7
InSinkErating My Dream
On Fridays after school, I hang out with my vocal coach, who doubles as my piano teacher.
Mom found Lynn after I told her that if she didn’t sign me up for singing classes, I’d buy a Rottweiler with my allowance. My threat—which wasn’t a total bluff since I really did want a dog—worked. The day I turned thirteen, she took me to Lynn’s house for a singing lesson.
And then she signed me up for Lynn’s summer music camp, which was where I learned to dance—and I don’t mean the discombobulated swaying I used to perform in front of my mirror, clutching my hairbrush in lieu of a microphone.
Lynn had hired Steffi, one of Mona Stone’s backup dancers, to cover the dancing part of her camp. She’s the one who taught me how to use my muscles and absorb rhythm.
It was the best month of my life. It must also have been the best month of Lynn’s and Steffi’s lives since that’s how they met.
To this day, their wedding has remained one of my all-time favorite events. First, because Lynn and Steffi put on a show with stage lights, sparkling outfits, and fog machines. And second, because most of Steffi’s friends still worked for Mona Stone, so I got tons of gossip on my idol.
Lynn stops playing midnote. “DO-EE-DO, not DO-A-DO. You’re not concentrating, Angie.”
“Sorry.”
“From the top. And this time, relax your jaw and open your mouth wider. I want to see your tonsils.”
I open my mouth so wide my lips feel like elastics about to snap. Lynn nods in rhythm to the keys she presses, her head acting like a metronome. My lungs expand, and my throat clenches and unclenches as I release notes I wasn’t able to reach a year ago.
After the lesson, I take a seat on the bench next to Lynn and let my fingers trail over the keys in no particular sequence or rhythm. Once she deems me warmed up, she places sheet music in front of me.
“You mind if I play you something I wrote?” I ask.
“You wrote a song?”
I nod. “Mona Stone’s holding a songwriting competition.”
“Of course you heard about that.” Lynn is very aware of my obsession. Unlike Mom, she doesn’t condemn it.
“It could be my lucky break.”
Lynn shoots me a pained look.
I shrug. “I know, I know. Thousands of people are going to submit something, but a girl can dream, right?”
“Let’s hear it.” Lynn walks over to the window and sits on the edge of the teal chaise Steffi scored at a flea market. Momlovesthat sofa chair.
Inhaling a deep breath, I press my fingers against the piano keys and let my creation pour out of me. The melody starts out slow and quiet, but then quickens and turns louder, the beat pounding and churning, slicking the parlor in fluorescent pinks and yellows, brightening the very air. By the time the last note peters out, Lynn is no longer sitting on the chaise. She’s standing behind me, watching my fingers intently.
I pull my hands into my lap and wring them. “So? What do you think?”
Lynn bobs her head, as though the melody’s still playing out in her head. “It has atonof potential.”
I sit there dazed because Lynn doesn’t dole out compliments easily, but then reality knocks into me as hard as Ten’s Range Rover. “You’re not just saying that because you’re my music coach and you adore me?”
“I do love you to bits, but that right there”—she wags her finger at the piano—“made me proud to be your teacher.”
My eyes prickle.
“Let me hear the lyrics now,” she says, settling down on the bench next to me.
“Those still need work.”A lotof work.
“When’s the deadline?”
