Gifted (30 page)

“Of course I do. I am one!”

“Well, I'm not,” I say.

“Then think like one for once,” he tells me. “You might get farther in life.”

My mouth drops open but my eyes get narrow. “What did you say to me?”

“If you sing your song people will understand what it feels like to be a nobody from nowhere. Your music gives voice to people who deserve dignity.”

“In case you forgot,” I snarl, “your girlfriend stole my song!”

“She's not my girlfriend,” he yells back. “You are!”

That stops me. I stand in the center of the floor trying to catch my breath. “What did you say?”

“Shut up, both of you!” Brie turns up the volume on the screen as Calliope Bontempi strolls out of a justice brokerage office in the City.

A voice-over says, “Earlier this morning, after overnight deliberations, Arbiter Venetia Sanders split the judgment on the case between Calliope Bontempi and Chanson Industries. She ruled in favor of Ms. Bontempi on the charges of personal damages, citing Chanson Industries's knowledge that the reversal ASA surgery would result in amusia.”

“No way!” Orpheus says, catching himself against the kitchen counter. “My father never loses! This is incredible.”

Calliope stops on the sidewalk and allows the drones to surround her. “This is a victory for brain activists the world over!” she proclaims. “And make no mistake, we will continue to fight Chanson. This is just the first step.”

The commentator's voice says, “Despite Ms. Bontempi's optimism, the Arbiter dismissed claims of property damages, saying Chanson Industries was within its rights to sell Ms. Bontempi's contract.”

Next, Orpheus's father comes out of the building. He is tall and handsome with thick, wavy dark hair and brooding, deep-set eyes that could look soulful on a kinder face, but the lines on his forehead and cheeks have hardened into a perma-scowl that makes him appear angry with the world.

“Calliope Bontempi's claims were clearly spurious,” he says. “Any person is free to make and distribute original music through any legal channels. I never stopped her from doing that.”

“Whoa, wait,” I say. “Play that again.” Brie rewinds the clip. I step closer and listen carefully, then I turn to Orpheus, my heart thumping. “He said original music is okay?”

“Yes,” says Orpheus. “I've been telling you that since the day I met you, which is why—”

“You mean, this whole time, all the concerts and broadcasts I've been doing in secret have been okay?”

“Yes!” he yells at me. “Except when you hijacked the Geoff Joffrey concert, of course.” He laughs. “That might have been illegal. And you should have seen my dad! He was furious.”

“But that means…” I say, trying to work it out.

“That Piper and Arabella can't steal your original music!” Orpheus finishes the thought for me. “It's your property and they stole it. We'll sue my father's company.”

I drop down on the couch. “We'd never win,” I tell him.

“Why not?” he says.

“Because we'd have to prove to the world that it was my song in the first place.”

“That's easy,” he says. “You have recordings!”

“No, I erased them all. I thought they were illegal.” My nose begins to itch and my chin quivers.

“But people have heard you sing that song before,” Orpheus says.

“They'd be too afraid to admit that,” I tell him.

“But why?” Orpheus asks.

“You don't understand how scared people are here,” Brie says from her post by the window where she's peeking through the blinds. “Justice brokers are never on our side.”

Orpheus stands in the center of the room with hands on his hips, shaking his head in frustration.

“Wait!” says Brie. “Use the 'razzi!”

“What?” we both say.

She points outside. “All those annoying drones buzzing around. Use them to play Zimri's song to the world.”

“That's brilliant!” Orpheus says. “We'll put on a legal concert. No masks, no hiding, no money for someone else. All original music. People will come. Then they'll admit they've heard you sing the song before once they realize they're safe. Then there will be no question that the song belongs to you and not Arabella.”

I sit there, stunned. “I don't know,” I whisper.

Orpheus walks to me, arms out, as he says, “This is your moment, Zimri Robinson, and the next time you're in the 'razzi spotlight the world will finally hear you sing.”

