I hear him let out a bunch of air. “I really thought they were going to come, and they didn’t.”
I slowly sit down on the concrete porch and rest my head against my knees. I just let him talk.
“Dad said they weren’t comfortable with coming to Vegas.” His voice catches, and he breathes hard again. “They said they wanted to come to my concert, but they called and said they couldn’t ’cause it was in Vegas and they didn’t understand why I’d agreed to sing in such a sinful town.”
“But, Jess, you’re touring all over the place. In nonsinful towns like Orlando. I mean, Disney is so not about sin.”
“That’s what you think,” he replies, laughing softly.
“Regardless of however you sinned in Disney World, which I don’t want to know about, your parents could have come to any of your other concerts, Jess.”
“Yeah.”
“They shouldn’t have abandoned you on Thanksgiving.”
“Yeah.”
“And I don’t think it’s fair that you’re willing to compromise and stop performing the music you love, and they can’t even meet you halfway.”
He goes quiet. Shit, did I overstep?
“I miss you, My,” he says softly.
Maybe I could get a plane ticket with the money I’ve saved; forget about the road trip to New York. “I can fly out. We could have Thanksgiving together tomorrow. Just tell me where you’ll be.”
“It’s okay. I’m heading to Chicago tomorrow, and my schedule there is too busy. But thanks—it means a lot.”
All I want is for him to feel happy. I would be heartbroken if my holiday was ruined. “I hope you got a real dinner. Turkey and dressing and the works.”
“Mark took me out for Tofurky.”
“Oh good God,” I mutter, which makes him laugh. “That’s a crime.”
“I knew you’d make me feel better, Maya Henry.”
I wrap an arm around my waist, trying to warm up. “Family’s not always blood. I have Dave, and you’ve got Mr. Logan.”
“But still.”
“I know,” I say quietly. I can’t imagine how complicated this is for him.
He pauses. “So how’re voice lessons with Holly going? She told me you’re getting better and better.”
Jesse and I chat for a long time, for so long it’s like he forgets about his jerkface parents. He’s cracking up on the other end of the line, asking me to put Casper on the phone so the cat can say if I’m not giving her enough attention or making her do lame-ass tricks.
When I get off the phone, tears well in my eyes. I can’t believe he made such an effort for his parents, and they didn’t show. My mom pokes her head out the screen door.
“It’s freezing out here, baby girl,” she says, rubbing her arms at the chill. I stand up, and she wraps me in a hug.
“I love you,” I tell her. It’s understood in our family, but we rarely say it out loud. Mom pulls back and stares.
“I love you too. What’s going on?” she asks, so I tell her about Jesse and his parents, and how I feel so bad for him.
After a few minutes of listening to me talk about Jesse, Mom takes a deep breath. “Baby, I’ve been wanting to talk to you about New York… I’m sorry your dad and I can’t help more with your trip, but I asked my boss if I could have some time off to go with you and Sam. My boss said I could, and I’d like to come, as long as it’s okay with you.”
“Of course!” I say and give her another huge hug. I am so lucky. I used to think trust means “never let you down,” but really, it’s about love. Family can’t always help fix a difficult situation, and everybody makes mistakes. We shouldn’t expect perfect. But we can hope that the people we love love us enough to try to make it right.
Jesse’s parents haven’t tried to make things right. I wish he could see that. He can’t give up music for them. He just can’t. And when he gets home from tour, I will make sure he knows that.
On the Road Again
The order of business: drop Casper off at Dr. Salter’s house, obtain doughnuts and coffee from Donut Palace, hit the road, stop at a hotel in Virginia, and arrive in Hoboken by Sunday evening so we can get a good night’s sleep before tryouts start on Monday at 8:00 a.m. sharp.
The odds I’ll make it through the semifinals aren’t good—the show will narrow five hundred contestants down to thirty. Sometimes people get kicked off before they’ve even had a chance to sing ten seconds. I’m gonna give it my all though. I will prove to myself, if not others, that I have talent.
