Nashville 1 - Ready to Reach (5 page)

At least, the people who have been at it a while do. Don’t get me wrong. The competition is fierce. Thomas and I were no different from any other newbie to the scene. We drove into town almost a year ago, thinking we’d be on the radio in no time. We’d gotten enough validation from our fans back home on the University of Georgia scene that we’d started to accept their loyalty as all we needed to verify what would happen once Nashville discovered us.

What we hadn’t counted on was all the other talent riding into town on the same wave of determination and hope. And how damn good they would be.

Mike’s song is enough to make me green with envy if I let myself buy into that. The lyrics are raw with truth, but polished like a diamond that’s been buffed with a soft cloth. The music has an element of something different enough to make it sound fresh, make it stand out.

I don’t think I’m far enough along to know exactly what it is that sets it apart from what the rest of us will play tonight. I just know there is something, and more than anything in the world, I want my stuff to be that good. A year of coming here has shown me that it’s not, yet, and in some weird and kind of awful way, I guess you could call that growth.

When Mike repeats the last tag of his song, the crowd throws out a storm of applause. He’s shy, and makes a pretense of brushing something off the front of his guitar, then leans into the microphone again. “Thank y’all. Thank you so much.”

When the applause falls back, the fifteen-year old sitting next to Mike starts her song, and while the lyrics don’t have the power of Mike’s, her voice is soft and sweet, the tone unique enough that it’s easy to see she’s got something special. People lean forward in their chairs, caught up on the wings of it, the emotion she lets spill through each word, captivating in and of itself.

Two more writers are up before Thomas and me. They’re both good, better than good, and I’m feeling the pressure of comparison. Thomas takes the microphone and glances at me the way he does when he’s ready. I tip into the intro, hitting the strings so lightly, that a hush falls over the room, and I can feel them start to listen.

I wrote this song for Thomas. His little sister died of cancer when he was twelve, and I remember how I felt when he told me about it, what it was like to go to the hospital to see her, watch her be strong for him, even though she was younger than he was, even as the pain became unbearable. I tried to write the lyric as if I’d been standing in that room, as if I had been Thomas, a big brother who’s got to know what it will be like where she’s going, that he will see her again one day.

I wrote it from a father’s point of view, somehow knowing I needed to give Thomas that distance. That he would never get through the song singing it as the brother.

It’s called Up There, and he sings it now like his own truth. I guess that’s why what the two of us have works.

I can see the faces of the people directly in front of us, the glimmer of tears in their eyes. Maybe this is what I love most about writing, that moment when you realize you’ve hit a universal, something everyone can feel.

I’m drawn to look up then and find CeCe’s gaze on me. I see on her face what I have felt on my own so many times. That yearning to express something that reaches people the way this song is doing. I glimpse enough of myself in her then that I wonder why I’ve been so hard on her, why I’d assumed she would want to stay in the shallow end of this pool. The look in her eyes tells me something completely different. She’s headed for the deep end, wants it with all her soul. And I don’t doubt for a second that she won’t give up until she’s there, swimming on her own.

A long moment of silence follows Thomas’s last note. One person starts to clap. More follow until the room is alive with it. Thomas never finishes this song without tears in his eyes, and tonight is no exception.

Mike is next again, and as good as his song is, I think I can honestly say, its effect on the audience doesn’t top ours.

The round goes on for four more songs each. Thomas and I do a fast one, a slow one and then another fast one. When it’s our turn to do our last song, he looks over at me before glancing out to where CeCe is still standing against the wall. I don’t think she’s moved all night, and I remember the first time I came here, how I’d just sat listening, not moving once until the end of the show.

“If y’all don’t mind, I’m gonna bring a new face in for this one. CeCe, come on up, girl.”

She stands frozen, her expression a confused mixture of euphoria and disbelief, as if she can’t decide whether to run or sink onto the floor. Thomas isn’t about to let her do either one. I’m suddenly so mad at him, I can’t see straight. What the heck is he doing? She’s not ready for this!

But the crowd has turned their attention to her, and someone starts to clap, urging her on. There’s a whistle, then another, more clapping until the force of it peels her off the wall and propels her to the circle of chairs.

Her eyes are wide as dinner plates, and I’m starting to wonder if she’s ever actually been on stage before.

Thomas pats one enormous thigh and indicates for her to sit, placing the microphone stand close in to them both.

“This here’s CeCe MacKenzie. CeCe’s new in town, and she’s had a bit of a rough day. We’ll make this her Nashville welcome. Y’all might’ve heard of her uncle, Dobie Crawford with the Rounders.”

The applause erupts into a roar then. I’m hoping for CeCe’s sake and for ours that she lives up to expectation.

“Dobie wrote a song called ‘Wish It Were True’,” Thomas continues. “Let’s do that one for them,” he says to both me and CeCe.

It’s been a while since we’ve done this one. Luckily, I know it like I wrote it myself.

Thomas starts in on the first verse, and by the third line, I’m wondering if CeCe is going to join in. She closes her eyes and follows him into the chorus, her voice floating up in perfect harmony against Thomas’s.

I’m shocked by the blend. The sound is like chocolate and peanut butter. French coffee and half and half.

They’ve never sung together, and they sound like they’ve been doing so their whole lives. They each know the song the way you can only know one when its meaning reflects something of your own life.

By the second verse, it’s clear that CeCe’s forgotten she’s sitting on the knee of a guy she just met today. Forgotten she’s singing to a crowd at the Bluebird. I don’t know where she is, but it’s a place that lets her sing from the heart, from the soul.

I don’t hear training in her voice. It’s not perfected in that way. What I hear is a girl who’s been singing all her life. A girl who sings because it’s what she loves more than anything.

