The Lonely Hearts Club (28 page)

“Do you think it’s a good idea to mess with what’s been working for me?” she asks. “Part of me wants to do something new, now that I don’t have to do what Alan always wants me to do, but part of me thinks that’s crazy. Why mess with a good formula?”

I’m not sure how to respond. What I wanted to say—what was on the tip of my tongue—was this: Because it’s a formula. Because it’s disposable pop. It has no heft, no meaning. It’s nothing. And you’re better than that. You’ve let them convince you that all you are is a mess of big blonde hair and some hip gyrations, but you’re more than that. You can sing. You can play. You can write. You’re better than what they’ve made you.

But instead, I ask, “What’s your gut telling you?”

“That this apartment ain’t cheap,” she says and laughs.

“What if you downsize?” I say.

“It’s not just me,” she says. “I support my whole family back home. Extended family, too, all the way out to cousins thrice removed. Without me, they’d have nothing. They can barely make ends meet even with my financial support.”

“Then you stick with what’s working,” I say.

“But that’s the thing,” Amber says. “I don’t want to anymore. I want to do something different.”

“I have an idea,” I say. “Why don’t you do both? Let’s record both—our version with my sound engineer and their version with your sound engineer. We let the one you like better drop first, and if it doesn’t catch on, we have the other one to fall back on.”

“That’s not a bad idea,” Amber says. “Sort of like insurance.”

“Exactly,” I say.

“Thanks, Jo,” Amber says. “I really appreciate the help.”

“No problem,” I say. “Now, should we get to writing your next big hit?”

“Definitely,” she says.

So we do.

50 - Sympathy for the Devil

“When it’s true love, you just know,” Jesse says. And there it is. True love. “Yeah, man, you just know.”

I can’t believe what I’m hearing, but there’s Jesse, live on MTV, telling a seventeen-year-old VJ that he has found true love. He proceeds to tell the VJ, a pretentious poser loser wearing an oxford shirt with a collared polo shirt over it, how he met Cassie, his true love, because he was arranging for me to sing onstage with her band.

“Your ex, huh?” the VJ says, making a self-conscious grimace before continuing: “Does she sing as well as Cassie?”

The crowd erupts into a round of ohs and ahs—
MTV poser loser VJ, you’re so bad
. He makes another grimace that is even more self-aware than the first and thrusts the mike into Jesse’s face.

“No one can sing as well as Cassie, man,” he says sheepishly.

Bullshit
, I think as I turn the television off.
I can sing better than Cassie
.

I call the studio and book the next slot of time they’ve got free—Saturday morning. Then I call Amber and Chloe to see if they can meet me there. Having my newest friend and my oldest friend in the world there will give me some perspective. And hopefully motivate me to not waste another expensive session in the recording studio. Though I do have a bit of a nest egg going after selling “When Will Tomorrow Be” to Amber. She’s already recorded it, and it drops in four days. Which is perfect timing, since it turns out the only thing more expensive than renting an
apartment in Manhattan is furnishing an apartment in Manhattan. I’ll be needing that first royalty check when it comes.

The buzzer rings and I’ve forgotten that my parents were coming in to the city for lunch. I buzz them up and then set about straightening up the apartment. The nice thing about living in a tiny studio is that it doesn’t take very long to clean up. I can practically make the bed, wipe down the kitchen counter, and tidy the bathroom all at the same time.

My mother walks in and starts telling my father where to put stuff. She has a bunch of my old vinyl records and a roll of double-sided tape. Before I have a chance to tell her that most of those records are collectors’ items, she’s creating a little vignette of vinyl on the wall. And I have to admit, it looks pretty kick-ass.

“Your music,” my father says. “Right there on the wall. Pretty clever, huh?”

“Yup,” I say.

“I thought you’d be more excited about it?”

“I’m having a little love-hate thing with my music right now,” I say. “It has nothing to do with the records. Though some of those were collectors’ items, you know.”

“I know,” my father says. “I thought the same thing, too, at first. But you wouldn’t want albums that weren’t great on the walls, would you?”

“Good point.”

“What’s the love-hate?”

“I’m afraid I’ve become the sort of person I hate most,” I say.

“Do I even want to know?” my father asks.

“A person who would sell out her music,” I explain. “Don’t get me wrong—you’re right. It feels good to do things on my own, to make my own money, make my own decisions. But I
guess I’m just questioning how I got here. I’m not sure I feel good about selling that song to Amber.”

“Was that the first song you ever wrote?” my father asks.

“No,” I say. “Of course it wasn’t. You know that.”

“And will it be your last?”

“No,” I say. “It won’t.”

“Then I don’t see what the problem is,” he says. “And I don’t see why selling a song makes you a sellout. It wasn’t the first song you ever wrote, and it won’t be the last. Anyway, the song was about Jesse, a man who was a tiny blip on the radar of your life. Who really cares about it?”

“I guess,” I say.

“And if selling that song enables you to do what you want to do—create more music—then it was the greatest thing in the world. Most people don’t get to do that.”

“You’re right,” I say. “I guess I just envisioned all of it going down so differently. I saw myself as a performer, not a person who writes things for other performers.”

“And you still may be,” he says. “Your path isn’t yet written. You’re still on it. But you made a really smart choice.”

