn about you. No offense.”

  “None taken,” he says, but he still doesn’t remove the cap.

  I lead him toward the gray metal door and heave my body against it. Inside, the light is dim and the air is smoky, despite the fact that smoking hasn’t been allowed inside Lowell’s in a decade. There are only about ten tables in the place, all of which look like they were picked up at a flea market and then thrown off the back of a truck onto a dirt road before being installed in the restaurant. The place is half empty, which is good. Even though I told Milo no one around here gives a damn about a teen megastar, you never know. But a quick scan of the patrons filling the few tables tells me I’m right. It’s a scattering of older-looking folks, dirty and tired, like they’ve been doing manual labor since sunrise. And with the number of working farms and peach orchards around here, they might have.

  A waitress in jeans and a tank top, a grease-spattered white apron tied around her waist, is busy dropping beers and picking up empty bottles, while on the tiny stage a middle-aged woman in cowboy boots is doing her best American Idol on a cover of “Stand by Your Man.” The hand-lettered sign above her head advertises Budweiser and reads “Daily Open Mike, Wednesday Happy Hour.” Well, actually, it reads “Daily Open Mik, Wedsday Hap Hr,” with the permanent marker falling off the edge of the banner, but I get what they’re going for. There’s a man at an old wooden upright piano, the kind you see in elementary school music and church choir practice rooms, backing her up, and next to him is an ancient acoustic guitar on a stand. As she finishes her last chorus, the tiny crowd hoots and hollers, making themselves sound twice as large. The woman was good, but it’s clear they’re more interested in the song than the singer. It’s that kind of crowd. Something tells me they wouldn’t be down with my usual karaoke choice of “Rapper’s Delight.”

  We take a seat at a picnic table so old and battered that the wood has adopted a sort of soft, oily sheen from years of use and layers of Sharpie where patrons have left their literal mark. Milo reaches for the menus standing in the metal condiment dispenser, wedged between the ketchup and the mustard. He offers one to me, but I shake my head.

  “I’m good,” I say.

  “A regular,” he replies.

  “Not compared to them.” I cock my head toward our fellow diners. “But enough that I know what I like here.”

  “And that is?” Milo asks. “If there’s some kind of local delicacy, I definitely want in. That pimiento cheese at the Diner was amazing.”

  “I doubt the word ‘delicacy’ has ever been applied to anything on that menu,” I say. I tap my finger on the cloudy plastic cover of the Lowell’s menu, which bears pictures of the various items offered from the kitchen. “But if you like Reubens, you won’t find a better one.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, you doubt it?”

  “I just don’t tend to associate a good Reuben with Southern dining. Fried chicken? Of course. Something covered in gravy? Definitely. But isn’t a Reuben more of an East Coast thing?”

  “Snob.”

  “Guilty.”

  “Fine, pick something else. Dad says everything is good, and he should know. He’s tried it all. But if you’re asking me, I’m saying the Reuben.”

  So when the waitress arrives tableside, pulling a pen out of her ponytail, and Milo orders two Reubens, I can’t help the feeling of satisfaction I get.

  A few minutes later, after the waitress drops two fizzy Cokes in sweaty plastic cups on our table, we’re watching as another singer takes the stage. This time it’s a swarthy-looking guy who, if I had to guess, drives long-haul trucks and has a dog named Jack Daniel. He nods at the piano player, who takes his leave, and straps on the acoustic, launching into a peppy version of “On the Road Again.” I find myself tapping my toes on the wood floor, silently singing along.

  “Do you sing?”

  My head snaps back to Milo. “Do I what?”

  “Sing,” he says. “You know, the moving-your-lips thing you were just doing, but with sound coming out?”

  I feel my cheeks flush. “Oh, uh, not really. I mean, shower singing. Car singing. But not, like, singing.”

  “I didn’t realize there was such a major distinction.”

  “Says the professional singer.”

  Milo throws his hands up. “Hey hey hey, I’m a musician. A songwriter on a good day. I’d hardly call myself a singer.”

  “I didn’t realize there was such a major distinction,” I shoot back.

  “Well, come on. I’m no Frank Sinatra. What people like about me, if they actually like me, isn’t my voice.”

  “Okay. So I’m neither a singer nor a musician, then.”

  “Yes, I know. You’re an artiste,” he says, twisting the ends of an imaginary Dalí mustache. I stick my tongue out at him, and I get a real laugh in return, one that sends a bolt of energy through me. Seriously, ever since I made Milo laugh the first time in the prop room, it’s been like a high I’m chasing. It feels like like it recharges
me when my batteries are low.

