Star quality. I never would have dreamed I'd hear someone use that phrase in connection with me. “You really think so?”
“I know so.” He kisses my cheeks, then my forehead. He gazes into my eyes, and what I see there makes me feel that never, a day in my life, have I ever been Fucked-Up Frannie Forsythe, but rather that I've never been anything but gifted and filled with my own unique potential, that I can bring that gift into the world and express it in my own way, not according to what my mom thinks right, but in a way that works for me, and indeed, that I'm empowered to make it so, that there's never been anything wrong with me, and perhaps at this moment, I'm finally realizing it.
I just hope I can remember it after the post-performance high passes. I know a little bit of this feeling. When I've done well in a competition or a recital, I get a performance high and feel my confidence riding on a better keel. Then it passes. But it's habit, isn't it? I've played piano for competitions and recitals since I was a little kid, and despite my shyness, it became an ingrained habit long ago. If I do this regularly, singing with Granville and then perhaps singing in more public ways, it, too, could become habit. Despite my shyness, I could become consistently confident, consistently good, and consistently sure of myself. No more nerves. No more choking. No more freezing. No more what happened at the Old Grind yesterday.
Did that really happen yesterday? In light of today, it seems as though it happened a hundred years ago.
God, I hope I can hold onto this feeling.
“Granville, this has been the best day of my life,” I tell him. “Thank you.”
“I'm glad,” he says. “But it's you who made it possible, with your talent and your courage.”
He's touched me even more deeply. He understands what an act of courage it is for a very shy person like me to put herself out on the line, share what's in her heart, her passions, skills, and abilities, with other people.
So few people understand shyness. Many think those of us who are shy lack confidence in our abilities, making us frightened to share them or express them publicly. The truth is a lot more complex. Shyness isn't logical. I do have faith in my abilities, but my shyness, with its illogical, irrational nature, makes me fear sharing my gifts, even though I know they're good, and under my own psychological pressure, I psych myself out, leading to terrible episodes of messing up, choking, and freezing. It doesn't make sense, but shyness is like any other irrational fear. It's like a person who is irrationally terrified of insects throwing a bowl over a cricket in her living room, and then, in sheer terror, stacking a heavy dictionary on top of the bowl so the cricket can't escape. It's madness.
But it's a madness I've had all my life.
With warmth and kindness, though, with encouragement that never criticizes or judges, I see a light leading me out of the maze.
“You really understand a lot about what it's like to be shy,” I tell Granville. “But you aren't shy.”
“Growing up with Hetty taught me a lot. Shyness is a predisposition that a lot of people are born with. Like you, taking after your dad. Dispositions and personality types run in families. And there isn't anything wrong with being shy. The only problem with shyness is when there's something you want to do that involves getting up in front of people or putting yourself out there in a personal way. It takes more courage for a shy person to do that than it does for a person who isn't shy. Your courage is something to be proud of. Never let anyone tell you differently.”
My eyes fill with tears. “Thank you. It's so rare that someone really understands what it's like, being... shy.” Wow. I've realized something else. The word shy isn't hurting me so much. It's always been my worst insult, to hear someone call me shy. Now, it's as though we're talking about any other attribute or characteristic. Just a neutral thing, not a judgment on me for being hopelessly lacking or doomed to be a failure.
He opens his mouth as though to ask me something, then closes it again as though he'd thought better of it.
“What did you want to say?” I ask.
“Has your friend Jake ever given you a hard time over being shy?”
I shake my head. “Oh, no. Never. He's always been very kind to me about it. Like you, he doesn't have a shy bone in his body, but he's not as relaxed and outgoing with people as you are.”
“I got a weird feeling from him yesterday. He seemed like an angry sort of guy.”
“He can be kind of angsty. But he's never been mean to me.” I think about the passionate kiss we shared in his apartment yesterday, and despite feeling so close to Granville, I feel a quiver of longing deep inside for Jake. He confuses me, frustrates me, but he makes my bones feel like melted butter when he touches me.
