Shy

by Grindstaff, Thomma Lyn

  “Are you majoring in music?” he asks, his voice warm and friendly like his expression.

  I nod.

  “I'm not surprised,” he says easily. “You're very talented. I've heard you play in here before. You have a unique style, and I like it very much.”

  I don't know what to say. I feel myself flushing at his compliments. I've never known how to take a compliment. I appreciate them—they feel wonderful and warm like the sun touching a starved little shriveled seed—but something down deep inside me doesn't think I deserve them. And to be the focus of attention, especially the attention of someone I hardly know, feels overwhelming. I'm not sure how I overcome that when I play for competitions and recitals as a piano student. I guess I just feel like I have to, like it's a matter of survival. After all, since I'm so shy, my ability to compete in classical piano is my only route to any possible success in life.

  I won't get there on my personality, that's for sure.

  “Well, it's great to meet you, Frannie,” Granville says. “I'm sure we'll see each other again. I hang around here quite a lot.”

  I nod again. My neck feels thick and my throat feels like I'll strangle on my phlegm. I resolve to clear my throat just as soon as I'm far enough away from him so he won't hear it. Damn it, I wish I weren't so shy. I'd like to know if he's a graduate student of Dr. Rosetti's, if he's a performance major or some other kind of music major. He seems so nice. He really wanted to draw me out, and he tried.

  But drawing me out is a damnably hard thing to do.

  Nikesha Sloane wouldn't act like this.

  But I'm not Nikesha. I'm just Frannie Fuckup Forsythe.

  I walk away and feel Granville's gaze on me as I head toward the stairs that lead down to the ground floor. I hope he talks to me again soon. Maybe then, I can say more than just my name.

  Chapter Two (Frannie)

  Mom will know something's up the minute I walk into the house. As a college freshman, I live in the dorm during the week, but I tend to go home on weekends to see Mom and Dad, and often to go to Jake's shows when he's performing. I've only been at UT for a couple of weeks, though, so I haven't gotten into a rhythm or a schedule that's set in stone, but Mom isn't expecting me home this weekend. She thinks I'm rushing Alpha Delta Pi and going to the parties, starting tonight.

  Nothing doing. Sororities are fine for more social girls, I guess, but sorority life isn't for me. Regardless of my shyness, I need lots of time to myself. I don't want every day and every hour mapped out for me with a relentless social life and constant social obligations. It's not me, and it will make college harder on me than it needs to be. I'm actually liking college better than high school so far, and I'd like to keep it that way. Mom is a very social person. Not like Dad and me. She has to understand that I'm not her younger clone, and I'll never be. Her dreams aren't mine, and it isn't right of her to try to pressure me into fulfilling her lost dreams. My own dreams make me feel inadequate enough, let alone trying to fulfill hers. She'll have to understand. As Jake said, it's my life.

  When I walk in, I slowly let out my breath only to suck it back in, hard and sharp, when I hear Mom. “Frannie? Is that you?” Anxiety edges her voice. And worse. My stomach knots. She sounds like she's been drinking.

  I've known since my junior year of high school that Mom sometimes drinks a little bit too much, especially when she and Dad are at odds, which has been more and more often as Simon, my brother, and I have grown older and ready to fly out of the nest. Simon is a junior in high school this year, putting him two years behind me. He's a great guy, laid back and extroverted. He has a lot of friends so he's not home very much, and that's good, because from what I can tell, day-to-day life with Mom has gotten tougher. She isn't as hard on Simon, though, as she is on me, especially when it comes to her demands and her obsession with me being a super achiever. Maybe it's because I'm her daughter and she's more inclined to try to live vicariously through me than through a son.

  Mom and Dad are pretty incompatible, what with the differences in their personalities. Dad's like me. He'd rather stay home, be quiet, play his guitar, and work on the projects he loves. Mom would rather be out, doing things with people. They've never been good at meeting in the middle, at least not since I've been on the earth, though I've seen pictures that suggest they had music in common when they met. Mom played the piano as a young woman, but she hasn't touched it in a long time. The only pianist in the house for years has been me.

