Crazy in Love (22 page)

“Oh, you’re no fun. You guessed too easily.”

“That’s because your red hair was giving off sparks. I
could see them between your fingers.”

“You nut! By the way, thank you for the rose,” I
said, suddenly shy. “That was very sweet of you.”

“Yeah, well, it was nothing.” Nick turned beet-red. “So,
anyway,” he went on, obviously anxious to change the
subject, “are you all set for tonight?’

“I sure hope so.”

“What’s the matter? You don’t sound very certain.”

“It’s Saul. He called last night and said he wouldn’t be
able to make it tonight.”

“What!”

“Don’t worry, I changed his mind. At least, I think I
did.” My eyes remained glued to the door of the Choral
Room, where other contestants had started trickling in. My heart jumped every time a male with dark hair or a guitar case or even a plaid flannel shirt walked in. None of them
was Saul, however.

“He wouldn’t back out on you at the last minute, would
he?”

“Not voluntarily. But don’t forget, a broken heart is a
powerful thing. Oh, look!” I cried all of a sudden. “It’s
him! He’s here!” I felt the way the French must have felt
when the American soldiers landed at Normandy during
World War II. “Saul! Saul! Over here!”

Once I saw that good old Saul had come through as promised, any traces of nervousness that had remained disappeared completely. The feeling of certain victory returned.

“Hi, Sallie. Hey, Nick.” Saul wandered over, his eyes vacant and his demeanor listless. I could tell his heart
wasn’t in this.

“Saul, aren’t you excited?” I exclaimed, trying desper
ately to muster up some enthusiasm. “This is the night
we’ve both been waiting for!”

“What? Oh, yeah.” My plan didn’t seem to be working.

“Well, I guess I’d better get back to work,” Nick said. “I
still have to check the mikes. Hey, good luck, you guys. I mean, break a leg. See you later.” He gave me a brotherly
pat on the back, then ran off to tend to his wires.

I decided to try a different tactic. “Saul,” I said
impatiently, “you’d better snap out of this. You promised
you’d give it your best shot tonight.” Actually, he’d
promised nothing of the sort, but I was willing to resort to
anything at that point. “As long as you’ve shown up, you
could at least look a little less pained.”

“I’m sorry, Sallie. I’ll be okay once we get onstage.
Here, I’ll even tune my guitar.” He took off his jacket and
threw it over a chair, then started to unlock his guitar case. With every one of his deliberate movements I found myself growing more and more fidgety. It was as if at the first competition we had shared our nervousness, but this time I
was doing the worrying for both of us.

Because Saul was too distraught to offer me any
consolation or support, I decided to ignore him and instead concentrate on what was going on around me. And what a
flurry of activity there was! As it grew closer to eight
o’clock, the Choral Room became jam-packed with eager
contestants, chattering away excitedly, with animated
movements and bright, shining eyes. This group was much more diverse than the one that had gathered together in my high school band room two weeks earlier. There were some kids who looked really young, and some who looked so old I could hardly believe they were still in high school. There
were black kids and Asian kids and preppie kids, and the
instruments they were warming up on ranged from simple folk guitars to tambourines and xylophones to shrieking
electric guitars with four-foot amplifiers.

And the clothes were so eclectic that I felt as if I were in the middle of a circus. I saw faded jeans and denim jackets,
dark blue suits and ties, silver lame hot pants and halters.
New York City’s high school kids were bursting with
creativity and energy, and this was their chance to play it out
to the fullest. I felt positively drab in my cautious little striped shirt and khaki pants. Still, I reminded myself, it
was the music that counted tonight, not the musicians. And
I remained confident that our song was top-notch.

The room was sizzling with electricity as Al appeared,
clapping his hands for attention. We all gathered around
him, anxious for things to get started.

“Good evening, kids, and welcome to the finals for the WROX Songwriting Contest. First of all, I’d like to extend
my congratulations to everyone in the room, since all of you are already winners. Everyone here has already won the first
level of the competition at their respective high schools. Now, tonight we’re going to be picking out the best songs
from the entire city. We’ll be awarding three prizes—first,
second, and third—plus five honorable mentions. Good
luck to each and every one of you.

“The format for tonight will be pretty much the same as
the first level of the competition. I’ll read through the list in
the order you’ll be appearing onstage, so please listen
carefully. I’ll be calling you by number, so remember the
number that’s been assigned to you.”

He turned to the clipboard he had been holding at his
side. “Okay. Number one is Wendy Greenberg and Jack
Simmons....”

There were forty entries in all. It was going to be a long
night. Saul and I were Number eight.

“Is that good or bad, do you think?” I whispered when
our names were read off the list.

“Pretty good, I’d say. Much better than being Number
forty. I don’t think anybody will be awake by then.”

“Actually, I’m surprised there are only forty songs entered in this thing. Considering how many high schools
there must be in New York City
...”

“Yes, but not every school had a competition, I’m sure.
You might find this hard to believe, Sallie, but not
everybody in the world dreams of becoming a songwriter.”

“You’re right,” I agreed. “I do tend to forget that.”

I was glad to see that Saul seemed to be returning to his
normal self once again. By that point I just wanted to get the
whole thing over with as quickly and as uneventfully as
possible. I’d gone beyond nervousness, beyond ex
citement ... into the realm of the numb. Just let it be
over soon, I pleaded silently.