I can't think about that now. There's a wonderful guy standing right here in front of me, and he isn't filled with tumult and conflict over whether or not he wants me in his life or whether or not he's good enough for me. I don't have to talk him into feeling good enough for me. And oh, the things we can share together! A comfortable, happy relationship filled with mutual interests, no angst over the differences in our family backgrounds.
I like that. I've never held it against Jake that our backgrounds are different. I kind of like it. But Jake doesn't like it, and he's spent years filled with turmoil over it. Maybe I'm ready for a relationship that's considerably more angst-free.
“I've never known anyone like you,” Granville says. “You're what I think of as an old soul. Someone who's wise beyond her years. I'm so glad we met.”
I nod. “Me, too.”
He leans in toward me. One of his hands cups the back of my head, and his other hand smooths my hair away from my face. He kisses my forehead, then he gently nudges my face up to where our gazes meet again. His eyes are filled with warmth and a simmering intensity. He moves closer and brushes my lips with his. Then he kisses me. Softly, gently, as though he's waiting for me to give a signal of approval that I want him to continue. And I do. I soften my lips under his and open them a little. He increases the pressure of his lips on mine, becomes more insistent, though still gentle, and we kiss more deeply, our lips moving together as though we were playing a duet. It's as if we understand each other's rhythm, each other's style, as if we've kissed before. It's hot, sexy, and comfortable all at the same time. The intensity builds for a beat, but then he feathers soft kisses on my cheeks and pulls back.
“I'm sorry about last night,” he says. “I never dreamed Rowan would show up.”
I nod. “It's okay. It isn't your fault. She does have an amazing voice. What, exactly, is her problem, anyway?”
“Not just one problem. Lots of them. She's addicted to prescription drugs, she drinks too much, and she was diagnosed bipolar when she was a senior in high school and got into trouble playing gigs around town. But even though she's addicted to prescription drugs, she won't take the medicine her doctor prescribes for her bipolar disorder. She claims she tried it for a while but says it made her unable to be creative with her singing. I don't know about that—maybe it's true—but she really ought to take her medicine because when she doesn't, she's a mess. She does anything and everything she can to be the center of everybody's attention. And when you showed up as my friend, I guess she thought she had to try to get my attention again.”
“Do you think she wants you back?”
He shook his head. “Not really. I think her ego got a blow when I split up with her, but she doesn't really love me. To her mind, everything is always about her. That's what bugs her about seeing me with you. You're just so different from her. She always wants to be the center of attention. You don't care one bit about being in the spotlight, and you have to be encouraged into it. But when you're in the spotlight, you shine like crazy, beyond anything Rowan could possibly imagine.”
“Do you really think so?” I ask, still unable to fathom I'm as good as he says I am.
“I know so.” He's looking at me tenderly, almost reverently. Again, I think of Jake, who has often looked at me like this.<
br />
Don't think of Jake.
“Thank you,” I say. “Your encouragement has worked wonders. I've never really gotten the kind of encouragement from anybody else that I've had from you. Mom has encouraged me in ways, sure, but she doesn't really believe in my ability to succeed at anything unless I change my personality. She's been at me all my life for being too shy. And Dad encourages me like crazy, but he's so cowed by Mom and their bad marriage. He's a great father, don't get me wrong, but the kind of encouragement and support you give me is just incredible. Maybe it's because you're close to my age. More of a peer. And you're also a wonderful example of how somebody can be talented and yet balanced.”
I'm thinking of Jake again, I have to admit. Incredible talent, yes. Stable and balanced? Reasonably so, sure. But not like Granville is. I must admit, stable and balanced feels good. Comforting. Relaxing. Especially in the sense of knowing exactly how he feels about me. No ambivalence. No pull closer, then push away.
Exciting? Maybe that, too.
“Well, you've got a friend in me.” He leans forward to kiss my cheeks, then my lips. “Maybe more than that, I think.”
“Maybe more,” I murmur in assent.
