Jasmeer hangs up her coat and checks her hair in her mirror. “Delete the texts and block her number. She’s just trying to intimidate you.”
“But why?”
“Because she’s worried Heath likes you? I’ve heard she’s pretty possessive.”
“He doesn’t even know I exist.”
“So maybe she’s jealous of you having coaching with Maxine? Here, hold this. I can’t find my binder.” She hands me her backpack.
“Okay, jealous of Maxine makes more sense,” I say. “But what I don’t get is why she’d pretend to be nice to me on Facebook.”
“I don’t know. Maybe she’s hoping to make you mess up onstage.”
“What? How?”
“By making everybody’s expectations so high you can never live up to them?” Jasmeer stuffs her binder in her backpack, shuts her locker and heads for class.
I walk along with her. “Maybe. Cadence is super competitive.”
“And she’s trying to cover herself. Nobody will believe anything bad about her when she’s so publicly supportive of you.”
“I guess. So what do I do?”
“Ignore her,” Jasmeer says. “Focus on your singing. Breathe.”
Six
I take Jasmeer’s advice and practice instead of obsessing about Cadence. By Saturday when I arrive for my second coaching session with Maxine, I’m feeling upbeat and confident.
Jasmeer and her mom are busy with B&B chores, so today it’s Maxine who greets me. She looks striking in a purple silk tunic over black leggings, her salt and pepper hair in a wraparound braid. I love how confident she is in her personal style. Something else I need to work on.
The house smells of apples and cinnamon. “Care for some mulled cider?” she asks.
“Yes, please!”
Maxine brings two mugs into the lounge. She’s used candy canes for stir sticks.
I take a sip of my cider and then set my mug on the coffee table. “So, Maxine, I heard you’re going to sing your Silver Spinner song at Farmshine. That’s beyond cool! And you’re way more famous than the Sweetland Singers, so we’ll sell way more tickets.”
Maxine laughs. “Enough with the flattery,” she says. “Time to get to work.”
After a few rounds of deep breathing, she says, “Okay, let’s warm up your voice.” She goes to the piano and hits a note. “Up and down the scale from there. Don’t forget to breathe from your belly.”
I’m so awed by Maxine that I forget to be afraid. I take a deep breath and open my mouth. My voice, already warmed up because of my singing as I walked over to Jasmeer’s, comes out clear and strong.
“Impressive,” Maxine says. “Paisley, I believe you have what we call raw talent.”
Is that a good thing? “Um, what does that mean exactly?”
“It means I think you definitely have what it takes to be a very good singer.”
Definitely a good thing. “Wow, thanks! My dream is to be a pop singer, like Denzi. But my mom is disappointed that I don’t want to sing Italian arias.”
Maxine lifts her hands off the keys and tilts her head. “Is that where your performance anxiety comes from?”
I sip some more of my cider. “Yeah—but only part of it.”
“Go on.”
“I had a really bad audition once,” I say. “So there’s that too.”
“What happened?”
“A few years ago I tried out for the Sweetland Singers.”
Maxine sits up straighter on the piano bench. “And?”
“And it was a total disaster.” By the time I’ve finished telling her the whole story, I’m close to tears.
“Okay now, breathe,” Maxine says. “Use the technique to calm yourself.”
I try, but I end up gulping like a beached fish. Eventually, though, my breathing evens out.
“Paisley, listen to me,” says Maxine. “Elaine Winton is a bit of a dragon, but she is fair and she knows her stuff. From what you’ve told me, it sounds like she was just noting your low vocal range, which is not common in young women. She wasn’t saying you weren’t any good.”
“That’s not how it felt.”
“So you just gave up?”
“No, I tried to sing with the school choir, but that didn’t work out either.” Which Cadence so kindly reminded me about. “The teacher made me stand with the boys. But my voice was even lower than most of theirs, and everybody laughed. So, yeah, I guess I gave up.”
Maxine raises her eyebrows and shakes her head. “That must have been hard.”