Sam isn’t too thrilled Mom decided to come, because we have to squeeze into his truck, and when you’re as big as my brother, you want room to spread out. It doesn’t matter how small I am. With me sitting in the middle of the bench, he keeps elbowing me, and I keep elbowing him, and Mom keeps telling us not to fight.
“Let’s go through your songs,” Mom suggests. “What are you gonna sing for your first audition?”
“‘Another One Bites the Dust.’ Doing Queen songs worked on my audition tape, so I figure it might work again.”
“And what will you sing after that?” Mom asks.
“You mean if I even make it past the first round? You know they make tons of cuts the first day.”
“You need to have another song prepared.”
“I do, I do.” I take a deep breath. I’m happy Mom is so encouraging, but I’m still only one of five hundred. “I’m thinking ‘When Doves Cry’ by Prince, though I’ve also been working on a P!nk song so I can show I can sing more than just eighties music. Jesse’s voice coach has taught me a lot.”
At the mention of Jesse, my brother lets out a long sigh. He knows how happy Jesse makes me, but he has to sigh because that’s what annoying older brothers do.
For the next half hour, I practice “When Doves Cry” and “Who Knew” over and over, my mom talking about the strengths of each as a potential second song. My poor brother is wincing, because I’m singing in his ear while he’s trying to drive.
“We should’ve flown to New York,” Sam grumbles. “I feel like I’ve been driving for years.”
“Sam, we haven’t even made it to Knoxville yet,” I say.
“I’m so excited!” Mom exclaims, waving her hands.
“I know! I can’t wait to perform in Radio City,” I say. It’s going to be way different from playing at those tiny metal clubs in Nashville. I’ve never felt such a high, but getting past the semis won’t be easy.
At about noon, we stop at a rest stop in Bristol, Tennessee, and Mom calls Dad to check in. Sam digs around in the coolers and pulls bread, roast beef, cheese, mustard, and mayo out so we can make sandwiches. He lays the spread out on a picnic table, and he dives in. He makes himself a double roast beef sandwich with three pieces of bread. Brothers sure do eat a lot.
Mom makes me a normal-sized sandwich, but I’m too nervous to eat it. Plus Sam forgot to buy pickles, and who can eat a sandwich without them?
“So what do you think will happen during the first day of semis?” Sam asks me as I strum my guitar.
I give him a look. “Uh, were you not paying any attention when I made you watch all those YouTube clips?”
“They change the rules, like, every season. It’s impossible to keep up with it all.”
Mom pulls the envelope from Wannabe Rocker out of my bag and reads the paperwork. “Apparently, the first thing that happens on Monday is the four judges are announced. Then everyone gets to perform.”
“If a judge doesn’t like you,” I say, “he can push a button, and the lights will go off on one third of the stage. If a second judge doesn’t like you, the lights go out on the other side of the stage. And if a third judge decides you suck, he pushes a button, and the entire stage goes dark.”
“So to move forward, at least two judges have to like you?” Sam asks.
??
?Right.”
“Who were the judges last year?”
“Um,” I pause. “Last year it was Jewel, Steven Tyler from Aerosmith, Slash from Guns, and, uh, Sheryl Crow.”
“Is that who it is this year?” Sam asks.
“It usually changes,” I reply. “I heard a rumor that Jon Bon Jovi might be one, but I don’t know. They haven’t announced the judges yet. Jesse mentioned his manager wanted him to judge, but he’s not,” I say.
We stay overnight at a Motel 6 in Virginia. Mom and I share a double bed, and Sam sprawls out on the other. In the morning, we binge eat at the continental breakfast so we won’t have to buy a big lunch. It takes us about two hours to reach the Washington, DC, suburbs, and as we get closer and closer to the city, I can’t stop staring out the window, because cars keep getting fancier and fancier.
“Holy crap,” I blurt. “That’s a Jaguar XK! And that’s a freaking Mercedes AMG!”
Sam keeps elbowing me when I lean across him to get a better look.