They hit the second chorus full throttle, and they’re smiling at each other, all out joy lighting their faces. The crowd is with them, sitting up on the edge of their chairs. I can see their realization that they are witnessing something they’ll talk about one day. “I saw them when they were just starting out. The very first time they ever sang together.”

And I have to admit, it’s like that. Some kind of magic that makes me wonder if everything that happened today had been the lead in to this. If we were supposed to meet her. Both for her sake and for ours.

They trail off, note for note, and the applause that follows is the loudest of the night. CeCe has tears in her eyes when she throws her arms around Thomas’s neck and hugs him so hard, he nearly sends the chair over backwards. People laugh and clap harder.

I watch for a moment longer, and then unable to help myself, I clap, too.

I feel like I’m in the middle of a dream. The good part where you’re aware of hoping you don’t wake up. That it will go on and on forever.

I’m hugging Thomas as tight as I can because I don’t trust myself to thank him with words. If I do, I’ll break down and sob right here in front of all these people.

He hugs me hard and stands, his arm still around my waist. I dangle in mid-air for a moment, then slide down his big thigh until my feet hit the floor. He forces me to face the crowd, and I’m blown away by the admiration and appreciation on their faces.

I feel Holden’s gaze on me and make myself look at him. I guess I’m expecting him to be mad at me for horning in on their show, but that’s not what I see in his eyes. What’s there is the same admiration the audience has offered up, and maybe that surprises me most of all.

Mike thanks everyone again for coming, and people start to stand up and push their seats back. Several weave their way up to the circle of chairs and begin talking with the performers. A couple of teenagers ask Mike for his autograph. Next, they laser in on Thomas and Holden, giggling and looking as if they might lose their nerve at any moment.

One of the girls has red hair that hangs to her waist. Her eyes are a vivid green, and she looks at Thomas with starstruck longing. “Would you sign this for me?” she asks, handing him a Bluebird napkin.

“Why, sure, I will.” Thomas raises an eyebrow at Holden who shakes his head.

“You’re gonna be famous one day, Thomas,” the girl says. “I just know it.”

Thomas grins. “If that means I get to sing for a living, I’d be all right with that.”

The redhead’s friend sticks out a napkin of her own. “We’ll buy anything you release.”

“You don’t work for a record company, do you?” Holden throws out.

Both girls giggle. “We’re fifteen.”

“Shoot,” Thomas says. “Just our luck.”

They laugh again, and then the redhead looks at me, her voice suddenly shy. “Your singing’s so pretty.”

Something in the sincerity of the compliment touches me, makes instant tears well in my eyes. It’s stupid, I know, but after the way this day has gone, it’s nice to hear that I’m not totally crazy to think I might have a place here. “Thank you,” I say. “Thank you so much.”

“You’re welcome,” she says, ducking her head again.

The two girls bounce off, clutching their napkins to their chests like they’d just found winning lottery tickets.

A man walks up and introduces himself. “I’m Clay Morrison. Y’all sounded real good tonight.”

He has dark hair that’s started to pepper a bit at the sides. He’s dressed in jeans and a white shirt under a black jacket. His shoes are black, too, and they look expensive. Narrow frame glasses tone down his good looks and suggest he’s smart.

I step out of the circle so his focus is on Thomas and Holden.

“Thank you,” Thomas says. “Appreciate that.”

“Saw you two here a few months ago. Have to say I like your new addition. The three of you sound pretty great together.”

He swings a look at me then, and I want to sink into the floor. The last thing I want to do is barge in on their action. And it feels like that’s what I’m doing. “Excuse me,” I say and head for the ladies’ room.

I lock myself inside, leaning against the door and pulling in a deep, shaky breath. I can still feel Holden’s gaze on me, resentful, accusing.

I wash my face and dry it with a scratchy brown paper towel, taking my time with the process until I think Thomas and Holden might be ready to leave.

When I come out again, they’re both waiting by the front door.

“You fall in?” Holden asks, looking me up and down.

I roll my eyes at him, pushing out into the cool of the Nashville evening.

We walk to the truck in an awkward silence, like neither of us knows what to say about what happened in there tonight.

Thomas hits the remote, and I open the door. Hank Junior leaps out and heads for the closest bush. I grab his leash and follow him.

When we return, it’s clear Thomas and Holden have been talking. There’s electricity in the air, the kind that sparks from disagreement.

Neither one looks at me, and I’m thinking it’s time I go my own way. “Hey, thanks for everything, y’all. The help, the ride, the song. I expect to see your names in big places.”

Hank Junior wants to jump in, but I stop him. “Come on, boy,” I say, then turn around and start walking.

I have no earthly idea where I’m going. I just know I need to get away from those two before I bawl like a three-year old. I’m walking so fast that Hank Junior has to trot to keep up with me. He keeps looking back at the truck and then up at me as if he’s wondering what in the world I’m doing. I wouldn’t know how to begin to answer him. I don’t have a thing to my name except for him. Should I find a pay phone, call Mama right now and ask her to buy me a bus ticket home? Could I even take Hank Junior with me on a bus?

I cross the main road in front of the Bluebird. There’s a parking garage there. Maybe we can camp out for the night and see how things look in the morning, although short of me finding a winning lottery ticket in my pocket, I don’t know how it could look any better.

The garage is nearly empty, a few cars parked along the other side that opens through to a Whole Foods. My stomach does a low rumble, and I know Hank Junior has to be hungry as well.

I head for a corner and lean against the wall, sliding down onto the cold concrete. Hank Junior looks at me as if he isn’t sure what he’s supposed to do. I pat the spot next to me, and loyal friend that he is, he curls up with me, his head on my knee.