He moves back, looks into my eyes. “Do you want to stick around a while longer, and then meet my band when we all get together here in a little bit? And then maybe go to our gig tonight?”
I nod, feeling warm happiness expand throughout my chest. “Yes. I'd like that.”
Chapter Nineteen (Jake)
What's going on? I've been trying to call Wildflower since last night, but my calls keep going to her voice mail, and my texts are left unanswered. She must be pretty put out with me for how I left last night, but damn it, I couldn't help it. What the hell was I supposed to do, just smile from ear to ear and act all happy-slappy that this Granville guy got her a big karaoke machine? I guess she'll sing with him all the time, now, though I could never, ever get her to sing with me. I've known her since junior high, and I've tried so many things to help her, but it's never been enough. But she knows this guy for less than a month, and already, she's singing along with him and his damn machine.
I'm happy for her, in a way, because I love her. But it hurts because it shows me that I—and Mrs. Forsythe—have been right all along. I can't work magic on her. Not the magic she needs.
And I'm jealous of that rich prick, Granville. I wish I had that kind of big money to splurge on Wildflower. Get her things that would make her happy, encourage her, do these wonderful things for her. But of course I can't. Me and the rest of the Hickory Hollow Boys earn enough money to keep on gigging, but only just. This Granville guy seems rich from the word go. Probably was born with a silver spoon in his mouth. Probably up his ass, too.
Wildflower's probably pissed at me. But she's never done this, refused to take my calls or answer my texts. Granville probably has something to do with that, too.
I guess I deserve it. But it hurts like hell.
Has Mrs. Forsythe has met Granville yet? I'm sure she'll love him. Or already loves him.
I've got to get ready to practice with the guys. But I won't stop thinking about Wildflower, not for one minute.
Chapter Twenty (Frannie)
The Neutron Stars are at Granville's, and they're practicing, getting ready for their gig later tonight. Their music really resonates with me. It's awesome. They definitely have their own sound, and the first thing I'd think of, for the sake of comparison, would be the great progressive, art rock bands from the seventies, but with a modern spin.
I've met everyone in the band, and while I haven't sung or played since they've been here, I've been able to talk to them without feeling terribly awkward. When I need a break from talking, it doesn't matter. They're playing so much music, there doesn't need to be a lot of talking.
While Granville plays and sings, he hardly takes his eyes off me.
It feels good.
The Neutron Stars are Granville on piano, Sy on lead guitar, Karyn on bass, a guy named Ralph Ramsey on rhythm guitar, and a cool girl named Rochelle Knight on drums. Rochelle is one of the neatest people I've ever met. A total nerd, and so cute. She wears a derby hat like Charlie Chaplin. I was floored by how quickly she and I hit it off, and how my shyness was hardly a factor at all.
Granville has great friends. Already, they're becoming my friends, too.
I'm thinking he might ask me to join his band one of these days.
If he does, I might say yes. I want to be a solo act, a singer-songwriter, but playing with a band for a while would be a great way to really learn the ropes of performing and gigging.
What would Jake think? He'd be jealous, but he'd also be glad to see me on my way to becoming a performing musician. He knows it would be my dream come true, and he knows it would mean overcoming a huge obstacle. I won't dump my shyness overnight. I've set my sights on a challenging goal, given my personality. But I'm feeling encouraged, fortified, and more certain than I've ever been before that no, I don't have to be a shy loser like my mom thinks I'm doomed to be if I don't change. Mom might just be wrong about me. Wouldn't that be something.
Jake would be happy about that.
I'm surprised he hasn't tried to call or text. That's a good thing because of the Granville factor. He'd be happy I'm doing things that build my confidence, but he's jealous as hell of Granville. I saw his jealousy burning in his eyes last night.
Well, the music in here is plenty loud. I might not have heard my phone. While the Neutron Stars are jamming, I pull out my phone to check.
Good grief. It isn't even on.
