Shy (5 page)

The knock comes again and I hear a guy's voice, brimming with enthusiasm. “Hello in there! Whoever you are, you sound absolutely amazing. Keep it up!”

Oh, my God. I feel myself flush. I don't want to open the door. My hands are shaking so bad. But another part of me wants to open the door and look on the face of the very first person in this world to hear not only a piano piece I've composed but also me singing along with it—and singing with confidence, pouring my heart and soul into it and forgetting to feel shy.

Do it
, I tell myself.
Open the door. Quit being so afraid all the time
.

Would Nikesha Sloane open the door?

She would, beyond any shadow of a doubt.

Before I can ruminate any more, I jump off the bench and open the door. Standing in the doorway is the guy who talked to me last Friday before I went home to tell Mom I'd decided not to rush the sorority. But hell, I've forgotten his name. It's a cool name, I recall, but I just can't bring it to mind. He's looking at me with warmth in his eyes. I wonder how I must look to him, red-faced, embarrassed, not like a talented singer-songwriter and a lot more like a pathetically shy girl who can't accept a compliment.

“I'm sorry I interrupted,” he says. “I was just kind of blown away. Seeing it's you, though, I can't say I'm surprised. I've heard the kind of talent you have on the piano, and I'm not surprised to hear you have such a beautiful singing voice.” He pauses, looks at me more closely. “What song was that? I've never heard it before. It's intense. Fabulous.”

He thinks my music is intense and fabulous? I flush again, hardly able to believe this is happening to me. Excitement pulses up through my nervousness and loosens my stiff tongue. “It's my song. I mean, I wrote it. It's called ‘Invisible.’ I'm still working on it, really. It needs a third verse.”

His eyes widen. “You wrote that? I'm impressed. How much music have you written?”

I'm feeling embarrassed. “Not very much. Just that one, really, and a couple of others. They're all more or less in progress. I play classical music a whole lot, so I don't have a lot of extra time to write music.”

“Well, you need to write music more. You're incredibly talented. Classical music is great. I love it. I play it a lot myself. You do a great job with it, from what I heard last week. But with the way you can write music, you shouldn't be cooped up in this little practice room playing Chopin, Beethoven, and Bach. It's great that you're a music major, but you really need to be playing gigs, out and about, performing and playing and singing your own stuff.”

I feel bewildered, off balance, a bit overwhelmed, and oh, as though I could forget, blown away and flattered that someone likes my voice, someone likes my music. And I didn't even mean for him to hear it. But I just don't know what to say to all this.

“I'm sorry,” he says. “I don't mean to sound pushy or like I'm trying to tell you what to do with your life. But you're incredibly good. If you haven't thought about playing your music out somewhere, maybe you should. You might enjoy it.”

“So you really think I have a good voice?” I ask.

He stares as me as though I've inquired whether or not I possess a head and a torso. “You have a fabulous voice. Gorgeous. You mean, nobody has ever told you that?”

I shake my head. “Nobody has ever heard me sing.”

He keeps staring at me and his mouth falls open. I swear, it almost hits the floor. He doesn't move a muscle for a long moment. Then he says, slowly, “You are kidding.”

I shake my head again. “No. I really didn't think anyone would hear me here. I guess...” Well, crap. I came close to telling him I didn't want anyone to hear and that I'm scared to sing within earshot of anybody, but I don't want him to think I'm a neurotic nut.

He opens his mouth as though to say something, then seems to think better of it. I think he's as lost for words as I am. Then he says, “So you're saying that I, right here and now, am the first person to hear you sing? Ever? In your whole life?”

I guess it's inevitable that he think I'm a neurotic nut, since I am. I wish I hadn't confessed to it. But now it's too late. “Yeah.”

A warm smile spreads across his face, and he says, “Well, I'm deeply honored. I feel like I've been blessed.”

Huh? Flummoxed, I search his expression, wondering if he's making fun of me. But no. He isn't. Earnestness shines from his eyes. He means it. He really thinks I'm great—not just a great pianist, but a great singer and songwriter. I wonder how it was for Nikesha Sloane when she got her first compliment on her singing and songwriting. Of course, she probably got her first compliment on these things way before the age of eighteen because I bet there isn't a shy bone in her body. No, probably not even a shy mitochondria, judging by her confidence and the expressiveness of her performances.

