Loaded, p.9
Loaded, page 9
My damage just isn’t as obvious to everyone who sees me.
When she opens her mouth, I almost forget about the disfigurement. She has the smoothest, lightest, loveliest speaking voice I’ve ever heard. “Welcome to the finals of the Jello Jingle,” she begins. She explains how stiff the competition was, and that tonight’s prize includes a job—the Jello Jingle—as well as a cash prize, a small scholarship for some training, and the mentorship from a partner at one of the nation’s leading jingle firms.
I can see why they chose her as tonight’s emcee. She’s poised, well-spoken, and she has a beautiful speaking voice. “I’m delighted to announce that we have talented artists here with us tonight from across the globe. Our first finalist tonight, Dmita Frost, hails from Liverpool, England. She’s here in New York while completing a study abroad program for another four months, and this is her first time entering any musical contests. Please join me in warmly welcoming our contestant from across the Pond.”
Everyone claps as the petite black woman stands up and approaches the spot our emcee just vacated. She’s not playing the piano—but her recording playing from the speakers sounds just fine. Her jingle’s short and sweet, but her lungs are powerful. The melodic line is weak, and the words are a little frivolous, but her performance is clearly an A plus.
Next up is another shorty—do all short people go into music these days? His hair’s long and shaggy and almost covers his eyes. But when he starts his song—also using the option of a recorded accompaniment instead of the piano behind us—I can see how he made it into the finals. His words are punchy and memorable. If his tune is a little forgettable, well, we all have our strengths. His voice isn’t compelling, but it’s pleasant enough.
Next up is a very tall, very strong woman with arms that look at least as big as Emerson’s, if not quite as large as Jake’s. “My jingle came to me at my niece’s birthday party.” Unlike the others, she’s seated at the piano, and when she starts to play, I have to work not to cringe. Her dynamics are all over the place. Choppy. Loud and then soft.
But the melody is killer.
It’s the only one so far that I might find myself humming next week. And that’s bad, because that’s my biggest strength. I was hoping no one else’s would be catchy.
I’m hoping they call the very pretty gay man next, because I like going last. But when they call my name, I stand up, my legs working exactly as they should, blessedly. I walk toward the piano as calmly as possible, and then I sit, staring at the familiar keys.
It’s a Steinway S, a pretty common baby grand, and it usually has a rich, full sound, even in a large room like this. I adjust the microphone a bit—it was far too high, thanks to that tall woman—and then I close my eyes for a beat, counting off and then starting, specifically not looking out at the audience at all.
So much for Jake’s admonition to catch the judge’s eye.
There are many things, including most social situations, where I choke. There are times when I’m downright paralyzed. But with a piano in front of me, I never panic. Touching these keys has always been the place where I feel the most at home. For someone who didn’t have a home at all for a long time, that’s not nothing.
After I play the opening stanzas, I open my mouth and sing the simple, clear words. My voice has never floated. It has never soared. But it’s serviceable, and I don’t embarrass myself, at least. When I stand up, the audience claps pretty vigorously, which is always nice.
The last performance is probably technically the best. The guy sits at the piano too, and his navy-painted fingers move deftly across the keys. He flubs a spot and then another, but all-in-all, if I were a judge, I might pick his. It’s catchy without being annoying, and he has a nice, clear voice that doesn’t distract from his message, which is that Jello creates happy memories.
I’m bracing myself for bad news when the brunette with the burned face stands up. “Now, we didn’t tell you that audience votes actually compose ten percent of the scores for each jingle, and I’ll be the one performing the winning jingle on Jello’s behalf. So now that we’ve heard each song from the creator, I’m going to perform them myself. At the end, we’d love it if you could go to the website listed on the screen behind me and vote for the jingle you think is the best.”
It was interesting to hear the jingle from each creator, but it’s a real experience to hear it sung by this woman. Her face may have been damaged, but her voice. . . It’s like listening to Michelangelo work on the Sistine Chapel.
I’m convinced that each new jingle’s perfect, just because of how she sings it. I’m surprised they chose someone with such indescribable beauty to sing something designed to be catchy, but it somehow makes something corny sound classy.
Then she sings mine.
When I was comparing it to the others, it was hard. I mean, I was doing the playing and singing, so I couldn’t really listen. But as a less biased onlooker, I realize that mine is good.
Technically, the balance is perfect.
The words are catchy—Jake really helped there. They’re corny, but not painful. The melody is perfectly strung. For the first time, I wonder whether I might win. Once she sings the last one and asks everyone to vote, my hope is floating dangerously high.
It’s not about the money.
I mean, money’s nice, but it’s more about the chance to work with an agency. It’s about adding this to my resume and possibly springboarding from this into a real job. I’ve been out of school for almost three years now, and I’ve made no real inroads toward getting the kind of work that I want. I help my teacher with her small, side-gig jobs.
But I’m not paid, and my name’s never on anything.
This could be it.
When the woman approaches the podium again, an envelope in her hand, she’s smiling. “As many of you know, we have three industry judges, and their scores are worth fifty percent of the rating. The audience votes are worth ten percent, and Jello allocated the other forty percent to me, as the voice of their brand.”
