“You havenothingto be jealous about, Angie.”
I’m sure she says that to reassure me.
“And I’m not saying this to stoke your ego.”
Okay, so maybe she isn’t.
Instead of the chaise, I look at the bun that puffs up from the top of her head like an atomic mushroom cloud.
“Someone once said that comparison was the thief of joy, and it truly is,” Lynn says, stroking the varnished wood of her piano. “Never compare yourself to anyone else in this life.”
Easier said than done.
“So, you wrote the lyrics to your song?”
“Yeah.”
She sits on the bench and begins playing a melody. “Let’s warm up first.”
We start the usual way: I hum a sound that sounds likemniamto soften my palate. The second exercise is a smooth, soft legatooo-osound, then a louderee, then staccato. The series of short, sharp notes pumps my diaphragm and heats my already flushed skin. At the end of the warm-up, energy crackles through me.
I chug down half a bottle of water, then pull the sheet music I wrote on from my bag and set it in front of Lynn. The soft but frenetic tempo kicks up my pulse. I ball my fingers into fists, then stretch my jaw wide and fit the verses to the notes, adding a deep hum to the bridge. My palate vibrates with the song, and blood rushes and gushes against my eardrums, drowning out my own voice. When I’m finished, sweat beads on my upper lip. I swipe it away with my tongue.
As Lynn’s fingers slide off the keys, I massage my corded neck and yawn to loosen my cramping jaw. I feel drained, like I’ve just finished a triathlon. I stretch my arms over my head, roll my shoulders, crack my fingers. I bet the dance studio’s ceiling is vibrating from my frenzied pulse.
“So?”
My voice coach shakes her head, and the colors around me smear together in a dark, gloppy mess.
She hates it.
I pick up my bottle of water with shaky fingers and lift it to my mouth again.
“The chorus soundsgreat.”
I assume the other pieces of the song must not sound all that great if she’s singled out the chorus. “But the rest isn’t as strong?”
“The rest is good. But do I think we can make it better? Yeah. I think we could even give Lady Antebellum a run for their money. Want to work on it?”
“Hell yeah, I want to work on it!”
Lynn laughs. We spend the next half hour piecing the verses in a different order, and then I sing everything from the top. When the last note peters out into a gentle, exhausted hum, clapping sounds from the doorway. Steffi’s eyes gleam with admiration. She steps into the room and lays her hands on her wife’s shoulders.
I feel like a mouse intruding on a private moment. But then Steffi puts her hand on my shoulder and connects me to them. “Angie,” she murmurs. “Angie. Angie. Angie. Lynn said you were working on something, but she failed to mention how incredible it was.”
I beam, because Steffi knew Mona, and Lynn is a seasoned musician, so their approval meanseverythingto me. I don’t even care that Mom thinks it’s crap.
13
Operation Inanimate Object
“What about this one?” Rae steps out of the changing room and twirls. The burgundy dress billows around her legs.
“Um… why didn’t I see that one?” Mel smooths out the pearl-gray fabric of the dress she’s modeling in front of the full-length mirror.
“I. Love. Yours. The color really makes your eyes pop.” Rae walks over to me to see the selection of dresses I plucked off the racks. “Ooh, leopard print. Nice.”
I grimace. The off-the-shoulder neckline drew me in, but I’m not sure about the print.