On the New Jersey turnpike, nobody signals when changing lanes, and it seems everyone drives twenty miles over the speed limit. This is my kind of road. Sam loves it as much as I do, grinning as he speeds to keep up with traffic.
“Slow down, Sam!” Mom cries, covering her eyes, and I pat her knee.
Then I see it.
The city.
I smile at the bridges in the distance and the twinkling lights and the skyscrapers. We find our exit, and Sam says, “I need more cash. There’s another toll.”
“I don’t understand why we have to pay to drive on the interstate,” I say, rooting through my bag for more money. “I wish I’d known we’d have to pay all these tolls. I would’ve taken out a loan.” Driving north is a lot more complicated than in the south, where we have wide-open roads and fields for miles and miles.
After sitting in traffic for the length of six songs—including “Bohemian Rhapsody,” which is, like, the longest song ever—we finally make it to Sam’s friend’s apartment in Hoboken, and not a moment too soon. I really thought my brother was about to throw my iPhone out the window if he had to hear one more Queen song. We circle the block a few times to find street parking, then climb a set of brick steps to a building that’s taller than most in Franklin. Inside, we take a staircase to the fourth floor, where we meet Sam’s friend Robert, and they immediately disappear out to a bar where they can catch up and my brother can recover from what he calls the road trip from Hades.
Mom collapses onto the couch and dozes. Not wanting to wake her, I take my phone into the bathroom and shut the door behind me as I sit down on the bathtub rim and push Jesse’s name to call him. He doesn’t have a show tonight, so he should be relaxing at the Four Seasons in Philly.
He picks up after one ring. “Hi, you.”
I love it when he says that.
Even though I have to get up early tomorrow morning, I talk to Jesse until late in the night. I started biting my fingernails the minute I rolled into New Jersey, but just hearing his calm, cool, country voice draws the nerves right out of me.
• • •
It’s 6:15 a.m., and I’m making myself a cup of coffee in Robert’s kitchen.
I’m wearing my itty-bitty black dress and some sparkly bangles. Mom pulled my hair up into a high ponytail. Total camp. I also put on my purple cowboy boots. They don’t really go with my outfit, and kids would laugh me out of school if I wore this back at Hundred Oaks, but they’re comfortable, and I hope they’ll be good luck.
I die laughing when I see how my brother’s dressed to support me: Sam is wearing a rainbow headband, a purple tracksuit, and high-tops. Given how stressed I am, he knows I need a laugh.
After we’ve eaten and pulled on our winter coats, we trudge up the slush-covered sidewalk to catch the train to Manhattan, carrying my electric Fender, sheet music, and my application. It takes us several minutes to figure out how to buy tickets and how much money to put on them. Then another minute to learn how to use the turnstiles. I’m trying to stay pumped for today’s audition, but I feel totally off my game here. We stand beside the tracks, waiting for the train to arrive. I stare down the dark tunnel.
“What if it doesn’t come?” I cry.
“It will,” Mom says soothingly.
“When? I can’t be late!”
Sam squeezes my shoulder.
Two minutes later, it comes, and I feel silly for freaking out.
On the train, I’m shivering like crazy, but not because it’s freezing outside. My brother throws an arm around me, and I lean my head back, close my eyes, and breathe in as much air as I can. The speeding train rocks back and forth on the tracks.
“You okay?” he whispers.
“So, so scared.”
He squeezes my shoulder. “Relax. Any time you feel nervous, just pretend you’re singing with Jesse on the Belle Carol, okay?”
I adjust my bangles and chew on my nails all the way to Herald Square, where we get off the train. Here, people walk super fast. Some people are sprinting through the subway station like they’re trying to get the last hot dog at the barbeque, but a few are going slow, taking their time. Everyone is dressed differently—glamour, goths, jeans and T-shirts, suits and ties, skaters. I bet it’s easy to fit in here, which is cool.
It takes a while to get out of the station, because there are so many signs to make sense of and people to squeeze past, but finally Mom, Sam, and I step out into the bright sunlight. The noise hits me first. Cars honking, music blaring, people talking, buses rumbling by. And the smell—I shouldn’t even try to describe it, but it’s a mix of chestnuts and car exhaust and fried foods. It’s weird, and I love it. I twirl around in a circle, smiling up at the soaring buildings.
