Jesse's Girl
Page 66
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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.
“No, we haven’t met.”
He points at me. “I’ve seen you somewhere.”
Mom puts an arm around me. “You probably saw her on YouTube singing with Jesse Scott.”
Liam swallows. “I know that video. The one on the boat, right?”
“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.
“No, we haven’t met.”
He points at me. “I’ve seen you somewhere.”
Mom puts an arm around me. “You probably saw her on YouTube singing with Jesse Scott.”
Liam swallows. “I know that video. The one on the boat, right?”