“Yeah, it was.”
“But you know what? Not many women can sing in that range. I certainly can’t. So try thinking of it as a positive rather than a negative. You don’t have a conventional female voice. And you have star power.”
“I do?”
“Absolutely. But that raw talent needs to be developed.” She gets up from the piano, takes a sip of her cider, then returns to the piano. “Everybody has unsuccessful auditions. You have to learn to get past failure. You have to take control of your performance anxiety.” She plays a few notes, then asks, “What do you think is the worst that could happen onstage?”
I freeze. I can’t think about being onstage without panicking. I have to belly-breathe before I can answer. “I guess my greatest fear is that the words won’t come out and the audience will heckle me and someone will have to drag me offstage. Or maybe I’ll start singing and forget the words. I’ve seen that happen on those Idol shows on TV. And then it gets posted on YouTube.”
“But it doesn’t have to,” Maxine says. “It’s all about respecting your audience. They’ve paid good money to be there, so you need to be very well rehearsed. You need to practice until you know your notes and lyrics cold. That way, no matter what distractions pop up, you can keep singing on autopilot.”
“Wouldn’t singing on autopilot be bad?”
“Not as bad as losing your place. The goal is to know your stuff so well, nothing can make you lose focus and blank out.”
“Okay,” I say.
“Let’s give it a try.” Maxine plays the intro of my song, motioning with her head that I should come and stand near the piano. I move closer, exhale, take a deep breath and come in right on time.
“Excellent!” Maxine claps her hands. “I love how your voice is so different from Denzi’s. It almost sounds like a new song. As they say on those Idol shows, you really made it your own.”
“Thanks!” I feel like I sang it better than I ever have. “But it’s just you and me here. It’s going to be totally different at Farmshine.”
“Not totally,” Maxine says. “I’ll be there to introduce and accompany you. Try to capture the confidence you’re feeling right now so you can tap into that feeling when you’re up onstage.”
“Yeah, but all those people in the audience—”
“Want to be entertained. They’re on your side. They want you to be great.”
“I guess.” But not everybody. Not Cadence.
“You’re going to focus on the singing, not the fear. All your anxiety will be transformed into excitement and confidence. You’re going to stride out there with pride and power and a great big smile. You’re going to take command of the stage, acknowledge the audience, grab them by the throat from the first note and not let them go until the last one.”
“You make it sound so easy!” I laugh, giddy with relief. I sang for Maxine, and she didn’t make fun of me. She didn’t say I was wasting her time. She didn’t say she was done coaching me.
“It’s all about being prepared.” Maxine checks her watch and stands, pushing the bench back under the piano. “Keep practicing with proper breathing, and I’ll see you next week.”
“Thank you, thank you, thank you.”
“You’re most welcome.” Maxine gives me a big smile. “Your interpretation could use some more dynamics, and we can talk more about that next time. Sing at Farmshine like you just did and you’ll have people lining up for your autograph.”
Seven
I find Jasmeer in the laundry room of Riverside House. “Maxine is the best!” I squeal. “She’s helping me so much! And she just called my singing excellent!”
“Cool!” Jasmeer stacks some towels into a basket. “I hope you’re feeling better about going onstage.”
“Yeah, I think I am. I’m still a bit nervous, but—”
“You’re going to be awesome! Now, want to help me scrub a couple of bathrooms?”
“Ha! Not a chance.” I check my phone, which I had turned off while working with Maxine.
Great. Cadence has sent another text. This one’s got a picture attached. There’s my face, from my student ID, photoshopped onto a pig’s body. Pissley McFartland is gonna stink at Farmshine!
I stare in shock, then hold my phone out to Jasmeer.
She takes a look and gasps. “Oh my god! That’s disgusting!”
My phone buzzes. Cadence again. Pissley McFatland sings like oink, oink, oink!
“You don’t need this,” Jasmeer says. “Block her number.”