I wish I could be like that.

Maybe there's hope. I've thought for so long it was a pipe dream, something that wasn't realistic for somebody like me. Besides, Mom would have kittens if I took myself off the classical path and decided to become a singer-songwriter. And heaven forbid that I not get a college degree. That's the thing about Jake she's given me the hardest time about since he graduated from high school, the fact that he didn't choose to go to college. Imagine if I followed the same path—left college and started gigging.

Yeah, like I could do that and not die of terror.

Thinking of Jake while standing with this guy in the practice room, I think about how strange it is that the first person to hear me sing would be a handsome stranger. Not Jake. For a long time, I've had daydreams and fantasies about what it would be like to sing for someone for the first time and have them love my voice and my songs. In those daydreams and fantasies, it was always Jake.

I wonder if Jake would be jealous about how this turned out. I know how much he's wanted to hear me sing. For years. He knows about how much I love Nikesha Sloane and how much I want to be like her, a free-spirited singer-songwriter whose songs touch people's hearts and minds and whose delivery wows them flat. I bet he would be jealous of what's happened here today, with this other guy. Maybe a bit sad. Thinking about it makes me sad, too. But I just couldn't overcome my shyness enough to sing with him around. The only reason I could do it in this guy's hearing was that I had no idea he was outside the room. Truly, I would rather Jake have heard me than a stranger.

But what an attractive stranger this guy is. I love his wavy, stylishly messy hair, the enthusiasm in his expression, his open, friendly personality, and the piercing intelligence in his eyes. His clothes look expensive. Not like Jake's. Jake pretty much lives in old blue jeans and well-washed shirts and work boots. This guy is dressed in a sleek-looking dark blue shirt and he's wearing spiffy tan slacks. His shoes look expensive, too—leather loafers.

“Thanks,” I tell him. “That's a kind thing to say.”

He shrugs. “Maybe so, but it's the truth. It's how I feel.”

I smile at him. I think it's the first time I've really smiled at him. I've been so shy and bewildered every second I've been in his presence, but now, I feel a warm smile overtaking my face, and I just stand there, grinning and glowing. And he continues to look at me with a warm and friendly expression, and is there something more than just friendly, an extra level of intensity in his eyes as he watches me?

“I'd love to hear one of your other songs,” he says softly.

Oh, no. “Well, I just have a couple that are in any shape to play, and...” I'd started to say
I can't sing
, not meaning that I'm not capable of singing but that, in my mind, I'm too shy to sing in front of other people, which is another meaning of
I can't sing
, but no less valid. But then I consider that he's just heard me sing, and it would seem really silly to refuse to sing when he's just heard me, but God help me, I don't think I can sing with him watching me.

“Do you want me to stand outside the door?” he asks.

“What?” I goggle at him.

“I'll stand outside the door if it would make you feel more comfortable.”

I've offended him. “Oh, no. That's a ridiculous thing for you to have to do.”

“It isn't ridiculous. I can tell you're...”

I brace myself for the hated, loathed, despised word
SHY
.

But it doesn't come. He goes on with, “...you're not used to singing in front of people, so why don't you do another song like you did your last one, with me outside? It might help.” He smiles. “My sister, Hetty, is a lot like you. Musically talented, but she has performance nerves. I understand performance nerves. It's no big deal. You just have to work up to it.”

Performance nerves. What a nicer—and less judgmental—term than
SHY
. I'm thoroughly warmed by his understanding. “Really?”

“Really. You can do it.” He flashes me a sweet, sexy smile, then says, “Start anytime, after I step outside. Just pretend I'm not there.”

“Pretend...” I intone. Pretend I'm Nikesha Sloane. I can do this. When the door shuts, I start noodling on my song “Glass Ceiling.” It's another dark, intense song I wrote about being—oh, the hated word again—
shy
. The song starts out with a singing intro, not a piano intro, but I play the intro on piano anyway. He won't know the difference. I'm psyching myself up. Got to do this. Got to. Got to.

