“She didn’t fuck up anything,” I say. “I just want to chat with her for a minute about music. Georgina mentioned you’re studying music at Berklee.”
“Yes,” she manages to say.
“I know a lot of people who graduated from there,” I say. “It’s a great music school.”
She nods.
I address the three men. “Will you boys excuse us for a few minutes?” I look at Alessandra. “That is, if you’ve got a couple minutes to spare?”
She looks like she’s going to throw up, but she says, “Of course. Great.”
“I’ll come back in a bit,” Fish says. He looks excited, like he’s thinking this could be a once in a lifetime opportunity for this girl, if only she plays her cards right.
“Okay,” she squeaks out.
“If you’re not here when I get back for some reason, I’ll find you.”
“Great,” she replies, but her red cheeks make it clear she’s inwardly freaking out.
When Fish and the other guys are gone, I lead Alessandra to a nearby bench in a quiet corner. Once we’re situated, I take a long swallow of my drink, finishing it off. I put the empty glass on the ground next to me, gaze for a long moment at the view, and then say calmly, “I’ve heard your demo, Alessandra. All three songs.” I look at her. “And you’ve got some work you need to do, if your dream is to make a living as a professional artist.”
She presses her lips together, her eyes wide, but says nothing.
“The good news? I like the quality and tone of your voice. I love your vocal control. Very impressive. I also think you’ve got a good sense of melody and how to build a song. But if you don’t figure out who you are as an artist—as aperson—then these next two years of time and tuition are going to be wasted, assuming you went to Berklee because you want to make music your career. As things stand now, I could get you work as a demo singer. Maybe even a backup singer. You could write songs for other artists. But if you want to be an artist in your own right, if you want to perform your songs and make a living doing that, then you’ve got a lot of work to do.”
She opens her mouth. But closes it. Her nostrils flare.
“Some of those vocal tics you do? Knock that shit off. That’s notyou, and you know it. You’re copying the artists you admire. Being a Lailaknockoff. Strip that bullshit off your vocals and tell the truth, whatever it is—good, bad, or ugly. If you get real, you’ll get confident, Alessandra. The two things go hand in hand. And then maybe you’ll smoke the proverbial joint of life when it’s offered to you. Or you’ll turn it down, if that’s truly what you want to do. But when you turn down the joint of life, don’t do it because you’re nineteen, and the legal age is twenty-one. For fuck’s sake, turn it down because you don’t want the fucking joint! Which is a perfectly valid thing, by the way, as long as it’s the truth.”
She’s clearly holding back tears.
“I’m talking about the joint as a metaphor, Alessandra. I’m not the bad guy in an after-school special.” I smile, but she’s not even close to being able to return the gesture. “Look, I’m trying to do you a favor here. You get that, right? You’re hiding behind your music, rather than revealing yourself through it. Fix that, and I think you could have a shot. But, as it is, until you get real, and get the confidence boost that will come from that, I can’t imagine you’d be able to command a coffee house full of people as an artist, let alone an entire stadium.”
She swallows hard, fighting to keep her emotions from seeping out her eyes. And I momentarily feel bad to see my words make her want to cry. But I’ve come too far to stop now. I’m helping this girl. Giving her the keys to the kingdom, actually. And I’m not going to stop now, without saying everything that needs to be said. The truth hurts. But it also sets you free. And this girl, most definitely needs to be set free.
“If I’m full of shit, then prove me wrong.” I point toward the house. “Go in there, grab one of the acoustic guitars onstage, and sing the shit out of one of your songs the way I’m telling you to do it. Beyou,not a Laila knockoff. Show me you canrevealyourself through your music, rather than hide behind it, and maybe today will turn out to be your lucky day.”
“I couldn’t possibly do that,” she whispers.
“I get that it’s an intimidating room. But so what? They’re just people. They were in your shoes once. Grab this opportunity I’m giving you. Get up there and knock me out. This is the chance of a lifetime. Grab it.”
She looks down at her hands and shakes her head.
“If you’re too nervous to play solo, then pull Fish onstage with you. He plays acoustic guitar and sings. You two could sing anythingtogether. ‘Hey, Jude’ or ‘Stand by Me,’ for all I care. All that matters to me is you have the balls to get up there and grab this shot I’m giving you. Show me you’ve got what it takes, Alessandra. Prove me wrong.”
I get up from the bench, praying she’ll follow suit—hoping she’ll rise, literally and figuratively, and square her slender shoulders and march her shy little ass straight inside and onto that stage and knock it out of the park with a performance she didn’t even know she had inside her.
But, no.
She’s crumbling before my eyes.
Her chin trembling and her eyes pricking with tears, she stammers, “Thank you for taking the time to explain all this to me.” Before lurching off the bench and sprinting away into the night.
“Alessandra,” I call out after her. But only half-heartedly. Shouting at her isn’t going to make her stop running away. And I’m certainly not going to physically chase her. If she’s intimidated by me, then hunting her down is the last thing I should do. Plus, fuck it. I’m not here to hand out participation trophies. I tried to help her, but some people can’t be helped. Yes, I was honest with her. But if she can’t handle honesty, then she can’t handle the music industry. And that’s a fucking fact. My heart pounding, I sit back down on the bench, grab my empty glass, and take an ice cube into my mouth. Fuck.
“Where’s Alessandra?” Fish says, appearing before me with two water bottles. He looks around. “Did she go inside?”
“Yeah, I think so,” I reply. “I’m not sure.”