  Our food arrives, the bread bearing grill marks, with yellow bags of off-brand potato chips on the plate next to our sandwiches. I pop my bag and breathe in the salty, greasy smell of the chips, while across the table Milo bites into his sandwich. Sauerkraut and Russian dressing dribble down his chin, along with a string of melted Swiss cheese.

  “Good, huh?”

  “The best,” he says. He swipes at his chin with a napkin from the silver canister on the table. “But don’t let anyone from New York hear me say that.”

  “I doubt anyone from New York has ever been in here, so you’re safe.”

  We munch silently for a moment. Overhead I hear the sound of rain picking up, tapping on the tin roof. It’s light at first, but soon it’s coming down hard enough to drown out the music happening onstage. The trucker has finished up his rendition of “On the Road Again,” and is placing the guitar back in the stand. The piano player returns to his post and glances around, but no one moves to take the stage, so he pulls out a crossword puzzle and gets to work.

  “I dare you to get up there and sing,” Milo says. The request comes out of absolute nowhere, and I can’t shake my head furiously enough. “C’mon. I double-dog-dare you.”

  “Okay, I’m not five. Do you really think that’s going to work?”

  “I was hoping.” He pauses. “Then let’s make this interesting. What do you want?”

  The question floors me as my brain immediately starts answering it in a million inappropriate ways. As much as I want to follow Naz’s advice and be just friends, I can’t help my brain from wandering to the darkest corners. What do I want? From Milo? Good Lord. If I keep wandering down that path I’m going to have a hard time thinking of him as a friend. I fear the flaming tomatoes that are my cheeks may be giving me away hard-core. I give my head a slight shake, as if I can erase the damning thoughts like an Etch A Sketch, and quickly try to conjure up something else. Something less, well, blush-inducing. But of course the moment I tell myself not to think like that, it’s all I can come up with, and suddenly my imaginary make-out session is taking an R-rated turn. I squirm on the picnic bench, then blurt out the first thing that comes to my head that doesn’t involve the word “shirtless.”

  “I’ll sing if you do!” I practically bark, and I’m lucky the rain is so loud, or everyone in the joint would be staring at me.

  Milo takes another gander around the room, taking in the frayed jeans and faded ball caps, the half-empty beer bottles and the baskets of fries smothered in blankets of ketchup. Then he shrugs.

  “Fair enough,” he says. For a moment I feel triumphant, until my mind puts together the fact that I just agreed to sing. In front of people. And Milo.

  Especially Milo.

  Because no matter what he says, the guy can sing. His voice is deep and soulful, with just a touch of a growl when he hits the high notes. And yet even with all the character, it’s still melodic and somehow beautiful.

  But my voice? It’s probably something more like Broadway reject. Junior varsity church choir. I can carry a tune passably, but no one is going to sign me up for a reality show. Not good enough to make it to Hollywood, not bad enough to embarrass myself in the audition rounds, I’d be just one of the many screaming faces in the massive crowd scenes going in and out of commercial breaks.

  I never thought he’d agree. He’s in deep hiding, after all. But Milo is gesturing toward the stage, and I realize my time has come.

  I’ve only ever sung in public in a karaoke setting, usually with Naz and a big crowd, shouting into the mike. Never have I ever attempted to actually sing in public, unless you count my solo during our “I Love Animals” pageant in the third grade. I sang a verse of “Don Gato” while wearing cat ears and a tail, and I was a hit. But I was eight. I could have been burping the alphabet into a microphone, and the audience still would have thought I was cute.

  I climb over the bench and trudge toward the stage, trying not to look like I’m en route to the executioner. The piano man sees me coming and puts his crossword puzzle down on the bench. I walk over and ask him if he knows “These Boots Are Made for Walking,” a song that has the benefit of being short and in a range that won’t frighten nearby dogs.

  “Sugar, if I didn’t know that song I’d be dragged outta here by my own boots,” he drawls, and nods toward the mike. I reach for it, and after three hard tugs that nearly result in me clocking myself in the forehead with the old, heavy microphone, I’ve got it in my hand. I’m staring at my sandals, taking slow deep breaths, as the piano bangs out the opening chords. And within seconds, it’s time.

