Another Little Piece of My Heart Page 21

  “Claire, aren’t you coming?” my aunt yells a minute later.

  I swallow, crushing the paper in my grip. “No. I’m feeling sick. I think I scarfed down dinner too fast.”

  Once the house quiets—even my dad and Nikki went—I smooth out the rumpled paper and stare at it some more.

  Daylight is breaking, and I’m still here waiting

  Where did the time go?

  Have I been mistaken? Because inside I’m aching

  I feel like yesterday

  I can’t finish reading it because the paper blurs as my eyes fill with tears. I hug my pillow and bury my face in it. What does it mean? Anything? Or did he just think the lyrics fit the music, and I’m scouring for hidden secrets where none exist?

  God knows I’m in no state to interpret anything because I’m desperate to see what I want to see. And even if I was calm enough to thank Jared for his help and try to gauge his reaction, I can’t. I don’t have his phone number.

  Kristen then? She’d agonize over it for me. Ms. Top-Score-on-Her-AP-English-Exam excels at searching for symbolism and hidden meanings, especially if she can use her twisted form of psychoanalysis. Yet I’m reluctant to call her. Afraid she’ll tell me what I don’t want to hear.

  I lie on my bed for a while longer, my heart racing while the rest of me is frozen with indecision. My tears dry and the skin on my face stretches funny when I move.

  There’s nothing I can do, I remind myself. Nothing.

  Not unless I jump in my car and drive to Mike’s apartment, that is. But not only does that sound like the act of a crazy person, it seems like a good way to end up kicked in the stomach by reality. Until I know for sure that there’s no hidden meanings or suggestions behind what Jared wrote, I can have hope.

  Before my family returns, I crawl out of bed and shower. It’s not just the tear stains on my cheeks that need to go. I feel as if my emotional turmoil coats me like a layer of sweat, sticky and uncomfortable.

  I should have gone with everyone. I could use a tub of ice cream about now.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  I haven’t dared play “Forsaken” with Jared’s contribution, afraid it will turn me into a blob of depressed goo. All day Thursday I waited and hoped that he might stop by, but I waited in vain. That’s all I need to know. Jared treated it as an exercise, something to pass the time. There’s no hidden meaning or secret longing on his part.

  I tell myself I’m okay with this, which is such an obvious lie that I don’t know why I bother. Kristen would tell me it’s because if we lie to ourselves enough, we eventually start to believe it.

  I think Kristen makes up half the stuff she claims to know.

  So I spent yesterday and this morning polishing “That Girl” into something shiny. Something that I pray won’t embarrass me too much at the coffee shop tonight.

  Around six-thirty, I stand in front of the bedroom mirror, trying on and chucking off outfits until I find something that makes me feel confident. I settle on my most comfortable jeans, and a black and white raglan Vamp Dust T-shirt.

  For good luck, I add the charm bracelet I made from guitar picks I’ve collected over the years. One I obtained when Amy Ray tossed it into a crowd at an Indigo Girls concert. Another I snagged from the lead guitarist of Purple Waters.

  Incidentally, I stopped listening to Purple Waters once I learned that they were the ones who gave Jared his break.

  I put on my zebra-striped sneakers, and enough sparkles around my eyes to maybe distract people. Then I debate braiding my hair. Covering up my face would be a nice trick if I humiliate myself, but in the end I opt for braids. I don’t need my hair falling in my face while I’m singing. If I’m going to make a fool of myself, I might as well do it with my playing.

  Before I can even leave the room, however, the picks on my charm bracelet get tangled with my mom’s tennis bracelet. I try to separate them but the picks have woven themselves into the other bracelet in a way that seems to defy physics. The easiest way to sort this out is clear: unhook the tennis bracelet.

  So I do.

  And then I pause, as if waiting for some sign of cosmic disapproval. When none arrives, I realize I feel lighter, freer, and it finally strikes me how ridiculous it was to wear this bracelet every day since my mom gave it to me. She wore it a lot, but only when it matched her outfit. Why should I have thought she’d expect something different from me? We might have clashed frequently, but she never expected anything of me that she didn’t expect of herself.

  I run my thumb over the diamonds, remembering her telling me how she wanted me to have choices, chances and experiences so that when I made a decision, I’d know what I was doing. Sure, she screwed up sometimes, but so did I. That’s what happens when you make decisions, isn’t it?

  If don’t want Jared to dwell on the bad parts of the past, I shouldn’t, either. It’s time to let go.

  I separate the bracelets, but rather than leave the tennis bracelet behind, I immediately put it back on. It’s my choice this time. I don’t need to wear it, but I want to. For tonight, I want my mom with me as I dare try something new. She was always about the “new,” after all.

  I realize the bracelets are likely to get tangled up again, but that’s okay. One marks me as part of the family. The other is there, marking me as something other. I’m both, and they’re both little tangled up pieces of me. So screw it. The bracelets will just have to sort it out on their own and come to some kind of peace accord.

  In some ways, my experiment this evening is all about making peace with the world.

  Around seven, with tangled bracelets and the butterflies in my stomach producing babies, I’m ready to go.