Sam hails a cab and loads my guitar into the trunk. The three of us crowd into the backseat.
“Where to?” the cabbie asks. He’s wearing a beaded vest, like something out of the sixties.
“Radio City Music Hall,” Mom replies.
The cab pulls out into traffic, narrowly missing being hit by another cab. Our cabbie honks his horn. “What’re you doin’ at Radio City?” the driver asks. “It’s too early for a show.”
“I’m trying out for Wannabe Rocker,” I say.
“Huh. Never heard of it.”
The three of us exchange looks. Everybody I know in Tennessee watches it.
I put my palm against the window as we drive uptown. I’ve never seen so many billboards and flashing lights in my life. The cab meter’s little red numbers tick up, up, up, finally stopping at $8.10. The cab pulls over to the curb, and Sam pays the driver, then lifts my guitar out of the trunk.
Radio City signs stretch down the side of the super tall building; I crane my neck all the way back, trying to see the top.
Mom taps my shoulder and points at six stretch limos parked outside. “Could be the judges.”
I inhale and exhale and inhale and exhale, then step toward the building, carrying my guitar. I lead Mom and Sam inside the lavish red-and-gold foyer that yanks the breath right out of my chest. It’s so much grander than the Grand Ole Opry, which means it is grand grand.
Video cameras are everywhere, pointing at people in line and as they head inside the auditorium. Excited murmurs fill the foyer.
I get into line with a bunch of other musicians. Some people are part of a group, while others are solo artists. Some are carrying instruments, and others are probably vocals only. There is a lot of variety on this show.
I try to size everybody up. That super cute twentysomething guy probably sings music by Maroon 5. I bet that rocker chick does Fiona Apple and Alanis. There’s a band whose look reminds me of Green Day. The people scoping me out probably have me pegged as an eighties freak in a random pair of cowboy boots, which is true. But they don’t know I have other music in my arsenal. So who knows what’s up with the
rest of these contestants? Especially the man with an accordion. And the beautiful African American girl carrying a violin. I can’t wait to see her perform.
We inch forward in line until the lady at the registration table says, “Name?”
“Maya Henry,” I reply, and the lady gives me a bib to pin to my dress. The bib, which has a large red 156 on it, says my name and that I’m from Tennessee.
“The number is your seat assignment,” she says.
Mom has to help me fasten on the bib, because my hands won’t stop shaking and I keep sticking myself with the safety pin.
My family and I walk inside the auditorium, which looks nothing like my school’s.
Mom clutches my elbow. “Oh my God.”
“Wow,” Sam says.
Considering he played college football in huge, fancy stadiums, it means something when he is impressed. I tilt my head back to study the cavernous, circular, orange-and-red theater. Huge Wannabe Rocker banners hang around the auditorium.
That’s when it hits me.
I’m going to perform onstage in Radio City. I, Maya Henry, made it to the semifinals of a national singing contest!
I pass my guitar to Sam and skip down the aisle. I feel like I could pole-vault or sumo wrestle or lift a car off a person. I want to scream, to make my voice echo in this humongous auditorium.
Mom and I pose in front of the stage, laughing, as Sam snaps pictures with his phone. Cameramen are everywhere.
“Maya Henry,” a guy named Liam says, peering at my bib. He has a British accent.
“Liam Watson.” I read his bib. “From San Francisco. Never been there. What do you sing?”
Liam’s grin belongs on a poster in an orthodontist’s office. “Jazz. I’m on piano. You?”
“I do eighties tributes on guitar.”
“I can’t wait to hear them. Your accent is adorable.”
“I have an accent?” I ask.
Liam smiles. “Have we met before?” he asks me, grabbing my hand to kiss the back of it. This jazz boy is adorable, but I’m even more excited to be talking to another musician, and one who doesn’t think I’m selling out for doing eighties covers.