Crazy in Love (5 page)

Anyway, all of a sudden the disc jockey made this announcement that made my ears perk up like a dog’s. He said that the station, one of the largest in New York, was holding a songwriting contest for high school kids living in the city. All you had to do was call this number for more information. . . . I quickly wrote the telephone number
down on a scrap of paper. Two seconds later I was dialing it.

The woman who answered the phone sounded
bored, as if she had no idea about all the excitement the announce
ment was causing. She explained in a monotone that the
contest had two levels. First, one songwriter would be
selected from each competing high school in the city.
Second, out of those entrants, one would win the citywide
competition. Each person or group could only enter one
song. The prize was phenomenal: the best song would be
recorded by some still-unnamed but well-known rock
group.

I tried to keep the hysteria out of my voice as I gave the woman my name and address so she could send me an application. I was ecstatic! At last, opportunity had come
knocking at my door! And they say you can’t get rich and
famous just staying at home in your room.

I spent the next hour howling and squealing to my
family, on the telephone to Rachel, and to just about
everybody else I could think of to call. But then came the grim reality. None-of the songs I’d already written seemed good enough for this competition. I had to come up
with something that was so terrific, so
inspired,
that it
couldn’t lose. Not when the stakes were so high!

At the risk of sounding like a temperamental, complain
ing artist, I found that the next few days were hell.
Inspiration simply would not come. The only melodies that drifted into my mind were those that were already famous. I
tried listening to all my old records. I tried sitting in
complete silence. I even tried sitting in a room that was
completely silent and pitch black. It just wouldn’t come,
and I was rapidly becoming miserable.

So when my friend Sharon Burke called to invite me to a
party the following Friday night, I was relieved. It was a
welcome interruption, since it meant that for at least a few
hours, I could quit agonizing over chords and notes that
simply refused to fit together in any interesting way. As
is the case with just about everything that happens to me, I
called Rachel right after Sharon’s phone call to see if she
was going.

“Rach? It’s me. Guess who just called.”

“Don’t tell me. Sharon Burke.”

“Are you psychic or something?”

“No. You know how compulsive and organized Sharon is. I think she called all her friends in alphabetical order.”

“You going?”

“Nope. I can’t. Next weekend is a Jewish holiday. Yom
Kippur.”

I felt a slight twinge of panic. I’m so used to going everywhere with Rachel that sometimes I forget that I’m
quite capable of handling social obligations on my own. Especially since Sharon is not exactly a close friend. We
travel in different circles, and her parties are
always full of people I don’t know. I can find that either challenging or intimidating, depending upon my mood. I
must have been in a solitary mood, probably because I was
turning into a wild, crazed songwriter who was tearing her
hair out and never leaving her room and guitar except when
forced to by parents or the New York State Board of
Education.

“I’ll miss you,” I said. “You usually provide me with
moral support at Sharon’s parties.”

“You can handle it,” Rachel assured me. “Trust me.”

By Friday evening I was looking forward to the party. 
I enjoyed getting
ready to go out. Jenny was hanging around, watching me
enviously, which made me feel big sisterish and very
important. She’s a good kid, even when she’s not
feeding my ego by looking up to me.

“Where are you going tonight?” She had wandered into
my room and plopped down on the bed on her stomach, her
chin resting in her hands. “Got a hot date?”

“No. I’ve sworn off men, for a while. Remember?”  That horrible
afternoon with Dan Meyer left me with a
lingering case of the heebie-jeebies. I stood in front of my closet, trying to decide which blouse to wear with my powder-blue corduroy jeans. I was really into corduroy that
September.

“So where
are
you going?”

“To a party.”

“Who’s giving it? Anyone I know?”

“Jenny, do you like the blouse with the blue flowers, or
this one with the little trucks?”

“Trucks. Who’s giving it?”

“Sharon. Do you know her?”

She made a face. “Isn’t she the one with the squirrel
cheeks?”

“Jenny! Sharon happens to be pretty cool.”

“Maybe, but she reminds me of a squirrel.” She was
right. Sharon does look kind of like a
Walt Disney character.

“Are you sure about this shirt?” I asked her. “I think it
has too much purple in it.”

“Nope, it’s fine.  You’re being too critical. Blue and purple
look great together. Besides, you’re an artist, and you’re
supposed to dress weird. Your fans will be disappointed if
you don’t.”

“Hah! Fans? I can’t even write one stupid song for that
WROX contest.”

“Still no luck, huh?” Jenny sighed. I appreciated her
sympathy. For someone so young, she has a tremendous understanding of the trials and tribulations of pursuing art.
“Maybe you need a partner.”

“Surely you’re not offering . . .”

“No, not me. You know I’m tone-deaf. I mean someone
musical.”

“Easier said than done. I’ve been through all this
before.” I peered into the mirror to see if I’d put my tea
rose blush on right. It needed more blending. “Should I
wear combs tonight or go natural?”

“Let me see.” Jenny considered both options as I
presented each one to her.
“With
combs. The blue makes
your eyes look greener.”

That made no sense to me at all, but I didn’t argue. I
really do trust Jenny’s judgment. She may be tone-deaf, but she has a great eye for color. I wouldn’t be surprised if she
ends up becoming a famous painter one day.

“Anyway,” I went on, “it’s not easy to form a partner
ship. You have to find someone you can work with without fighting all the time, as well as somebody who’s into the
same style of music you are.”

“But look at Rodgers and Hammerstein! Lennon and
McCartney! Steve and Edie!”

