Crazy in Love (15 page)

“Hey, guys,” I cried, having decided that “Attention!” was too formal for the occasion. “Listen, everybody. As
most of you know, I had an ulterior motive in inviting you to
this party. Tomorrow night is the first level of the
WROX Songwriting Competition. It’ll be held in our high school auditorium at eight o’clock, and I hope you’ll
all come.

“But you’re especially lucky, because you’ve been chosen,
out of all our fellow students, for a special preview. In case
any of you haven’t met him yet, this is Saul Rodriguez, my songwriter partner. We’re entering the contest at my school because this whole crazy thing was my idea in the first
place.

“Anyway, whether you can make it tomorrow night or
not, Saul and I would like to run through the song once or
twice for you. And then we’d like your honest opinions. Notice I stressed the word
honest.
This is no time to be
polite or generous. Tonight is our last chance to make any
changes, so we really want to know what you guys think.

“Ready?” I glanced over at Saul, who stood next to me
at one end of the living room. He nodded, and then I
surveyed the room briefly to make sure everyone else was all set. I saw two dozen faces gazing at me intently,
expectantly.
And then I had a terrific surprise: I wasn’t nervous at all. I was excited, but I wasn’t nervous. I was
actually looking forward to sharing our wonderful song with my friends.

I got lost in the music as we sang. I concentrated so hard on making it sound good that the rest of the room just fell away. I had to admit, Saul and I sounded great as our voices
tripped over the melody we had created, blending together,
sometimes in unison, sometimes in harmony. The lyrics
glided together to form a 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.

If someone likes the city lights and I prefer the sea,

Or if when she looks into my eyes, she doesn’t quite see
me,

If she always has her steak well-done and I prefer it
rare,

If she tries to hide or run away when I tell her that I care,

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.

If someone says she’s crystal and that I am only glass,

That our two worlds are different and our love could
never last,

“But both of them are fragile, they need tender care,” I claim,

“And if both of them should shatter, then they both would look the same,”

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.

When we had finished, I stood before my friends for a few seconds without saying a word. I was just watching
their faces. Sometimes you can tell a lot more by people’s
expressions than by the words they’re saying. And what I
saw was very satisfying. I saw looks of absorption, of
appreciation, of surprise.

As I scanned the crowd, feeling smug, my eyes were drawn to one particular face in the crowd. Was it just a quirk
of the lighting in the room, or were those actually tears in
Rachel’s eyes? I glanced over at Saul. Their gazes were
locked together, just as they had been that first night they
met.

How blind I’d been! I can’t believe now that up until
that moment it hadn’t even occurred to me that Saul had
written the lyrics for Rachel! She had been his inspiration.
And here I was, defending him right and left in her
presence. Saul Rodriguez was apparently quite capable of
taking care of himself.

There was a flurry of activity then as my friends gathered
around us and showered us with compliments. Jenny’s
prediction was proving to be accurate: They loved “If That Someone Else Is You.” It was a hit! Needless
to say, I was ecstatic.

“I love it!” Sharon squealed. “You guys can’t lose!”

“Did you two really write that?” Jane asked, wide-eyed.
I had to laugh; she sounded just like me the night I met Saul.

I basked in our success for a few more minutes.  Then I turned back to Saul to ask him if he was as happy with
the song as everyone else seemed to be. He was gone. I
shrugged, assuming that if he had felt we needed to make
any changes, he would have let me know. I concentrated all
my efforts on enjoying the party once again.

By that point I couldn’t wait for the competition. I was so
exhilarated that I was convinced that Saul and I couldn’t
lose. “A star is born!” I kept telling myself. I was ready to
take the music world by storm. I celebrated with two more
Show-Stopping Brownies.

When I stepped into the kitchen to retrieve more ice
cubes for my guests, I discovered my mother sitting at the
kitchen table with a cup of tea.

“Oh, hi, Mom. I didn’t realize you were in here. Have
one of Rachel’s brownies with your tea. They’re terrific.”

“Sallie, I heard your song just now. It was beautiful! I’m
so proud of you!”

She gave me a hug. I found myself growing embarrassed.

“Well, it’s just a little ditty Saul and I threw together.”

“Don’t be so modest! It’s wonderful. And whether it wins
tomorrow night or not, you should be proud of yourself.
You’ve got a lot of talent.”

“Thanks, Mom.”

“Where is Saul? I’d like to congratulate him, too.”

“Um, I think he stepped out for a minute. But I’ll tell him
what you said as soon as he comes back.”

Just then, a bunch of people burst into the kitchen,
clamoring for more ice. I was sort of glad; it’s not easy, having people compliment you, especially when it’s your
own mother who’s acting impressed. I realized I’d to learn how to handle success. I would have to develop the gracious
modesty of Jackie Kennedy Onassis if I was going to be
thrust into the limelight all the time.

Around midnight, my friends started trickling out.

