“From the top.” Lynn’s voice pops into my headset.
This is my fourth take, and I’m starting to sweat through my Mona Stone T-shirt. The piano music, which I recorded earlier, comes on again, and, heart bouncing around like a tennis ball, I snap open my mouth and start singing, and it’s okay until I reach the chorus. My neck and face grow hot from a blend of annoyance and humiliation. I may not have a huge audience, but I do have an audience: Steffi, Lynn, the sound engineer, and Mom.
Yep…Mom’s here.
Lynn phoned her yesterday, because Mom apparently had to sign a waiver form for me to record. I doubt it’s true, because I haven’t seen any form. Then again, I haven’t asked to see it, because neither do I want to put Lynn on the spot, nor do I want to appear ungrateful.
Lynn steps into the vocal booth and readjusts the height of the mic—as thoughthatwill fix my awry singing. “Forget she’s there.”
My lids pull up real high.
“I had Pete cut your mic. They can’t hear us.”
I look at Mom, who’s sitting beside Steffi on the brown leather chesterfield covered in Sharpie scribbles—autographs of all the artists who’ve recorded here.
“Did you know that vocal cords are actually folds that vibrate hundreds of times per second to create sound?” Lynn asks.
I frown. “Um. Yeah.”
“And that whispering is terrible for singers because it doesn’t require using our vocal folds, so if you only whispered, they could potentially atrophy?”
“Okay…” I hadn’t heard that, but I can see how it would be alarming.
“Another fun fact for you. A man in Missouri has a vocal range of ten octaves, while Mariah Carey can only sing in five. How astonishing must his voice be?”
“Pretty astonishing.”
“Now, forget she’s there. Close your eyes if you need to, but forget she’s there.”
I blink at her. Did she just spout out all those weird facts to distract me?
Lynn pats my shoulder, and that small gesture injects courage into my spine.
As she walks back out and the door shuts with a suckingwhoosh, I square my shoulders. Roll my neck. Stretch my jaw.
I think of the man with the extraordinary vocal range. Did he ever record a song? Washismother supportive?
The instrumental music clicks on.
I close my eyes, tap the beat out on my thigh, and then I sing. Soon, I’m fording through the chorus. Once. Twice. Three times. The piano begins to decrease in tempo and in volume. And then it fades completely. And I stand there a little dazed because no one interrupted me.
Slowly, I lift my lids and look at Lynn.
She shoots me a thumbs-up.
I am so disbelieving that I don’t lower the headset.
Steffi’s clapping, effusive as always. Although her appreciation meansa lot, I’m looking at Mom, I’m looking forherapproval. Which is torture… Will there ever come a day when I won’t yearn for it?
She sits rigidly, hands in her lap. She doesn’t clap. Doesn’t whistle. Doesn’t smile.
My short-lived exhilaration melts into a giant, grim puddle.
Finally, I take off the headset and hook it to the mic. On legs that feel leaden, I tread into the control room.
Mom’s studying the tiny silk knots between the white pearls of her lariat necklace.
Lynn grabs me in a quick hug. I plaster on a smile for her sake. I even manage to whisper a pitiful, “Thank you.”