  “You keep sayin’ you’ve got something for me,” I sing, my voice starting out shaky, missing all of Nancy Sinatra’s confidence and swagger. I’m rooted to the ground as if my lyrical boots are buried in cement, one hand on my hip, the other clutching the microphone for dear life. But as I raise my eyes to scan the crowd, I can see that I’ve picked the right song. The dozen or so heads in front of me immediately start bobbing along to the piano, and a hoot rises up from one of the tables in the back. It makes my voice even out, and the little shake I had on the first line disappears. When I get to the chorus, I can see the head bobs turn into almost full-body chair dancing, and a couple patrons are even clapping along. And before I know it, I’m dancing too. I start with a toe tap, then a short, shuffling walk, but by the second chorus I’m strutting across the tiny stage, pointing into the audience and playing to the intimate crowd.

  It’s not until I get to the bridge that I let myself look at Milo, still at the picnic table in the back corner. He’s standing now, his foot up on the bench of the table. He’s one of the clappers. And his grin is as wide as the Mississippi, practically shining a spotlight on me down front.

  I shimmy and strut and belt the lyrics right up until the very last “One of these days these boots are gonna walk all over you.” And when the piano hits the last chord, I take a bow to what amounts to thundering applause from about fifteen diners.

  And I. Feel. Awesome.

  I take a final bow and replace the mike, then hop off the stage and skip toward the picnic table. Milo is grinning and laughing, but not at me, which is good. When I get to the table, he raises his hand for a high five, which I happily give him.

  “Damn, girl. You may not think you can sing, but you sure as hell can perform.”

  “This from a man who did a late-night TV performance with a double horn section and fireworks,” I reply. “Whatcha got for us today?”

  Milo’s face breaks into a mischievous grin. He stands and climbs over the picnic table bench, his lanky body unfolding gracefully. He crosses the floor in five long strides, and once onstage he lifts the acoustic, the frayed strap going over his head as he gives the strings a tentative strum to check for proper tuning. He takes a second to adjust a few of the knobs, then steps to the mike.

  The opening chords sound familiar, pinging a spot in my brain that tugs for the title. But I can’t quite place it. It’s not until he opens his mouth, rasping out the opening lyric, that I recognize the tune.

  “Fast Girl,” his first and biggest hit. Only instead of upbeat synth pop, this acoustic version somehow further emphasizes the, well, sex in the song. And I gasp.

  I was right. This song is dirty!

  Milo knows I’ve got it, and he shoots a wicked grin toward me. When he launches into the chorus, slow and soulful and somehow even more sensual, he winks at me.

  And that’s when something in my chest cracks open, raining sparks all the way down into my toes.

  Screw the photographers and the fans and the Internet insanity. I want him. I unabashedly want him, and I don’t think I can play it cool anymore.

  Milo strums the last chord, and a smattering of applause comes from the audience. Milo’s song choice is not the right one for this crowd, that’s for sure. But as he places the guitar in its stand and hops off the stage, I realize that maybe the halted applause isn’t just for the song
. A woman with bleached-blond hair in a messy pile on top of her head two tables away from us leans over to her companion and whispers something, her eyes on Milo.

  I’m immediately on alert. And as he weaves through the tables and chairs, I can see that Milo is, too. He ducks his head and pulls his cap a little lower over his eyes, and he’s not even to the table before he’s pulling out his wallet. When he finally gets here, he deposits way more than two Reubens and two Cokes costs onto the table.

  “I’m sorry, but we need to—”

  “Yeah, of course,” I say, jumping up so fast I bash my knee on the bottom of the table, sending a fork clattering to the floor. Good one, Dee. So much for a stealthy exit.

  Milo is a step ahead of me, heading toward the door, and I quickly follow. As I pass the last table of diners, I hear someone mutter, “Hey, isn’t that that boy-band kid?”

  Just before he’s out the door, Milo turns, a giddy grin on his face, and calls over his shoulder, “I was never in a boy band!”

  And then we’re out the door.

  The rain is quickly turning the gravel parking lot into a lake, and I feel water pool around my ankles as my sandals slap on the water. The air feels heavy, like I could reach out and part it like a curtain. I swipe the back of my neck where my curls are wet and sticking. A flash of lightning illuminates the sky. Milo starts counting. “One, two—”

  He’s barely said the words before he’s cut off by a rumble of thunder that sounds like it’s ready to bowl us right over. It’s followed quickly by several more flashes and more rumbles. I can’t tell if the ground is actually shaking or if I’m just imagining it, but I don’t have time to figure it out. The storm is close. The sky opens up further with a loud crack, and the rain pours in big fat drops and wide sheets, coming down more like an amusement-park water feature than an act of nature.