  I wonder where Dad is? He's probably in the study working on something related to his computer job.

  “Frannie?” she says, louder, and I hear her footsteps in the hall, coming closer. I go into the living room to meet her, dread tying my guts into knots and pulling tighter until I think they'll rip me apart. I have to stand up to her. I've got no choice. She has to know the truth. I won't be rushing Alpha Delta Pi, and I don't want to be in any sorority at all.

  “I'm here.” My voice feels half-stuck in my throat, the words hanging out and flailing helplessly. I hate feeling like this.

  “But tonight's the rush party.” She comes into the hall. Yes, I'm pretty sure she's had something to drink. She isn't wobbly or anything, but she looks more annoyed than usual, which doesn't bode well for me having to deliver news she doesn't want to hear.

  I open my mouth and shove out the words. “Mom, I've decided not to rush. I don't want to be in a sorority.”

  “What?” She moves closer to me.

  “I don't want to be in a sorority.”

  “What are you telling me?”

  I sigh. She's resisting the truth—well, my truth—with all her might, as usual. “Mom, I'm not rushing. I have to be honest with you. I've never wanted to be in Alpha Delta Pi or any other sorority. I didn't want to say anything because I know you want it for me so badly. I even thought about trying to go through with rush anyway, since I kind of doubted they'd take me. But what if they did? When I thought about that possibility, I saw very clearly it just isn't what I want.”

  “Oh, no.” Her voice shakes with bitterness, disappointment, and hostility, and the disgust on her face feels like a bowling ball that she has hurled into my gut. “You're making a huge mistake.”

  My mouth has gone dust dry and I can't speak. Maybe I should have rushed after all. At least I could have come home later and told her about the party, even if I would have had to make a tremendous effort to sound enthusiastic about it.

  But no. I can never please Mom even when I try, so there's no point in doing this for her sake. I still wouldn't measure up, and I would be miserable in a sorority. I'm so shy I can't even interact well with my roommate and her friends. They're nice, but I just can't relax with them. When I'm with most people, I feel stiff and frozen up. My face feels like a mask, with the real me hopelessly buried under thick layers of shy.

  Oh, those hated words! Shy, withdrawn. And lumpish. One person called me lumpish, in high school. Also Miss Woodenhead. None of those descriptions are even close to the real me, but when I feel overwhelmed by people, by the demands of socializing, the real me retreats even further into the layers. It does no good for me to try to throw myself into social situations. I was so anxious during college orientation that I had constant painful gas bubbles in my chest, and if I had been older, I probably would have thought I was having a heart attack.

  Somehow, though, even given all this, Mom thinks I should spend my college years with wall-to-wall social activity, which would become the case if I joined a sorority. She thinks it'll cure me of my shyness. Little does she understand about shyness. I couldn't do it. It would overwhelm me. Even if I weren't shy, I'm introverted. I need regular time alone to recharge and to simply be. Not to be social.

  If Mom had wanted an outgoing daughter so badly, then why the hell did she marry Dad, a shy and introverted man?

  She's still waiting for me to speak. “I know what I'm doing,” I tell her. “I wouldn't be happy in a sorority. They party every weekend, and from what I've heard, they're
expected to spend pretty much all their time together, every day, when they're not studying. It would drive me crazy. I'm just not wired like that, to want to be around people all the time–”

  “Damn it, Frannie, you're too young to know what you're talking about,” Mom interrupts. “You don't understand that there's no conceivable way you can ever compete and succeed in this world the way you are, so pathologically withdrawn and shy and not knowing how to deal with people. You simply must learn how to get along better and make friends. You couldn't possibly have a better opportunity than joining that sorority. The connections you would form in a sorority would be an important key to you being able to succeed in life. And Alpha Delta Pi is one of the best sororities you could join. Do you want to be a fucking failure, Frannie? Is that really what you want, god damn it? Because that's where you're headed, with your poor, short-sighted choices.”

