"So," I said before she expected too much from my audition, "this isn't my thing and I didn't know I needed to bring music."
Girls were trying to walk around Lacey and me to get backstage, so she pulled me to the nearest corner. "That's okay. People who don't bring their own music get to sing ‘Happy Birthday.'"
"Nice."
"Did I see Cooper Wells too? Did you guys come together?"
"Yes."
She wiggled her eyebrows.
"Oh, no. Not together like that. We're just friends."
We both looked across the stage to where Cooper stood staring at us, like he found it weird to see us talking.
"You don't keep someone who looks like that in the friend zone for too long," Lacey said.
"Yes, I do, I mean, no, I don't want . . . didn't want to. He . . . it's complicated. Please don't repeat that," I added, realizing I'd just revealed more to her than I ever had to Rachel.
"I have no idea what you just said, so I will gladly not repeat it."
"Thank you."
She gestured over her shoulder. "I better go. Someone has to run this thing."
"Okay."
"Break a leg," she said and was off.
The next hour went by like someone had pushed a fast-forward button. Lacey would call people out one by one to sing. She and the director would take notes, and then the next person would be up.
Cooper went out before me. I thought he would be nervous, but he smiled at the judging table. "I didn't bring music," he said. "But I can sing some Metallica if you want. Or a little MJ."
I held in my laugh.
"Happy Birthday is fine," Lacey said.
He nodded, and the piano gave a frilly intro. Then Cooper sang. A few of the girls standing near me giggled.
One behind me said, "He's nice to look at, but not good on the ears."
I didn't think his voice was all that horrible. It wasn't like the other guys we'd heard who were polished and perfect, but he could carry a tune. When he got to the part where he had to insert a name, he sang Lacey. I peeked around the corner to see her smile at that.
When the piano played its last note, Cooper bowed and left the stage.
Finally, it was my turn. I'd been the one to suggest this, and now my palms were sweating, my heart racing.
A spotlight I hadn't noticed before shone right in my eyes. I tried to look at Lacey and the director, but I couldn't see them through the bright haze. I held up my hand to block some of the light.
Lacey gave me the thumbs-up.
"I need to sing Happy Birthday too."
Without another word, the piano began its opening notes. I dropped my hand and let the light take over my vision. I always thought I was a better singer than Cooper, but there on the big stage in the middle of the even bigger theater, my voice was swallowed whole. I tried to sing louder, but I was already forcing my voice, so it cracked. I was so happy when I sang the last "you" and I rushed offstage.
"Good job," the girl who'd been mocking Cooper said.
"Really?" I asked.
"You were kind of quiet, but you have a nice voice."
"Thanks." A surprising feeling of happiness coursed through me. I peered across the stage to the other side to see if I could get a glimpse of Cooper. He was standing there beaming, and the happiness in my chest expanded even further.
When all the singing was done, we were handed reading parts we had to perform. It felt like we'd been there all day, listening to people with varying degrees of talent read, when finally Lacey dismissed us. She handed out a paper that explained the callback process, and everyone filed toward the doors.
I hooked my arm in Cooper's and we headed to the exit.
"That was torture," he said.
"It wasn't that bad." It was something new. Something I'd never tried before, and it had pushed me outside my comfort zone to feel nerves I hadn't felt in a while.
"You have a good singing voice," he said to me.
"Thanks."
"I don't think I realized that before."
"Abby!" Lacey ran down the aisle toward us. Cooper and I turned to face her. "Hey," she said, when she stopped in front of us. "I wanted to tell you about a small barbecue I'm having at my house for the Fourth. You should come. Both of you."
I'd actually heard about Lacey's parties. There was nothing small about them. She lived in a huge house and threw even bigger parties. We'd never been invited, though. Cooper looked at me. We always watched the fireworks on the pier for the Fourth of July, and I wondered what he thought about this change of itinerary.
"Um," I said, hesitating. Cooper didn't say a word, obviously leaving this decision up to me.
"There will be people and food and fireworks. It'll be fun," she added.
Maybe I could count it as something from my list. The one about strangers or trying something new. I had to think of five of those, after all. "Okay."
"Really?" Cooper said under his breath, and I elbowed him.
Lacey took the paper I held about callback information and wrote her name and number on it. "Text me and I'll give you my address and stuff."
"Okay."
Cooper held his tongue until we'd waved good-bye and were outside. "Are you and Lacey friends now?"
"No, I hardly know her." We hadn't had a new friend join our group since it originally formed. We all got along too well and were too comfortable with one another to try and force an expansion.
"So no pier this year?" he asked.
"Rachel and Justin aren't here, so it will already be different. We don't have to stay at her party long if you don't want to."
He shrugged. "Maybe we should. Maybe I'll bring a date."
I tried to keep my voice casual when I said, "You might want to ask Lacey first."
"If she's just going around inviting random people, I'm sure she'd be fine with it."
"Random people?"
"No offense."
I laughed. "Well, too late, offense already taken."
"You know what I meant." He paused for a moment. "I wonder if she got a lifetime supply of zit cream from that commercial."
I pushed him. "You're a dork."
With late afternoon light shining through the windows of my art room later that day, I started a perspective piece-the view from the stage. Again, I tried to go just from my memory and how I had felt. It had been so hot up there on stage. And bright. The light shining in my eyes basically blinded me. I squeezed a large amount of yellow and white onto my palette. I mixed a bit of each color and blotted it onto the middle of the canvas, making a quarter-size spotlight. I squeezed out some red and cream, some black and brown for the chairs and people and stage that would surround that spotlight, and got to work.
The window in the room had grown dark, and now only my lamp lit the painting. I moved to the switch and turned on more overhead lights to assess my progress. It was wrong. There was something wrong with it. Too many chairs. Too many eyes from too many people looking forward. That's not how I had felt on the stage. I had seen hardly any chairs and almost no eyes. I swiped a clean brush through more yellow and white. I pulled out the light from the spotlight wider and wider. I streaked it across the chairs. The not-dry red mixed with the white and yellow and made orange swirls on the outside. The side of me that had obviously always loved my paintings to reflect reality almost painted more yellow over it, but I stopped myself. It was interesting movement. The spotlight in the center now made it almost impossible to see the surrounding chairs or people watching or edge of the stage. It took over the painting.
My eyes were tired. They had been straining too long. I resisted the urge to rub them with my paint-covered hands. I wasn't quite done with the painting, but it was time to call it a night. I stepped back but then stopped when I noticed a face in the few that remained just outside the spotlight. I leaned closer and squinted. It was my mother. I'd painted my mother into my painting without even realizing it. My mother-the least likely person to be in that auditorium today.
TWELVE
"What about her?" I asked Grandpa as we pushed a cart through the produce section.
Grandpa was squeezing nectarines and placing only a select few into the clear bag he held. "That woman? You want to know her story?"
"Why not?"
"I'm just wondering why all the people you are pointing out are women in their sixties." He tied the top of the bag in a knot and added it to the cart.
Grandpa always tried to set me up, and I always tried to set him up. And we both never actually agreed to the setup. It was our thing. "No reason," I hummed.
He pushed the cart forward. "That's what I thought. Your list isn't a matchmaking opportunity for me. It's a growth opportunity for you."
"I don't see why it can't be one and the same."
Grandpa bonked me on the head with a red pepper and added it to the cart. "Let's not mess up the dynamics of our already precariously balanced home."