 

CHORUS

In the quiet
backwaters of the river, away from the activity along the shore, a dragonfly nymph emerges. After years of feasting on mosquito larvae in the water, it climbs up the sticky stem of a cattail reed ready to shed its childhood skin. A great green heron and frozards lurk nearby, looking for a late lunch, but the soft-bodied creature cannot flee. It's not ready for the world, yet. First it must bask in the sun, waiting for exoskeleton and wings to harden and take shape. And so it waits, while other bugs buzz around, busy as the people bustling back and forth from Complex to Old Town along the river path.

It's taken less than forty-eight hours for Orpheus and Tati to set up the concert. Always the wheeler-dealer, Tati had the keys to the Paramount Theater (a poker game with the owner who headed south years ago). Zimri used the money stashed since Nonda's concert to hire Captain Jack and his Old Town gang, who've descended on the abandoned auditorium to bang the dust from worn red velvet seats and moth-eaten curtains and wash the dirt-caked floors until they gleam. Tati hauls out a generator to run the lights and an old PA.

At night, Orpheus and Zimri spend hours out at Nowhere, discussing the set list, rerecording new backing tracks. He knows just where a string swell will draw out the emotion of a lyric. Where a drum fill will add the most drama. How to best use her weird homemade ZimriDoo for effect.

Every day at the warehouse, Orpheus and Brie spend their tenners selling tickets to the show (which everyone knows is legal after what Harold Chanson admitted on the Buzz). And, as soon as they get home after a full day, they head up to the Strip to sell more tix.

The 'razzi drones love this, of course—Chanson heir turned Plebe promoter—and Orpheus can't resist talking up the event.

“People haven't seen anything like this for generations,” he promises the press. “This isn't some whitewashed, focus-grouped, PromoTeam surgical creation. Zimri is a natural-born superstar who's going to blow your minds!”

“Will Chanson Industries lure her away from you with a big contract deal?” some commentator asks.

“If my father is smart, he'll try,” Orpheus teases. “But she won't go. Zimri and I are a team.”

Every day, more drones show up to send pix and vid back to the Buzz where ratings are high. But some of the drones go haywire. Lose their bearings. Roost in trees. No one quite knows why. A few are snatched midair by bewildered waxwings and warblers who spit them out. They roll down the embankment, bouncing over tufts of grass and knotty roots, to take the plunge. Blip. Blip. Blip. Their last transmissions are air bubbles from curious little frozards' mouths.

And what of our nymph, sitting pretty on the reed as all of this goes on around her? She has learned to breathe the air as she sheds her old skin. It stays stuck to the reed, a perfect replica of her past that will soon decay. Her exoskeleton is hardened now into a protective shell. All she has to do, when the time is right, is spread her wings and fly.

 

VERSE SEVEN

ZIMRI

I always felt
a frenetic energy before the shows at Nowhere, but I would never say I was nervous. For one thing, I didn't know for sure who was in the audience and no one acknowledged me as the singer. It was an anonymous endeavor, as if that masked girl on stage were someone else. When the show was over and the masks came off, I retracted her inside of me like the hidden furniture of our PODs. But standing backstage at the Paramount Theater, stars twinkling from the ceiling just like my mother said, I am jangling with fear. My legs shake, my heart pounds, and I feel like I might barf because the next time I step through the curtain, I, Zimri, will unmistakably be the one on stage, and that's terrifying.

“How's it look out there?” I ask Orpheus.

He flicks the worn velvet curtain and grins. “Full, I think.”

“You're lying!” I push him aside and peek out, expecting to see a handful of people milling around the mostly empty space. Brie and her mom, Captain Jack and the Old Town guys, and maybe a few people from the warehouse that Orpheus bribed or charmed. I about fall over when I see every seat of the auditorium filled, plus people in the aisles and spilling out the doors beneath hundreds of 'razzi drones congregated like a heavy storm cloud overhead.

I jump away from the curtain and press my back against the wall. My heart races and my head spins. “I can't do this!” I say, my breath shallow.

Orpheus laughs with pure joy. He puts his hands on my shoulders and gives me a tiny shake. “Of course you can.”

He signals to Tati who lowers the lights. The crowd begins to stomp and clap and chant my name.