The emcee for the evening was Rusty O’Shea again. Actually, I felt kind of sorry for him. I mean, what an awful way to spend your Saturday nights, hanging out at high
schools all over the city, listening to pint-sized hopefuls sing
their little hearts out. If I were Rusty O’Shea, a famous disc jockey, I decided, I’d much rather spend my Saturday nights running around town to chic clubs and fancy restaurants. Or
at least staying home with a loved one, watching television
. Anything other than standing on a stage,
making cute comments about people who were complete
strangers. But I guess entertainment is a funny business,
and you just have to get used to it.

Because of the layout of the school auditorium, we were
informed, the only way we could hear the other songs in the
competition was through a loudspeaker that was hanging in
one corner of the Choral Room. There would be no hanging around
in the wings this time around. So I settled back into a
wooden chair whose armrest was a little desk, prepared to
listen to our first seven competitors.

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, and welcome to
the finals of the WROX Songwriting Competition,” came
Rusty O’Shea’s distinctive voice from out of nowhere. I
must say, it really was like listening to the radio. I tried to relax, but I was tense as I waited to hear the other songs,
waited to see how our song would measure up against New
York’s finest.

“Because we have a long program scheduled for this
evening, let’s get going right away. Our first song for
tonight is by Wendy Greenberg and Jack Simmons of
Grover Cleveland High...
.”

While I’d planned to hang on to every note that poured
out of the loudspeaker, I found the next half hour blurring.
To this day, I have no recollection of any of the music that I
heard while I was waiting to go on. I guess I was really out
of it, probably because I was even more nervous than I
realized. Especially when I heard song Number seven being introduced.

“Well, Saul,” I gulped, “I guess we’re on next. This is
it.”

“Yup. Best of luck to you, buddy. I know we’re going to
knock ‘em dead.”

I felt as if I were in a dream as I followed Saul through
the Choral Room, out to the hall. I clung to my guitar as if I
were holding on for dear life. Foggy faces came and went,
but none of them registered in my brain. I just went through
the motions automatically, and the next thing I knew, Rusty
O’Shea was announcing my name into the microphone.

I heard loud applause, I saw wires and bright lights as I shuffled across the stage, squinting and clearing my throat. Time and space ceased to exist; all there was was a vague
awareness of Saul’s presence next to me as we took our
places in front of a microphone. And then, Saul’s clear,
confident voice cut through the din.

“Good evening, folks. My name is Saul, and this is my
partner and friend, Sallie. The song we’d like to sing for
you tonight is called ‘If That Someone Else Is You,’ and we hope you enjoy it as much as we’re going to enjoy singing it for you.” And he was off, strumming the familiar opening
chords of our song.

Somehow, my mouth opened, the words came out, my
fingers found the correct chords on my guitar. Without
knowing how, I was singing our song.

If someone leaves me waiting on the corner for an hour,

Or forgets she left the milk out of the fridge and it turns
sour,

Or forgets that it’s my birthday or forgets to leave the
key,

Or argues with the traffic cop when I’d rather let it be,

Then I start to feel

Maybe I was wrong;

That I’m spending too much time with her

And not enough with my simple songs.

Then I say

Maybe it should end.

But if that someone else is you—

Then it’s okay.

As I was singing, it occurred to me that our song was very pretty.  It was clever, too. It was as if I were hearing it for the first time, probably because I felt so removed from
the entire situation.

I like this song, I thought, as I raised my voice to blend
my harmony in with Saul’s husky rendition of the melody.
It’s a terrific song. And I started to smile as I went on
singing.

Then it was over, and there was thunderous applause.
Saul took my hand and we both bowed slightly, then exited
offstage as calmly as we had walked on less than three
minutes earlier.

“Is it over already?” I asked as I found myself back in
the Choral Room,

“Yes, I’m afraid so. Or maybe I should say, ‘Yes, thank goodness
!’”

“How did we do?” Somehow, I felt as if I’d missed the
whole thing.

“We did great. Just great.” Saul smiled at me and
squeezed my hand. A wave of relief and tremendous fatigue
swept over me, and my knees felt so weak that I returned to my creaky wooden chair.

The rest of the evening passed slowly. Song after song
assaulted my ears, some fast and loud, some soft and bland,
some with marked resemblances to other songs I knew well.
They all blended together into one long mass of music,
though, just as the first seven had. The only one that seemed
at all memorable was ours. At least, as far as I was
concerned.

Then, finally, I heard the invisible Rusty O’Shea an
nounce heartily, “Well, ladies and gentlemen, that about
wraps up our program for this evening. Let’s have a round of applause for all the contestants, since they all did a
tremendous job.”

I glanced over at Saul, who was draped across the
wooden chair next to mine. His face was drawn into a serious expression, and for the first time since we had
started the whole process of planning and composing and
competing, I realized that he wanted to win just as much as I did.

Rusty’s voice broke through the rapidly dying out
applause. “And now, judges, if you’re ready with your
decision
...”

The judges had been introduced already, right before the fifteen-minute intermission. There were three of them: a WROX deejay, an executive from the station, and a woman who was a talent scout for a record company. Once again, when I found out the identity of those who were sitting in judgment of my musical talent, I was glad that while I was performing
, all they were to me were pale, distant faces
in the crowd. Sometimes ignorance is the best policy.