Shit. Now, I remember. I turned it off last night because I wanted to sleep. I wondered if Jake or Granville, either one, might call or send a text, and I felt so tired and drained that I didn't want to have to worry about anything or anybody waking me up. So I turned it off. Trouble is, I usually don't turn it off. I did it last night only because I was flat overwhelmed from everything that had happened. It had been a roller-coaster day. And I forgot to turn it on again this morning. Just didn't think about it. My mind was on Granville and preparing for our day together.
When I turn on my phone, my eyes just about fall out of my head. There are fifteen text messages from Jake and six calls. He's tried to call and text me, all right. He probably figures I'm pissed off. He's probably hurt, too, because he thinks I'm ignoring him.
I need to call him.
He's probably practicing with his band around this time. They have a gig tonight, too. Maybe he wanted to ask me to come to his band's gig. He often does.
But I've already committed to going with the Neutron Stars tonight.
Well, it's okay. He'll just have to understand. I'm not pissed at him, at least not like he probably thinks. But I'm tired of being his rubber band girl. It takes two sides to maintain a good relationship. When Jake and I dated, he felt insecure about me and glared at other guys who gave me the eye. It worried me because he seemed to think our relationship was so fragile. And then he went and dumped me, of all ironies, because my mom psyched him out.
It still hurts to think about it.
Jake is tough and rugged, but when it comes to being free from insecurities, it seems Granville might be the stronger.
I glance at Granville, who's singing his heart out to one of his songs, backed up by his band. They're really jamming; it's quite a peppy number. Now would be a good time to go outside for a moment to call Jake back.
I stand, hold my phone up and raise my eyebrows, then point toward the front door. Granville nods as he sings.
I step outside his condo and pull Jake up from my contacts list. I tap the picture on my screen, a shot I took of him while he was playing with his band at the Down Beat. It's one of my favorite pictures of him because he looks so happy up there, rocking and rolling with his bluegrass band and riding on the sheer joy of his talent. I hear his phone ring, ring, ring, then it goes to his voice mail.
Damn.
I read his texts. In the first ones,
he's asking me if I'm mad at him, and if I am, to please forgive him. He mentions that he'll be playing with the Hickory Hollow Boys at Simmons House tonight. The later ones sound surly and sad, following the pattern I expected. I respond to the most recent one, in which he simply wrote, “Wildflower. Where are you?”
I reply with, “I turned my phone off last night and forgot to turn it on until just now. Sorry!”
Then I send another text. “I'm at Granville's. He introduced me to his band. I'm going to their gig tonight at Loving Spoonful.” I can't help but note the proximity of Loving Spoonful to Simmons House. They're both in downtown Knoxville, technically on the UT campus, on its entertainment strip. No doubt both gigs will be well attended.
I don't expect a reply right away, since my call had gone to his voice mail. But I get a reply. “OK.” That's all.
Ouch. But it's a pretty clear signpost. Today has been a great day. Granville and I have enjoyed every minute, and except for last night at the Old Grind, everything he and I have done together has resulted in me feeling more and more confident. And I'm feeling more excited about my future than I have in I-don't-know-when, though Mom would flip if I chucked my classical piano major for the life of a singer-songwriter.
At least if I tell Mom I'm going for the singer-songwriter life, she can't accuse me of being a shy loser. Seeking a life as a performing artist speaks of deciding to battle against my shyness and to refuse live my life in line with its limitations. Surely even Mom could admit I'm growing in an exciting new direction, no matter how accustomed she has become to seeing me solely through the lens of that one hated word: shy.
I go back into the condo and make my way to the living room, where Granville and his band have been jamming. They're quiet now. And they're looking at me. I feel on the spot, but the kindness in their eyes makes me feel a bit better, though I feel a strong urge to check the fly of my jeans.
“Hey,” Granville says softly, warmly. “Would you like to jam with us?”
While I was out, he moved another keyboard into the room. This one is a simple Yamaha digital piano. It's set up next to his Kawai.
Shy Page 13
