“What?”
“I thought you hated country.”
“I don’t love it like you do.”
“You can sing it.”
“Well, Ican,” I admit. “I always sing nineties stuff with you.”
“But you cansaaaangit,” he drawls, making me roll my eyes.
I like music that’s notoriously hard to sing. A Skid Row power ballad tests my lungs like I’m being chased by a bear, but I like the challenge. Country’s easier for me than rock. It’s not my first love, but I can do it.
“That’s going on the list,” he says with finality.
“What? ‘Liza Jane’? Kids won’t know that song,” I argue.
“It’s Nashville. Humor me.”
“Go for it.” I shrug.
Fine by me. It’s his gig. He can play whatever he wants.
I was concerned about my lack of current music knowledge, but Sam says it’s a faith-based conditioning camp. They’re athletes. These kids are used to high-energy music in gyms and on fields to get pumped for competition, and we can work with that.
I toss out some typical church camp songs to see what he knows and narrow them down to what sounds good with just one guitar or a keyboard, then weed out any from his country set that aren’t appropriate. We just about have it as everyone wanders into their bedrooms for the night.
“You know what would make this so much easier, Smalls?” he says as he takes a picture of our notes with his phone.
“What?”
“If you’d play this gigwithme.” He pins me with blue-eyed innocence, like it’s the greatest idea ever and this is the very first time he’s thought of it.
Oh, I don’t think so.
My BS meter just did a fish flop. Jude buttered me up on the phone way more than a set list would require.
“Play? Playwhat? I can’t play any of these songs!” I squawk incredulously at him without an ounce of guilt.I helped, dang it! I did my part.
“I heard you playin’ Jace’s Fender. You ain’t foolin’ me.” He pouts his bottom lip out. “Just ride with me and help set up, keep me on pace, sing a little, fill in some rhythm. You know, just sort ofmanageme,” he says with puppy eyes and the sweet grin that melts females everywhere.
“Do NOT use that smile on me. That does not work on me.” I poke his chest. “This is my weekend off, and you’re …Sammy, you’rea lot. You’re trying to put my worn-out introverted soul through an extrovert-level nightmare with no buffer.”
“I promise I’ll be on my best behavior,” he pleads. “And this song right here”—he points to one on the list—“it’s three chords. THREE. You can play that.”
“No, I can’t!” I yelp.
“Yes, youcan. They’re the same chords in everything you like,” he teases.
Okay, that’s true, but still.
“Yeah, but I don’t know the strumming pattern, I’ve never attempted to play it, and my transitions are trash. I had, like, eight lessons seven years ago. My hands are the size of a toddler’s!” I’m desperate, begging him to listen to reason. “So are you driving there tonight, or do you want to crash on the couch? I can ask Mom.”
He ignores my subject change. I know better than to think he’ll let it go that easy.
“Okay, so, forget playin’, but we sing together all the time. You know some of these songs better than I do. Maybe just a little backup? Come on, Lu Lu, like the other night.”
“That was just for fun. I don’t know theactualbackground parts of these songs. I just sing whatever feels good in the moment. I’ve never done it for real. You didn’t give me any warning so I could practice. All I could do is jump in here and there—maybe add some harmony to fill it out.” An illegal grin spreads across his face. “No. Stop it,” I warn him.
