Jesse's Girl
Page 4
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“Jesse!” Dr. Salter and Mr. Logan blurt simultaneously.
What a jerk.
Wait. Did he say sexy?
Mr. Logan claps his hands together again. “Well, I think Maya seems fabulous. I’m okay with her shadowing Jesse next week as long as it’s okay with him.”
Silence engulfs the dressing room.
Jesse takes a long look at his uncle, then bites into his burger and talks with his mouth full. “Fine, she can shadow me.”
“I’ll see if I can work it into my schedule,” I say, then turn and walk out.
• • •
Against my better judgment, I decide to stick around for the concert, because I’ve never been to the Grand Ole Opry.
Performing here is every country music singer’s dream, and while I’m not into yodeling, I still respect the Opry. When I looked at Jesse Scott’s website, it said he’s already done ten concerts here. I guess that means he’s really somebody. Which I could’ve told you, considering his face is on every tweeny bopper magazine down at the Quick Pick and he’s at the top of the iTunes charts.
I stand in line for what seems like hours to buy myself a puffy pink cotton candy, then head inside the main concert hall. Heat from the crowd presses against my skin as I squeeze past shrieking girls and make my way down to the stage, which looks like an old red barn.
“Maya!” Dr. Salter calls out. “Over here.” He gestures for me to join him in the center of the first row. The best seat in the house.
I edge around another pack of squealing girls to meet my principal. “I was wondering where you went,” he says.
I hold up my cotton candy, offering him a piece. He pinches some off and pops it in his mouth. The other reason I didn’t leave early is because I’ve always liked Dr. Salter, and I don’t want to let him down. He tells funny jokes during the morning announcements and always takes a turn in the dunking booth during homecoming. It’s odd, though, seeing him in a Van Halen leather jacket and not his usual sweater vest and bow tie.
I point at the stage with my cotton candy. “We’ve got better seats than God, huh? From this close, Jesse oughta be able to see me not clapping for him.”
Dr. Salter gives me a stern look. “I’m sorry about my nephew… He’s not used to… He doesn’t meet a lot of new people.”
“I figured he meets people all the time.”
“There’s a difference between meeting people and actually speaking with them.”
The banshee convention I met backstage was something else, all right.
“I thought…” Dr. Salter pauses. “I thought that shadow day might be good for both of you. You can get some music advice from Jesse…and he needs a break and needs to spend time with somebody his age… It’s hard when everybody scrutinizes every single thing you do.”
As the lights go down, the band takes the stage, and the screaming crowd crescendos to just about the loudest noise I’ve ever heard. A spotlight bathes the stage in blinding white light. Smoke billows in the wings. Dr. Salter puts two fingers in his mouth and whistles.
Then the most beautiful guitar lick rings out, echoing in the concert hall.
The screaming stops, because everyone wants to hear that sound.
Jesse Scott steps into the spotlight with his cedar-colored vintage Gibson strapped around his neck. He plays a riff and brings his mouth to the microphone.
“How you doin’, Nashville?” Jesse yells into the microphone in a deep Southern drawl, tipping his beige cowboy hat before starting to play “Campfires,” this country pop song about hiking and fishing with his grandfather. “Gimme fireflies, gimme trout, gimme burning logs, hell—gimme a mosquito, but keep your damned electricity.”
The bass ripples through the concert hall and makes the floor vibrate, and my heart beats in time with the drums.
During the chorus, Jesse flips the guitar around to his back, grabs the mike with both hands, and gives the audience a full view of his great body. He’s wearing the tight black T-shirt that hugs his biceps and chest, bright red cowboy boots, and a belt buckle shaped like a skull. Hey, it matches the skull pajamas I wore to bed last night! I feel silly for a beat, because my inner monologue sounds just like that girl backstage: “I like ketchup too!”
I’ve never seen anyone play guitar like him. Jesse blisters through the solo, and he’s so into his music, it’s like the crowd isn’t even here. Meanwhile, the girl next to me is bawling like her face is a busted fire hydrant.
When the song is over, Jesse grabs the mike with one hand and says, “Thanks for coming out tonight, Nashville. I may travel all over the place, but I want my fans to know this is my one true home.”