That actually surprises me. I should have read more closely.
She pulls the paper out of the envelope. “Today’s first runner-up will receive a cash prize of five hundred dollars and a recommendation from our organization. Her melody was my very favorite, and her skill is undeniable. I was very impressed by Beatrice Cipriani.”
It takes me a second to realize. . .that means I lost.
In fact, I’m so busy processing my disappointment that I don’t even hear who won. Everyone else is clapping, and I’m just sitting in my seat, staring straight ahead like a zombie.
“Beatrice?” Someone’s poking me.
It’s the gay guy next to me. “You’re supposed to come up with me.”
He stops poking and just grabs my wrist, dragging me across the stage alongside him. “You got second place.”
I force a smile. “Congratulations. Your jingle was amazing.”
He shrugs. “Yours was better. I’m not sure how I won.”
But then we’re both bowing, and people are clapping, and someone is handing me a manila folder. The next few minutes pass in a blur of papers and smiles and murmured questions. I try to answer them all properly, but I’m not sure I’ve ever felt quite this numb.
Until I’m on my way toward the edge of the stage, finally. I’m sure Jake will be there, and Emerson. . .and Easton. I can feel my cheeks flush.
Because I lost.
They all came to cheer for me, and I lost.
“Beatrice,” a voice calls. A lilting, mellifluous voice.
I turn slowly, and the melted-face woman’s smiling at me. “Beatrice, I hope you’ll allow me just a moment.” She gestures, and I follow her toward the side curtain.
“Yes?” I blink. “Did I miss something? A signature?”
She shakes her head. “No, but I wanted to explain.”
“Explain?” I’m still feeling numb, and I’m clearly missing something.
“Your jingle was the best,” she whispers. “I knew it. The audience knew it. You should’ve won.”
For a brief moment in time, the sounds around me are all amplified, like the world that has been on pause comes screaming back to life. “What?” I must have misheard her, or worse, hallucinated.
“Your song was the best,” the woman says. “But you’ll get the scoresheet later, and you’ll be able to see that I scored yours much lower than the others. Without that, you’d have won.” She sighs. “I wanted to tell you why.”
My heart hasn’t been this crushed by anything since. . .well, maybe since the night I met Emerson and Seren and Dave for the first time. “You—why?”
“Your jingle was good. You have real talent.” She leans closer. “I’m stuck doing jingles—things where I can’t show my face. But you.” She sighs. “The sky’s the limit for you. I torpedoed you in this because this kind of thing clearly isn’t where you should be. It’s not even where you want to be—I saw that in your face when you were up there. You need to give up on jingles and write real music. Release all that sound that’s banging around in your head. The world needs quality music from real, pure musicians like you.”
After gutting me like a wriggling carp, she smiles and waltzes off.
9
Easton
I liked Bea before.
I really did.
She was classy, poised, funny, smart, and of course, absolutely beautiful. But now, after watching her up there, it’s like I’d never really seen her, not really. Not who she was inside. When she sat in front of that piano, she came alive.
I’d been looking at a Picasso hanging in a smoky old hotel.
I just saw the masterpiece on display in an exhibit at the Louvre.
What baffles me is, when her song was clearly the best, why didn’t she win? “She was robbed,” I say.
“I agree,” Emerson says. “Do you know what happened?” He turns toward Jake, who’s sitting on his other side. “I’m not a musician, but wasn’t hers the best?”
Jake’s frowning.
“I won’t say anything when she comes down here,” Emerson says. “But I think they picked that other kid just because—”
“Jingles are strange,” Jake says, “but I watched the people in front of me, and the people over there.” He tosses his head to his left. “They were all voting for her.”
“See?” Emerson shakes his head. “Something weird’s going on.”
“Winning runner-up is still pretty amazing,” I say. “They said there were over two hundred and fifty applicants.”
“And all the finalists were good,” Emerson says. “But still.”
But then Bea’s climbing down the steps near the stage, and she’s walking toward us. We scramble to leave the seats and greet her, but as she gets closer, it’s clear that she’s trying really hard to act like she’s fine when she’s not. I may not know her very well yet, but even I can see that.
“You were robbed,” Emerson says.
She shakes her head. “It’s fine. The competitors’ songs all sounded amazing.”
“Still.” Jake wraps an arm around her shoulders. “Yours was the best. Everyone around us agreed. Maybe next time you’ll actually let me take you shopping before so you look the part.”
Bea frowns. “If they can’t recognize my music because my dress cost thirty bucks at Ross Dress for Less, then they should—”
“Whoa,” Emerson says. “Your super rich brother offered to get you something nicer and you turned him down?” He shakes his head. “That guy who won was wearing some kind of designer, I’m sure.”
“Versace,” I say.
“Right.” Emerson smacks his forehead. “I forgot we have the king of couture right here with us.”
“Hardly,” I say. “I run the business side.”
“But you’re wearing a Givenchy suit,” Jake says.