  “I'm not a failure, fucking or otherwise,” I say, trying to sound strong but failing miserably, since my voice is shaking so badly. Yeah, Mom's drunk. She only cusses at me like that when she's drunk. And her words—pathologically withdrawn and shy—are like verbal bullets aimed at my heart.

  I want to cry but I would rather have my head cut off than cry in front of her, especially over this. But I wish with all my heart I were a different person. I'd probably be happier if I could be what Mom—and the world—wants: bubbly and extroverted. I doubt Nikesha Sloane is painfully shy and withdrawn like me. I've never been to any of her live shows, but I've seen interviews and footage from her shows. I've seen no evidence of shyness. From what I know about Nikesha, she has always been a tigress, a go-getter, not held back by shyness—or by anything else for that matter. In her interviews, she talks about how her parents unconditionally believed in her talent and potential and how they never doubted she could do anything she set her mind to. They accepted her for exactly who she is.

  Wow. What must that feel like? Incredible, I bet.

  “You're headed straight for failure, mediocrity, and oblivion,” Mom says. “You don't have any friends except for that redneck boy who can't even be bothered to go to college and make a decent life for himself. Like attracts like. Failures attract other failures. Like him, you're not willing to do what it takes to develop yourself and take advantage of opportunities that are essential to your success.”

  I hate how she so often brings Jake into her vendetta against me. Anger bubbles in me, along with stomach acid. “I'm trying, okay? I really am. I actually think I've accomplished quite a bit, even though I'm not successful by your definition. Well, I'm different from you, all right? I have to figure out a way to succeed in life while still being me.” I'm lying, though. I don't think of myself as accomplished. At all. But her words strike me as over-the-top unfair. False bravado is the only way I can think of to defend myself.

  “Yes, you're you,” Mom says. “But you can be a much better you, Frannie. You're never going to make it in this world the way you are. It's not a matter of your definition of successful. What's important is the world's definition of success, and you have to be able to meet the world's definition. Do you hear me? Success on your terms isn't good enough. You're painfully shy, you're withdrawn, you just don't have an ability to connect with other people, and you don't seem to want to change any of that. And you must. To be able to compete, you have to be likable and outgoing, so you have to–”

  So I'm not even likable now. Fuck. I'm feeling nauseated. I don't want to talk about this anymore. “I've made my decision,” I say in a low voice, which, somehow, is no longer shaking. “I won't rush, and I won't join that sorority or any other.”

  Mom's brows come together and she gets up in my face, her own expression little more than a snarling mask. “This is no good. You have to change, god damn it, or you're going to fail in life. Do you hear me? You are going to fail in life!” She shouts the last three words, spraying her spittle on me, then turns on her heel and stomps away, out of the living room and probably to her bedroom and maybe to another glass—or a couple more glasses—of wine.

  I sit on the couch, put my head in my hands, and cry. Quietly, so nobody can hear me. Silent crying is a skill I developed long ago, before I can remember being able to think. Even before I could think, I was aware that I'm not good enough. I offend Mom on every conceivable level.

  But why? I just don't understand. All I've ever tried to do is to be myself.

  ###

  Though I cry silently, Dad has a sixth sense where I'm concerned. Even when I was a little girl and received regular verbal thrashings from Mom about my failings, he would come and try to make things better.

  His footsteps approach and I try to stop crying because I hate for anybody to see me cry, even Dad, even Jake, but I can't stop. After a lifetime of this sort of thing, you would think it wouldn't hurt so much, but it does. Mom's disappointment in me doesn't just eat at her. It eats at me, too. And with every hateful fusillade she hurls at me, my belief in myself grows less and less. Maybe she's right. Maybe this world just isn't the right place for somebody like me. A fish always out of water, flopping and writhing and gasping for breath on dry land and getting castigated and criticized for being a water creature.

  But I'm a water creature. I always have been. What I need is a water planet.