What a jerk.
Wait. Did he say sexy?
Mr. Logan claps his hands together again. “Well, I think Maya seems fabulous. I’m okay with her shadowing Jesse next week as long as it’s okay with him.”
Silence engulfs the dressing room.
Jesse takes a long look at his uncle, then bites into his burger and talks with his mouth full. “Fine, she can shadow me.”
“I’ll see if I can work it into my schedule,” I say, then turn and walk out.
• • •
Against my better judgment, I decide to stick around for the concert, because I’ve never been to the Grand Ole Opry.
Performing here is every country music singer’s dream, and while I’m not into yodeling, I still respect the Opry. When I looked at Jesse Scott’s website, it said he’s already done ten concerts here. I guess that means he’s really somebody. Which I could’ve told you, considering his face is on every tweeny bopper magazine down at the Quick Pick and he’s at the top of the iTunes charts.
I stand in line for what seems like hours to buy myself a puffy pink cotton candy, then head inside the main concert hall. Heat from the crowd presses against my skin as I squeeze past shrieking girls and make my way down to the stage, which looks like an old red barn.
“Maya!” Dr. Salter calls out. “Over here.” He gestures for me to join him in the center of the first row. The best seat in the house.
I edge around another pack of squealing girls to meet my principal. “I was wondering where you went,” he says.
I hold up my cotton candy, offering him a piece. He pinches some off and pops it in his mouth. The other reason I didn’t leave early is because I’ve always liked Dr. Salter, and I don’t want to let him down. He tells funny jokes during the morning announcements and always takes a turn in the dunking booth during homecoming. It’s odd, though, seeing him in a Van Halen leather jacket and not his usual sweater vest and bow tie.
I point at the stage with my cotton candy. “We’ve got better seats than God, huh? From this close, Jesse oughta be able to see me not clapping for him.”
Dr. Salter gives me a stern look. “I’m sorry about my nephew… He’s not used to… He doesn’t meet a lot of new people.”
“I figured he meets people all the time.”
“There’s a difference between meeting people and actually speaking with them.”
The banshee convention I met backstage was something else, all right.
“I thought…” Dr. Salter pauses. “I thought that shadow day might be good for both of you. You can get some music advice from Jesse…and he needs a break and needs to spend time with somebody his age… It’s hard when everybody scrutinizes every single thing you do.”
As the lights go down, the band takes the stage, and the screaming crowd crescendos to just about the loudest noise I’ve ever heard. A spotlight bathes the stage in blinding white light. Smoke billows in the wings. Dr. Salter puts two fingers in his mouth and whistles.
Then the most beautiful guitar lick rings out, echoing in the concert hall.
The screaming stops, because everyone wants to hear that sound.
Jesse Scott steps into the spotlight with his cedar-colored vintage Gibson strapped around his neck. He plays a riff and brings his mouth to the microphone.
“How you doin’, Nashville?” Jesse yells into the microphone in a deep Southern drawl, tipping his beige cowboy hat before starting to play “Campfires,” this country pop song about hiking and fishing with his grandfather. “Gimme fireflies, gimme trout, gimme burning logs, hell—gimme a mosquito, but keep your damned electricity.”
The bass ripples through the concert hall and makes the floor vibrate, and my heart beats in time with the drums.
During the chorus, Jesse flips the guitar around to his back, grabs the mike with both hands, and gives the audience a full view of his great body. He’s wearing the tight black T-shirt that hugs his biceps and chest, bright red cowboy boots, and a belt buckle shaped like a skull. Hey, it matches the skull pajamas I wore to bed last night! I feel silly for a beat, because my inner monologue sounds just like that girl backstage: “I like ketchup too!”
I’ve never seen anyone play guitar like him. Jesse blisters through the solo, and he’s so into his music, it’s like the crowd isn’t even here. Meanwhile, the girl next to me is bawling like her face is a busted fire hydrant.
When the song is over, Jesse grabs the mike with one hand and says, “Thanks for coming out tonight, Nashville. I may travel all over the place, but I want my fans to know this is my one true home.”