“Cute. But for now, I’m afraid I’ll have to seek fame and
fortune on my own.” I kissed her on the cheek before
dashing out. “Have faith in me. I’ll come up with a song
that’ll knock your socks off!”

“Oh, Sallie!” she yelled after me.
“Nobody
uses that
expression anymore!”

* * * *

Just as I’d expected, Sharon’s living room was packed
with people, most of whom I’d never seen before. There
were a few familiar faces, and ordinarily I would have
gravitated toward the tried-and-true. Unfortunately the
faces I recognized belonged to people who were not exactly
my favorites.

“Great,” I muttered under my breath as I made my way
through the crowd, searching for someone to talk to.
“Where is Rachel when I need her most?”

For a while I talked to Sharon, clinging to her desperately
as if she were my best friend in the whole world. But then
she ran off to get another bag of chips from the kitchen, and I found myself all alone once again. I leaned
against the wall, trying to blend in with the wallpaper as I searched the crowd wearing a stiff smile. I turned my
attention toward a bowl of pretzels that was nearby,
studying each pretzel before I ate it. Anyone who noticed
me probably thought I was checking for bugs.

It was then that I started thinking about resorting to Plan
B, the unexpected-illness plan. It was simple: All I would
have to do to escape from this uncomfortable situation was find Sharon and tell her about the sudden headache that had
fallen upon me from nowhere. Probably all the excitement
of her party, I could say. Still, I hated to do that, because I’d
only been hanging out on the sidelines of her living room for about ten minutes.

I kept leaning against the wall, and at one point I turned my head to pretend to be interested in the couple who had started dancing over by the dining room table. You know how sometimes you can hear things through the wall that you can’t hear through the air? Like when in old cowboy-and-Indian movies, the scout always puts his ear to the ground to see if he can hear horses coming from far away? Well, leaning my ear against that wall had the same effect. Through the noise of the voices and the clinking glasses and the music from the stereo, I could hear the soft strumming of a guitar.

It was intriguing, and of course, I was looking for anything that would hold my attention, at least for a while longer until I could use my unexpected-illness plan. I used the mysterious sound of music as an excuse to get out of the living room. I followed the hallway of the Burkes’ apartment until I found a door that was ajar.

I stuck my head in. And there, sitting on Sharon’s bed, was a guy I’d never seen before, strumming a guitar. When he saw me, he stopped and got this really guilty look on his face. I got the feeling he was doing exactly what I was doing: hiding.

“Don’t stop,” I urged, going in and sitting down on the floor. ‘‘Pretend I’m not here.’’

He just nodded.  Then he started playing an instrumental version of “Here Comes the Sun.” It was fantastic! I was amazed at how well he could play. My strumming and cautious picking was fourth-rate compared to the stuff he was doing. I was impressed, right from the start. Also, I couldn’t help noticing that this guy was pretty good-looking: black curly hair, worn shaggy and long; almost-black piercing eyes; a dark mustache and a beard. He was heavyset, although it
was hard to see very much of him through his baggy jeans
and plaid flannel shirt. He reminded me of a teddy bear. All
in all, he was not what I’d expected to find in Sharon
Burke’s bedroom.

“That’s great!” I said when he had finished. “Boy, you
really put my guitar playing to shame!”

“Do you play?” he asked.

“Just a little.” I suddenly felt very modest and very shy.

“Here. Let’s see.” He offered me his guitar and looked at
me expectantly.

“Well, uh, maybe I should get back to Sharon’s party,” Now I generally jump at the chance to play for people. In fact, my friends sometimes have to beg me to stop. But this guy—well, he played like no one else I’d ever heard, at least up close, and I had no intention of disgracing myself in
front of him.

“Do you really want to do that?” He looked at me as if he
couldn’t understand why anybody would want to go back
out there. I could tell that he certainly didn’t.

“I guess not. But I can’t play very well.”

“Oh, come on. Try. After all, I played for you.”

“Well, okay.” I gingerly accepted the guitar. “What
would you like to hear?”

“What do you like to play?”

“To tell the truth,” I apologized, “I mostly play things
I’ve written myself.”

“Then play me something you’ve written.”

By then I was really having heart palpitations. Not only was my guitar playing going to be put on the line, but my songwriting skill as well. And I must admit that those piercing dark eyes were complicating things even further. I
have always been a sucker for beautiful eyes.

But I mustered up all my courage and launched into one
of my best songs. It never misses because it has a catchy beat and a pretty memorable melody. My voice
cracked a few times at the beginning.  But then, as usual, I
got so into it that I forgot that anybody else was in the room.

When I was done, I glanced up. I could feel myself
blushing.

“You wrote that?” he asked.

I nodded.

“It’s great! I love it! Sing more!”

Without going into all the boring details, let me just say that for the next two hours I played every song I’d ever written. I was even tempted to play “The Streets of Laredo.”  That’s how
good a listener this guy was.

And then he took his guitar back and sang some songs he had written. I was amazed. His songs were wonderful!
In fact, I kept asking him, “Did you write that, or is
it from some record album?”

He laughed each time and assured me that he had written
the song. He had this great smile, so wide that it lit up his whole face. He threw his head back to laugh, too, and it was the most open and honest laugh I’d heard in years. It
occurred to me that I was falling in love. Or at least
something very close.

When I glanced at my watch, I nearly had heart failure. I
couldn’t believe we’d been hiding away in Sharon’s room
for two whole hours! I was afraid she’d have a fit.