Before I can do that, Cadence sends another picture. This one shows my head on a full-figured opera singer’s body. My very large chest is bursting out of my dress, which has the name Pissley McFatland scrawled across it.
Is that supposed to be an insult? I may not want to be an opera singer, but thanks to my mom, I appreciate how talented they are. This is so childish.
“Maybe you should report her or something,” Jasmeer says.
“Yeah, maybe.” I know I should ignore her. But again, I can’t help but reply. Pls stop.
Cadence: Never over till the fat lady sings!
Me: Maxine G says I’m excellent!
Cadence: Major stage fright!!!
I turn off my phone again.
I usually sing to myself as I walk home. But now I’m too distracted. About Cadence, yes, but I’m also feeling bad about keeping my parents in the dark. They don’t even know I’m planning to perform.
By the time I get home, I’ve decided I really need to tell them.
I get my chance at dinner. They both seem to be in good moods.
“Great veggie burgers, Mom,” I say. “And Dad, these sweet-potato fries are the best.” I pass the green salad I made. “Oh, and by the way, I signed up to sing at Farmshine.”
Dad stops spooning salad onto his plate. My mother stops eating, her fork halfway to her mouth. There’s an awkward silence.
“What’s Farmshine?” asks Dad.
I fill him in, and then Mom asks, “What song are you singing?”
I speak to the fry dangling from her fork. “It’s called ‘Somewhere the Music Shines Bright.’ You know—the theme from The Lost Song Galaxy movie?”
“No, I don’t know.” Mom points her fork at Dad, making the fry fall off onto her plate. “Do you know it?”
Dad passes the salad along. “Sure, it was a big hit when that movie came out. I think Denzi wrote and recorded it, didn’t she, Paisley?”
“That’s right,” I say, impressed that my dad knows. “She actually wrote the entire movie score. That song is my favorite. It starts out all dark and minor and harsh, and then the chorus is lyrical and hopeful, because the movie’s about finding music that’s been lost. And I sing it really well—Maxine even said so.”
“Maxine?” my parents ask together.
Oops. I never told them about the coaching either. I was worried Mom would forbid it. “Yeah, um, you know, Maxine Gaston? The Stratford actor? She was in The Lost Song Galaxy movie, and she’s the MC for the fundraiser.”
“I’ve certainly heard of her,” Mom says. “But when did she hear you sing?”
I explain how Jasmeer set it all up. “It’s kind of vocal coaching, but it’s really more about helping me get over my stage fright. And if I can manage to sing at Farmshine, then I’ll be able to audition for the school musical next term.” Might as well tell her everything and put a positive spin on it. “Can you believe it? I’m so incredibly lucky to have this chance.”
Mom stares at me. “You have performance anxiety?”
I can’t tell her about failing the Sweetland Singers audition, because she thinks I turned it down. I can’t tell her about the school choir either, because she doesn’t even know I tried out for it. “Lots of singers have stage fright.”
“Yes, I’m well aware of that,” Mom says. “Every performer has to deal with nerves.”
“Not you. You always seem so calm before a concert.” Which is why I can’t talk to her about it.
Mom shrugs. “I guess I’m lucky that way, but it certainly helps that I’m not a soloist. I’m never alone onstage. I have the whole symphony around me.” She serves herself some salad. “But back to you. You haven’t been singing anywhere, so I don’t understand.”
“I sing in private, when you’re not here,” I say. “So you won’t get upset. Because we don’t like the same kind of music. And when I think about performing onstage, I have something like a panic attack.”
“Oh.” She raises her eyebrows at me. “Well, maybe if you’d joined the Sweetland Singers, the director would have been able to help you.”
Thanks, Mom! “But I don’t want to sing that kind of music. I don’t want to be part of a choir. I want to be a pop singer.”
Mom opens her mouth to speak, then closes it again. Maybe she’s trying to stop herself from saying the wrong thing.
“Sorry,” I say. “But I’m going to do a Denzi song.”
Mom stabs another fry with her fork. “Hmm. Up to you. But I won’t be able to be there. As I said, I have a student recital that night.”