“All your life, Zimri, you were only waiting for this moment,” he tells me. “This is what you were made for. Listen!”

Stomp stomp clap! Stomp stomp clap! Zim-ri. Zim-ri!

This time if I step on stage, I'll be all alone. There will be no drummer smacking sticks above his head because Dorian hasn't forgiven me for what he sees as my betrayal. It's not just that I chose Orpheus over him, which would be bad enough, but he believes Harold Chanson was responsible for my mother's disappearance. Although it breaks my heart to lose Dorian's friendship, I also know he's wrong. Dorian's father, Marley, is equally culpable for my mother leaving. But in the end, I also know that nobody is to blame but my mother herself. She's the one who chose to walk away, just like I'll be the one who decides whether to step on stage tonight or not.

“It's time to give them what they want,” Orpheus says.

I let the rhythm of the crowd slow my heart and calm my nerves. They are a song I will sing. I open my eyes and reach for Orpheus, holding his wrist tightly.

“You okay?” he asks.

I swallow, trying to find my voice while fighting back the tears bullying their way into my eyes. I want to tell him many things right then. How grateful I am to have him, someone who believes not just that I
could
but that I
should
make music, and no matter what happens tonight, for that I will be eternally grateful. But the only thing that comes out of my mouth is a very small and shaky, “Thank you,” because I'm afraid if I allow myself to say anything else, I will lose it right before I walk on stage.

He pulls me into a hug and says, “Use all that emotion you're feeling as fuel for the show.”

I nod, still unable to speak, and promise myself that when this is all over, I'll tell Orpheus everything I feel for him.

He gives me a quick kiss. “See you on the other side.” He pushes through the curtain and steps onto the stage to introduce me.

The crowd's roar pulls me like a tide drawing in the ocean. As I step through the curtain, it all comes back to me. I know how to do this. Orpheus is right. I was made for this. I lift one arm and wave. Blow kisses as I squint into the bright lights. I can't make out faces in the crowd or distinguish voices and that calms me. I pick up my mother's old guitar and strum the first note of my first song, and in that moment, like in every moment when I play, I'm immediately lost inside the music.

I sing “The Picker Symphony,” I sing “Poor, Poor Whippoorwill,” I sing “Greens and Beans” about my grandmother who's coming home soon, and “Swirling Eddy” about my father who'll never return again. I sing “For the Great Blue Heron” and an old, old song called “Chante Alouette” for Orpheus's sister. We've rearranged the set list many times, but Orpheus and I have agreed on one thing from the start—we saved “Nobody from Nowhere” for last. And so, when I am done with all the other songs, I pause.

At Nowhere, I only spoke to the audience to rile them before I turned on the video camera, but tonight I have something else to say. I shield my eyes from the lights and look out at the crowd for Orpheus. I find him on the floor, off to the side, beaming up at me. When I catch his eye, he does a big exaggerated pointing motion toward the center of the front row and mouths something that I can't understand. I scan the audience, not knowing who to expect. I squint and keep my hand above my eyes. I recognize a lot of faces—people from the warehouse, folks from Old Town, friends of my parents, kids I knew from SQEWL, and plenty of people I've never seen in my life. I even spot Brie and her mom and Tati seated all together. I look back at Orpheus. He jabs his finger toward the center again but the spotlight is in my eyes so I can't figure out who he is pointing to.

Then I step up to the mic. “Like most of you,” I say as I tune my ZimriDoo, “I work in the warehouse.” The crowd erupts with approval. I noodle with my strings, twisting and turning to find the exact right notes while I speak. “We spend our days packing boxes full of things for people who will never see us or give us a second thought. But I'm proud of the work we do. We do it well. We work hard for our money.” I sigh and shake my head. “So hard for it, honey. We may seem like a bunch of nobodies from nowhere…”

When those words leave my mouth the crowd screams and stomps and I have to wait for them to quiet down until I can talk again.

“But each of us is somebody. You are a daughter or a son. A friend, a sibling, a mother, or father. Your job does not define you. So the next time you're made to feel like nobody, remember, you're somebody to me.”