“What if the song becomes a runaway hit and it would have been
my
runaway hit? What if that was my chance and I sold it?” I ask.

“Even if it becomes the biggest hit in the world, there’s no telling if it would have been the biggest hit in the world for you. But by selling it, you’ve guaranteed it was a success for you. It gave you the freedom to pursue your dream.”

“Thanks, Dad,” I say.

“I’m proud of you,” he says. “I don’t think that you’re a sellout at all.”

“Why isn’t anyone asking me what I think?” my mother asks. She puts down her hot-glue gun and regards both my father and me.

“Mom,” I ask, “do you think I’m a sellout because I sold that song to Amber?”

“No, honey,” she says. “I think you’re the most brilliant musician in the world. I beam proudly any time I watch you play. No matter who’s in the lineup, you’re always the best out of everyone. If it takes the world a little more time to figure that out, well, then you’ve made a really smart decision that ensures you can financially support yourself until it’s time for you to enter the big time. Brilliant. You’re just brilliant.”

“Thanks, Mom,” I say, and as much as I hate to admit it, I can feel myself blushing. She reaches out and gives me a big hug.

“My greatest hope for you,” my father says, “is that you can finally be comfortable in your own skin.”

“I’m trying to get there.”

Tears well up in my eyes and I start to cry. Finally. And this time, I don’t stop myself like I usually do. I don’t think about how crying makes me weak. I don’t think about how crying is manipulative. I don’t think about it at all. I just let go. I let myself cry and I let my mom and my dad hug me tight. Because no matter who you are, sometimes you just need a hug from your parents.

After the tears, I feel so much better. It’s like I can breathe again, only I didn’t know I was holding my breath. I feel lighter, calmer, happier, like I don’t have anything to cry about at
all. I can’t believe how cathartic that cry was. I don’t know why I never allowed myself to do that. Why I thought it would be weak to give myself a little release every now and then. My mother passes me a tissue and I blow my nose and wipe my eyes. I splash some water onto my face, and I realize that even a tough girl can cry. And what’s more—I can already feel the lyrics to a new song forming in my head.

51 - See You Again

Blog comment from SantaFeSummers:

John, I know I messed up. I know it. I’m sorry.

Blog comment from royaltennenbaum:

We met on the line for Shake Shack. You were with a gaggle of girls. I was there with a gaggle of guys. But I saw you see me. Didn’t you?

Response from goodgollymissmolly:

Were you the one in the bright yellow sports jacket?

Response from royaltennenbaum:

Yes, and you were the one in the polka-dot dress. Meet me at Shake Shack again tonight?

Response from goodgollymissmolly:

7
P.M
.

52 - We Gotta Get Out of This Place

“You didn’t have to move out, you know,” Chloe says, as she looks around my new digs. Since the whole place is sort of tiny, it doesn’t take that long to give her the grand tour. You just sort of stand at the front door and point: bed, couch, kitchen, bathroom.

“Yes, I did,” I say. “But thank you for letting me stay with you. Even after you came back from California. I appreciate it so much.”

The truth is, I loved staying with Chloe. Even when she got back from California and things were cramped, to say the least, it was great having my best friend around. To get to know the minutia of her every day. Sure, we call, text, and e-mail all day long, but there’s something about living with someone, sharing a space, that lets you get to know them even more intimately.

“You could have stayed,” Chloe says.

“No, I needed to move out,” I say. “It was time for me to stand on my own feet. My dad was right.”

“Admitting your father was right?” Chloe asks. “It’s like you’re growing up right before my very eyes!”

“Oh, stop it,” I say. But I secretly like being teased by Chloe. Having our relationship strained, even though only for a few weeks, was hard. I don’t want that to ever happen again. Ever.

“I wasn’t kicking you out,” she says.

“You were just avoiding me,” I say, with a sly little smile on my lips. It’s okay to tease her back, isn’t it? If I have to deal with watching her date my big brother, the least I can do is tease her mercilessly every now and then.

“But I didn’t kick you out,” she says. “I want that on the record.”

“Noted,” I say.

“Good,” she says. “And you can come back anytime you want, you know. You can keep that set of keys. Just in case.”

I had that set of keys before I moved in—it was the emergency set she kept at my place—but I don’t say that. I get what she’s trying to say to me. And it’s good to have the option. Good to know Chloe’s always got my back, no matter what.

“I don’t want to be around when my brother comes over,” I think but don’t say. Or rather, don’t mean to say but blurt out. I see the expression on Chloe’s face, so I say more gently, “How are things going with you two?”

Chloe smiles uncontrollably, and I have my answer. I can see it on her face. She’s happy. She’s really happy with Andrew.

It’s a look I’ve seen before—it’s how she was with Billy. That relationship may have ended in tragedy, but falling in love is always a good thing. And Chloe is, without question, in love. I’m happy Chloe is able to fall in love again. I didn’t know if she ever could. If she ever would.

“Things are okay, I guess,” Chloe says, trying for nonchalant, but her bright eyes and smile betray her. “It’s whatever, you know.”

“Yeah, whatever,” I say.

“These records are very cool,” Chloe says, looking at the collection my mother created on the wall. “That was a great idea to hang them on the wall like this.”

“It was my mother’s idea,” I say.

“I had a feeling,” she says. “You’re not the type to damage a record.”

“They’re more than just records,” I say. “They’re history.”