“That’s okay.” The last thing I want or need is my mother in the audience.
“I’ll be there,” Dad says. “Even if your mom is too embarrassed to hear you sing a pop song.”
Mom ignores Dad’s attempt at teasing. This isn’t funny to her. The conversation is over and the subject is closed.
After dinner I put the kettle on. When the water boils, I pour it over a mint tea bag and carry it to my room.
I shut the door, plunk down on my bed and stare at the walls. I painted them over the summer—one purple, one yellow, one green and one pink. Kind of like the streaks in my hair.
The walls are covered with posters of Denzi in concert. On my dresser is a photo of Mom in the long black dress she wears for playing with the symphony. I’m so envious of her ease onstage. I wish she’d given me some tips on how to deal with things. But all she did was make me feel guilty about not joining the Sweetland Singers.
Time to rehearse. I run through “Somewhere the Music Shines Bright” five times. But I don’t want to overdo it. Maxine said all I had to do was sing it like I did today.
But what if I can never sing it that well again?
Eight
It’s a long week at school. I’ve blocked Cadence from my phone, and I try to avoid her. But every time I do see her in class or the hall, she whispers, “Hey, Pissley.” Or “Hey, McFatland.” Then she makes oink, oink sounds at me.
I want to scream, but that might damage my vocal cords. What is her problem?
Whatever it is, I can’t let her rattle me.
When I arrive for my next coaching session, Maxine is playing the piano and singing “The Universe Is Made of Music.” That’s her song from the movie and is the one she’ll perform at Farmshine. It’s the first time I’ve heard her sing in person. I’m blown away by her powerful voice, which fills the room. She nods at me and says between bars, “Please join in, if you know it.”
If I know it? It’s a Denzi song—of course I do! I come in on the chorus, harmonizing with Maxine.
The sound of our voices together is amazing. After Maxine plays the final notes, I have no words. And even if I did, saying anything right now would ruin the moment.
Maxine is also quiet. Eventually she says, “I haven’t sung that in a long while. I’d forgotten how much I like it. And I especially liked us singing it together.”
“Oh, me t
oo!” I say. “I mean, I like the song, and it was a huge honor to sing it with you!”
Maxine nods and flows right into my Farmshine song. After I’ve run through it, she gives me some specific tips on how I can improve. I sing it again and again, until she says, “Bravo! Let’s leave it there for today. I have something else I want you to work on.”
She gets up from the piano and moves over to the armchair. “So, Paisley, tell me. Are you feeling ready?”
“Um, maybe? I really know the song and the breathing. But I still panic when I think about going onstage.”
“Yes, I suspected that. Have you ever heard of visualization?”
“Maybe?”
“Well, visualization is picturing an image to help you reach a goal. Let’s give it a go. I’m going to lead you through your performance, from start to finish. Sit on the sofa, close your eyes, and try to clear your mind.”
I try, but my thoughts are all over the place. I’m still high on the joy of my duet with Maxine. I do some deep breathing, but it takes a while before I can say, “Ready.”
“Okay,” Maxine says. “Picture this. You’re in the wings, about to perform. You look great and know your song perfectly. You’re controlling your nerves with your breathing. No matter what’s happening around you, you’re not distracted. Nothing can make you lose focus. You saw the stage at soundcheck, so you know exactly where you’ll stand, where the mic is and how to use it. You’re ready for the bright lights shining right in your eyes.”
I’m so there. Maxine’s words help me picture everything.
“I introduce you to a full house,” she says. “You stride out and take command of the stage, full of confidence. You flash your smile and acknowledge the audience, connecting with them immediately. As I start to play your song, you stay focused and breathe.”
I can almost hear her playing the opening bars.
“You hit the first note right on pitch, just like you always do. You transform every bit of fear into positive energy and emotion, and send it out to the audience. You give them your heart through your music.”
This feels totally right. Exactly what I want to do.
Raw Talent Page 3