  “Wait up!” Hannah hobbles out the front door after me. “We’re going over with you.”

  Repressing my frown, I pause on the porch steps as April flies outside after Hannah. Lisa shuts the door behind them.

  “You really don’t all need to come,” I mumble, shifting the guitar case strap on my shoulder.

  “Please,” Hannah says. “We’re going to be your cheering section.”

  Visions of them being the only ones clapping dance through my mind. Some of the butterflies in my stomach commit seppuku at the mere notion.

  We cross the street onto Ocean Boulevard, and keeping my free hand in my pocket is all I can do to hide how my fingers are twitching. You’d think I’d be over nerves by this point, but even when I played with the band, I’d get crazy before we went on stage. It was easier when Nate was around though. He was always crazy, so we’d feed on each other’s energy, working ourselves up like a couple kindergartners on a sugar high—spinning in circles, body-slamming, pretending we knew kung fu. Whatever it took to expel the nervous adrenaline.

  Once I’m on stage—or whatever passes for the stage tonight—I’ll be fine. But until then, the anxiety is killing me. Without Nate to keep me mentally and physically distracted, I feel like I’m going to shake myself into a thousand pieces. I’ll be nothing more than Claire dust littering the sidewalk.

  I take a couple deep breaths. The smell of the ocean is particularly strong tonight, reminiscent of the lazy days this summer when I got to do exactly what I wanted: sit on the rocks and stare into the waves. Lose myself in the earth’s very own rhythm. It’s also the same smell that was in the background when Jared told me I could handle playing solo. That makes it somewhat comforting, too.

  “By the way, Claire, don’t kill me.” Hannah sneaks a wary glance at me, and I stiffen. “But, uh, Mike called and wanted to get together so I had to tell him I couldn’t. Then he asked if Lisa was around, and so I told him she was going out, too. And then I had to explain we were both going to the coffee shop for open-mic night.”

  I swear I can feel the blood drain from my face. “He’s not coming, is he?”

 
Where Mike goes, Jared is almost sure to follow. And there is no way, no way in hell, I can do this if Jared is there. I don’t care how much he claims he wants to hear me. I can’t handle that much extra pressure.

  “He said he might stop by.” Hannah makes an apologetic face.

  No, no, no. I trip over my feet and barely keep moving forward. The coffee shop looms in front of us, but I’m considering turning back around.

  “Sorry,” Hannah says. “But I didn’t want to lie when he asked where I’d be.”

  I nod.

  Walk through the door, Claire. Come on, you can do this. And if not, nothing says you can’t change your mind and leave later.

  “Thanks,” I say to a guy who holds the door open. I try not to whack him with the guitar as I enter, and the inviting scent of coffee washes over me. It’s good, but I miss the ocean.

  “You playing tonight?” he asks.

  “Maybe.”

  “Cool. Good luck.”

  I manage a smile.

  The Bean Factory’s busy, but not overly so. Just over half the tables are occupied so far. Performances don’t start for another forty-five minutes.

  “We’ll take your guitar and grab a spot,” Hannah says. “Why don’t you go sign up?”

  Yeah, I guess I should if I’m not going home. I relinquish Jayna to Lisa’s care and head toward the counter.

  One of the guys who entered the shop in front of us has the clipboard with the list. He passes it to me when he’s done. Already eight people have added their names and a brief description of what they plan to perform. There’re two vocalists, a poet, two more guitarists, a saxophonist, one person who left that section of the page blank, and two people calling themselves a musical duo. I add my name.

  “You ever do this here?” the barista asks.

  “No.”

  “List of rules.” She points to a pile of paper on the counter.

  I read the list as I stand in line to order my coffee, then find the table and let the others go get their drinks. My large coffee looks huge. I’m going to need to pee before I perform. This was a bad idea.

  Every two minutes I twist around in my seat to check the clock behind the counter. Someone’s setting up the microphone in the far corner, and a couple of the staff are rearranging tables to create a makeshift stage. I keep one eye on the door, praying Mike—and most importantly, Jared—won’t show.

  The doors are practically propped open to accommodate the steady flow of customers, and someone brings out folding chairs to increase the seating. A cool, salty breeze blows through the shop. I barely hear the conversation at our table because of the noise.

  A couple minutes after eight, a tall guy with gray-speckled hair takes the mic and introduces himself as the owner, Liam. Then he goes over the rules, and thanks everyone for the turnout.

  “We have a good number of sign-ups tonight, and some names I haven’t seen before. So let’s get started.”

  I squeeze Jayna’s case as Liam calls up the first person. Still no Mike or Jared, but it’s getting hard to tell who’s here.

  The people who perform before me are a mix of okay and quite good. One of the female singers belts out a couple show tunes and dazzles everyone.

  “I know her,” Lisa whispers. “She’s a theater major. She was in my intro psych class last year.”

  I recognize the guy who signed up before me when he takes the stage. He’s covering a couple folk classics—Dylan and Joni Mitchell—but I barely notice his playing. My butterflies are having a rave.

  When the owner calls me up, I’m ready. Hannah, Lisa and April make encouraging noises as I worm my way to the mic, and I decide that maybe it’s nice to have them here after all.