The intro is soft, with light piano. Don't think about him out there. Nobody is there. It's early in the morning, and I'm alone. I open my mouth, and softly, oh-so-softly, I sing:

“She said I'd spend life on the outside

A vague face looking in, looking terse

Never a player on life's grand old stage

Never to chip in a verse...”

I don't sound good. My voice quavers. My tone sucks. I just can't forget he's out there. So I launch into the next part of the song, which is piano only, grinding, rolling, and aggressive. Lots of bass in the left hand. I play the rest of the song, too, with just piano. I try to sing when the verses come up, but my mouth no longer has any spit, and my throat feels plagued with phlegm.

Fuck. I'm hopeless.

I stop playing and want to cry.

He comes back in. I'd expected him to look pitying, sad, but he doesn't. He looks astounded. “What a kick ass song!” he exclaims. “So totally and completely bad ass. Such emotion.” He doesn't mention me hardly singing, or singing at first and sounding pathetic. “What's that one called?” He looks genuinely impressed.

You could knock me over with a feather.

“It's called ‘Glass Ceiling,’” I say. “I'm sorry I choked when I tried to sing it. I just got to feeling...” I was about to say the hated word
shy
, but then I remembered what he'd said. “A bad case of nerves.” It sounds better than
shy
. Shy has become a weapon used to gut me, gore me, slice my insides to ribbons in relentless, judgmental criticism. It walks hand in hand with
Not good enough, Never good enough, You'll fail at life
, and the subtext of all of it:
You're not worthy of love
.

“I'd love to hear you sing it sometime,” he says. “When you're ready.” Then he looks at his watch. “Shit. I'm late for class. I have to go, but I'll come by again. When would be a good time for you? I don't want to intrude on your practice, but I love listening to your playing.”

I'm genuinely honored, humbled, and grateful. He likes my stuff. And he doesn't feel sorry for me. “I'd like that. I'll be here tomorrow morning, same time. Say, around seven. These early sessions are really for me to play my own music, anyhow.” Well, I haven't, until today, come here early in the morning, but for this guy, I'll do it. Hey, why not?

“Well, that's incredibly fantastic,” he says, looking as though he just won the lottery.

He makes me feel a little better about being me.

“I'm sorry,” I say, “but I forgot your name. You told me the other day.”

“Granville Watts,” he says and holds out his hand to me.

“Yes, Granville.” I love that name. Before meeting him, I'd never heard it before. I take his hand and flush when his fingers gently hold mine as though he thinks they're precious. “I'm Frannie Forsythe.”

“Short for Frances?”

“No. Francesca.”

His gaze is warm as he regards me. “A truly beautiful name. It fits you.”

My flush deepens but he probably doesn't notice since he's turned toward the practice room door. Then he glances over his shoulder. “So. Tomorrow morning?”

“Yeah.”

And I realize that I absolutely can't wait.

Frannie is such a far cry from Rowan that I have to wonder if I'm in the same universe when I step into her practice room. She's different from most any other girl or woman I've ever been around, and I can't help but wonder if I'm in the same dimension which consensus seems to agree that we usually inhabit. It's as though, when I'm with Frannie, I go somewhere else. An otherworld inhabited by shy, gentle creatures who are self-effacing and who don't seem to be the same species as most of those who populate this loud, pushy world, most of them screaming
Look at me, look at me!
and
The universe revolves around me
.

Rowan has been grabbing the spotlight for herself with her amazing voice practically since before she could talk. Her mom told me that even as an infant, she sang without words. Doesn't surprise me. She loves to sing, and she loves for people to hear her. She had classical training as a child and as a teenager. Since then, she won a number of regional contests and came close to winning one of those singing star reality shows. She came back to Tennessee to gig and sing. For a while, she worked with my band as lead singer. But after a while, we had to kick her out.

It's a long story. She was our star, my lover, and the terror of our band, and because of her issues with drugs and her wild and sometimes destructive mood swings, it was either send her packing or let her wreck everything.

Not that we have a lot to wreck. We all love to play music, but our main thing is science. We're all science grad students who happen to have a hell of a bent for music.