“Thanks for a great party, Sallie!”

“And good luck tomorrow!”

“Yeah, we’ll be there, rooting for you!”

“Look for us in the front row!”

When I’d shut the door after the last guest and began
collecting empty paper cups from every flat surface in the
room—including the floor, the piano, and the chessboard—
I realized that I hadn’t seen either Saul or Rachel after we’d
done the song. It struck me as odd, but it was hardly something to worry about. Sooner or later, one of them would
fill me in on what had happened.

For that moment, I couldn’t get excited about Saul and
Rachel. I was too happy about the promise of the next
night’s contest. I was counting on the thrill of victory. Never
before had I felt so confident, so optimistic. As I crumpled
up an armload of paper cups and thrust them into a huge plastic bag, the fluttering of my heart told me that all the
waiting, all the plotting and planning, all the hours alone
with my guitar were beginning to pay off. And from the way I was feeling, I had absolutely no doubt that it was all worth
it. I suspect that never before had anyone who was knee-deep in dirty dishes and crumpled-up paper napkins and
melting ice cubes felt so good.

Whenever I’m anticipating something that’s out of the
ordinary, I spend the entire night before having dreams
about it. Or sometimes, nightmares. I remember the night
before I started school in New York, back when we had first moved here. All night, as I slept, a stream of terrifying,
grotesque people paraded through the doors of an imaginary
classroom, while I sat in the front row clutching my old
book bag from Boston. There was one student clad entirely
in black leather, and one dressed like a New York
policeman, and a girl with bright red lipstick and platinum-
blond hair and a silver-sequined evening gown. Of course,
in the light of day, the whole thing seemed hilarious, and the
fear I’d associated with those bizarre characters faded
quickly as I busied myself with real life.

The worst thing about that kind of dream is that you
spend the whole night living through whatever it is you’re
dreading, and then you wake up to find that you haven’t
really done it at all, that it’s still ahead of you. Maybe that’s what they mean when they say, “A coward dies a thousand
deaths, a brave man dies just once.” At any rate, dreams
have a way of telling you what it is you’re really feeling
about something. You can’t fool yourself when you’re
asleep and all your defenses are down.

The night before the WROX songwriting contest was the
perfect example. I went to bed excited—positively
glee
ful
—over the prospect of the competition. And then all
night I had horrible dreams in which everything that could
possibly go wrong went wrong. Saul didn’t show up; he
showed up but forgot the song; I forgot the song; the
audience turned into ducks and we couldn’t sing over the
noise they were making. It was exhausting, and by the time
I woke up, I was totally drained.

I’d hoped to sleep late, to make sure I was still radiant
and refreshed by eight o’clock that night. Instead, I found
myself up and at ‘em by seven. No one else was awake yet, and I lay in bed for a long time, thinking about the evening
ahead. I also sang the song to myself, in my head, about
eighty-three times.

When I heard someone walking around in the kitchen, I
threw on a bathrobe and raced out of my bedroom, happy over the prospect of some company. It was Mom who was
bustling about in the dawn’s early light, making a pot of
coffee and toasting English muffins.

“Good morning,” she greeted me as I stood in the
doorway, rubbing my eyes. “How’s the songwriter today?
All set for the contest?”

“Couldn’t we talk about something else?” I pleaded as I
put on the kettle to make myself a cup of tea.

“Don’t tell me you’re nervous! Not after you gave such a great
performance last night! You’ve already done it
once, so what’s there to worry about?”

“Judges. An auditorium filled with people. A million
other contestants. And the fleeting promise of fame and
fortune. That’s all.”

“You’ll do fine,” Mom assured me. “Do you want us all
there, or would it be easier for you if we stayed away?”

“No, you can come if you like.” At that point it didn’t
matter at all to me. What were three more people when I
would be singing to hundreds?

Just then Jenny’s voice piped up, “You mean today is the
day that our Sallie becomes a star, and all we have to offer
her is English muffins? That will never do!” Enter Jenny, in
her pink-and-white flowered nightgown and
slippers. “I think hot cinnamon buns would be much more:
appropriate.”

Jenny kissed me good-morning on the cheek, kissed my
mother, then buried her head in the refrigerator. “I know we
have some of those ... oh, here they are!” She emerged
with a roll of cinnamon-bun dough, looking triumphant.
“Just give me twenty minutes, and the feast will be on.”

“Who mentioned food?” my father said sleepily as he
appeared in the doorway wrapped up in a red-plaid
bathrobe. “If it’s something Jenny is making, then I want a
double order.”

“Coffee’s ready.” Mom smiled.

It isn’t often that the four Spooners get to sit down at the kitchen table and have breakfast together, like the families
you always see on television. Everyone’s schedule is so
different, and everybody is always in such a hurry that it’s
almost like a party when we have time to spend as a family,
drinking coffee and discussing our plans for the day.