  Dad, my fellow water creature, has learned to survive on dry land. Though he's found little use for his gentle gills, I guess he has developed a set of lungs so he can breathe, but only as necessary, the corrosive, toxic air of this world's ruthless expectations, and it doesn't destroy him. Maybe, somehow, he can teach me how to develop my own lungs.

  He pulls me into his arms and I cry against his shoulder, still silently. Making noise when I cry makes me feel even worse about myself, even more like a failure. If I can at least maintain a degree of stoicism about my shortcomings then I can retain a bit of dignity.

  He says, “I heard what she said, and honey, she's wrong. It's okay to be the way you are. You're like me, you're just like me, and I've done just fine in life. And you are doing great. I'm proud of you, proud of your beautiful piano playing and all you've accomplished. Please don't let her make you feel bad about yourself. Don't let her make you feel bad about who you are. Please.”

  It's what he's always said to me, ever since I was little, enduring criticism from Mom for not wanting to go to some stupid kids' birthday party, or when I would came home, miserable, from my own birthday parties to which she'd invited twenty children who couldn't stand me. I can't remember a time when Mom was happy with me. Even when she gives me praise, it's qualified, conditional. There is always a caveat: If only you were more outgoing. If only you were more extroverted. Your lot in life—and my love for you—depends on you changing your personality.

  As much as I love Nikesha Sloane and her music, even she sends me, however inadvertently, the same message that you have to be outgoing and expansive to succeed, even in music. But unlike Mom, Nikesha infuses me with a sense of possibilities for what a talented person can do. Surely, if I lack only the one thing... surely, if there's just this one hurdle I must overcome...

  But when Mom rips into me, I feel all is lost and to even try is hopeless, pointless. Why bother?

  I cry harder but still manage to stay silent. I don't want Dad to feel bad. It comforts me that he loves and accepts me for who I am.

  But he's not good enough in Mom's eyes, either. And he, too, has suffered because of his shyness. He has the perfect job for a shy guy. He's a computer nerd, a technical person, brilliant at what he does. But he's so shy, he can't play classical guitar for anyone outside family. And I have seen the pain on his face when Mom confronts him with his shortcomings, just the way I'm sure he sees the pain on mine when she does it to me. If only Dad and I could emigrate to our water world and live with people who are like us, a world where our gentle qualities would be assets, not liabilities.

  If only. If only.

  If I only dream, I can never do.

  I have to live in this w
orld, like it or not.

  “Thanks, Dad,” I manage to say. “I just couldn't do what she wanted, but then what's new? But I have to make my own choices. Being in a sorority would make me miserable.”

  “I know it would,” he soothes. “I would never have been in a fraternity for any amount of money. I couldn't have stood up to that kind of schedule, where you have to be always on, always socializing. It isn't the kind of thing I've ever wanted or needed. For me, it would be a burden.”

  Yes. A burden. He gets it. I nod against his shoulder. “I wish Mom could understand. For both of our sakes.”

  “I wish she could, too, honey,” Dad says.

  ###

  After Dad goes back into his study, I call Jake. I want to hang around him for a while. He always makes me feel better, even though I can't figure him out. Sometimes, in a strange way, it hurts to spend time with him. But there's something that keeps drawing us to each other. My senior year, we dated, and oh, my God, did we sizzle together. I still remember our heated kissing and necking, our almost-but-not-quite-doing-it sessions. We had it bad for each other. He made me absolutely weak-kneed with desire. Honestly, he still does. I seemed to have the same effect on him, too.

  But then, as the end of my senior year got closer and closer, he pulled away. I noticed that it happened around the time Boston Conservatory offered me the scholarship. He really thought I'd go. We had a talk about the future and he told me he really thought we needed to slow down, that I had a promising future and he didn't want to hold me back. During my senior year, he'd already been out of high school for one year, and he never showed any interest in going to college. He always told me college was a waste of time for someone like him, who knew exactly what he wanted to do—play bluegrass—and the only way he could be a bluegrass player was to get gigs and play shows.