  “Let me give you a hand,” Liam says, lowering the mic for me. “That good?”

  “Great, thanks.” There’s a stool in front of the mic, but I’m used to performing standing up so I move it out of the way.

  I clear my throat and realize I should have tuned Jayna before I got up here. Nothing like doing it while everyone’s staring. And holy crap, there’s a lot of people staring. From where I’d been sitting I’d thought the place was busy, but I hadn’t realized how packed it truly is.

  That actually settles my stomach a bit. With so many people around, it’s impossible to make eye contact.

  So time to turn on the charm. I do my best to channel Nate. “Hey, I’m Claire, and this is my first time here.”

  Hannah lets out a “whoop.”

  “And that’s my cousin, Hannah, in case you’re wondering.” I point to our table, and Hannah slumps in her chair when everyone turns her way. A few people snicker.

  “So, until recently, I played in band called Stabbing Shakespeare.” The name gets only a couple twitters from the audience. Obviously, I’m not in high school anymore. “We actually weren’t named that after our profound hatred for Hamlet, although it helped. It actually stemmed from my loathing for Romeo and Juliet.

  “See, most people think of Romeo and Juliet as this great but tragic love story. But actually, Romeo and Juliet is the story of a couple dumb teenagers so caught up in an unhealthy, obsessive love that they lose sight of everything else. And having been a dumb teenager in love, people assumed my relationship was just as crazy. I mean, it was and it wasn’t. But I did have an ex who wrote more than one unflattering song about me. So this is the song I wrote about the experience. Bear with me because this is the first time I’m performing it solo.”

  It feels weird to play “Romeo Must Die” without the band even though I’ve been practicing my new arrangement for the past few days. By the time I hit the second verse, however, my butterflies are all but gone, and though the song’s less peppy without the band’s energy, I put all I’ve got into it. My adrenaline drives the beat, pushing the song forward faster than I intend. But it works, making up for the lack of a bass line and drums. Meanwhile, I’m squeezing the guitar neck so tightly my hand’s going to cramp, and if I were playing this on my electric like I’m used to, I’d be pressing the strings to the wood. Still, it doesn’t sound bad. When I finish, I see people nodding and shaking along to the beat in their seats. A second adrenaline rush shudders through me. I grin through the applause and actually laugh when I hear Hannah holler.

  “Thank you. All right, I have one more song I’m going to play. This one is so brand-new that I only wrote it a couple days ago, and I’ve never performed it before...”

  My gaze sweeps across the room as I speak, and that’s when I see Mike. He sits next to Lisa, sharing her chair. I freeze, and my brain empties of all coherent thoughts as I search the shadowed faces around him.

  No Jared.

  I count heads. Squint at the surrounding tables.

  No Jared.

  Breathe.

  Where was I? “Um, yeah. New song. Let’s hope I don’t forget it like I’m forgetting what I’m saying, you know? It’s called ‘That Girl.’”

  I have to focus. Forget Jared; by some miracle he’s not here. Just position fingers, don’t look at the table, and breathe for real this time. I close my eyes and play:

  I’m not that girl

  Why do you make me shout it to the world?

  When are you gonna see?

  I’m not the one locked in your memory

  So do me a favor and set her free

  You carry the past always in your mind

  Since the day we met, she’s never been far behind

  I’m not asking for much, just the chance to breathe

  But you won’t let her leave

  Random thoughts run through my head: I should have invited Beth since she’s the one who inspired this song. Don’t look at Hannah; she’ll make you laugh. My mouth is dry. Should have brought water up here with me.

  I like the random t
houghts. They mean I’m in my groove. If I was stressing, I’d be concentrating so hard on playing that I’d screw up.

  I’m not that girl

  Why do you make me shout it to the world?

  When are you gonna see?

  I’m not the one locked in your memory

  So do me a favor and let me be

  Me

  I stand before you now, but all you see is then

  She’s a shadow, a glance, a hint of when

  You won’t see me, but you don’t look away

  For her crimes, I must pay

  Shifting my stance to keep loose, I drop my gaze down to the counter that runs along my left. The barista is swaying to the rhythm as she stands in front of the espresso machine, and Jared is chewing his lip as he watches me.

  Jared. Watching me.

  My whole body stutters. It’s as though every muscle twitches, my brain flickers on and off, and my words crumble into a meaningless jumble of sounds in my mouth.

  Jared. Watching. Me.

  For a horrifying second I’m living every performer’s nightmare. I can’t remember my song, no chords, no lyrics. Jayna feels as awkward in my arms as the first time I held a guitar.

  I don’t know how I recover. Inside, I’m not sure I do. But I feel my fingers catch the strings, and the words reform and spill from my lips.

  I’m not that girl

  Why do you make me shout it to the world?

  When are you gonna see?

  I’m not the one locked in your memory

  I’m not the one, oh no, not me

  So why can’t I make you see?

  That girl is gone

  This girl is here

  That girl’s a ghost

  This girl is near

  That girl hurt you

  This girl hurts too

  This girl’s sorry for what she did to you