“That’s because I never know when I might be photographed,” I say. “There’s an actual designer responsible for curating my wardrobe, and most of it comes from our lines.” I lift my arm. “Like these cuff links.” I can’t help chuckling. “I’m a walking billboard.”
Bea looks pained. I can’t believe I’m standing here talking about our cuff links when she’s been cheated.
“Sorry,” I say. “The point is that all three of us agreed. Your song was amazing, and the real loser today is Jello.”
“That’s true.” Emerson drops to a hissed whisper so loud he may as well have just kept talking. “Doesn’t it violate their duty to Jello? I mean, if this song is worse, won’t their sales be worse too?”
Bea’s smile this time looks real. “Actually, we all had to sign something saying that whoever submits gives them permission to use their song, so they could still use mine.”
“That’s crap,” I say. “If they use yours, you should sue them.”
Jake arches one eyebrow. “I bet they do use yours, though. It was catchier, and I’m not just saying that because I stayed up half the night working on it with you.”
I really hate that guy. It’s like he takes every opportunity to. . .wait. “You were up half the night with her?”
“I mean, that’s normal, though.” Jake’s smile is smug. “We live together. You did know that, right?” He drags Bea just a little closer. “Hornet’s a pretty decent cook, so when Emerson got married, I told her if she kept cooking, I’d pay Emerson’s share of the rent and mine.”
“You also kind of made his room your second closet.” Bea shoves his arm off. “So, you know. I don’t feel guilty about it.”
“I do help her with her stuff when she needs it,” Jake says. “And this jingle was really good.” He shrugs. “Maybe you should have had me sing it.”
“Speaking of singing, you said you don’t sing well,” I say. “But you sounded great.”
“I tell her that all the time,” Emerson says. “She’s not an opera singer like that other lady, but she has a great voice.”
“I’m really fine,” Bea says. “I got five hundred bucks, which is the most money my songs have ever made.”
“How much of that do I get?” Jake asks. “Like, a third?” He bites his lip, his expression boyishly impudent. I can see why all the girls gush about him, but I don’t have to like it.
“Stop badgering her,” Emerson says. “As if you’d take any of her money.”
“Beatrice, right?” The guy who won swaggers by. “There’s a big party in the room next door. You should stay and celebrate, too. Your song was really great.”
“Better than yours,” Jake says. “Must be nice to have people on the inside.”
“Wait,” the guy says, his jaw dangling for a moment. “Are you—Jake Priest?”
Jake frowns.
“What’re you doing here?” The guy beams. “You should definitely come to the party.”
Jake rolls his eyes. “My girl, Bea wouldn’t—”
Bea jabs him with her elbow. “Thanks for letting us know. We’ll definitely head over. And huge congratulations to you.”
“Wait, is Jake Priest your boyfriend?” the guy asks. “That’s insane.”
“He’s my brother,” Bea says.
“Foster brother,” Jake says, slinging his arm around her shoulders again. “And roommate.”
Bea rolls her eyes, but doesn’t shove him away again. “We’ll be there in just a minute. Congrats again.”
The guy’s still staring at Jake, but he does finally walk away.
“That must get annoying,” I say. “Having people recognize you everywhere.”
“It’s even worse when it’s a gaggle of girls,” Bea says. “They cling.”
“Can you believe her? We even live together, and she could just tell people she’s my girlfriend so they’d leave me alone, but she refuses to help me out.”
“One day you’ll have a real girlfriend,” Bea says. “And she wouldn’t appreciate me pretending that you have one now.”
“Doubtful,” Jake says.
She ducks under his arm and heads for the side door the guy just disappeared through. I take my chance to circle around Emerson and Jake and take a spot at her side. “You seem to handle disappointment pretty well.”
She looks at me sideways, her lips twisted. “I’ve had a lot of experience, and I’ve had plenty of examples of how unattractive it is when someone doesn’t take things well.”
“Jake?” I can’t help imagining what Jake throwing a tantrum looks like.
“She’s talking about her mom,” Emerson says. “Her birth mother.”
She shrugs. “Not a surprise that I have a birth mom who’s a mess, probably, since you know they’re my foster brothers.”
“Well, I thought it was impressive. A lot of people would be too bummed out to go to a party.”
She frowns then. “I didn’t say I’m not bummed, but I’m too angry to get depressed.”
“Angry?” I wouldn’t have thought she was mad. She looks fine. “Why?” I lean closer. “Do you think something weird happened?”
Jake grabs two drinks off a tray and offers her one.
Bea, who’s quite small and has always seemed quite reserved, knocks the martini back in one smooth motion. “Thanks.”
Jake looks floored, like he didn’t expect she’d take it.
She hands it back to him and grabs the second drink too. “I needed that.” She looks right at him. “That woman who was the emcee?”
“She sang like. . .” Jake whistles. “I’ve never heard a voice like that.”
“Well.” Bea swears under her breath. “She told me that my song was the best, and that I would have won, but she intentionally voted me last.”
Jake’s entire face falls. “She—what?” His voice is way, way too loud. Plenty of people are looking our way now.
