Big Time Page 3

  “I get the picture, Dad,” I say.

  “What we’re trying to say,” says Mom, “is—”

  “I know what you’re trying to say,” I tell them. “Practice makes perfect. Get back on the horse and ride. If I want to take music seriously, I have to start getting serious.”

  They look surprised.

  “Exactly,” they say at the same time.

  “That’s all great advice,” I tell them. “I’m just not sure I really want to sing anymore, is all.”

  “What are you talking about?” asks Mom. “Of course you do! You’ve been singing since you could barely walk, and you talked about this Big Time audition for months.”

  “Yeah, and look how that turned out,” I say. “No offense, guys, but I don’t really want to talk about this anymore. Is it okay if I go hang out in my room? I just want to be alone for a while.”

  “Of course you can, sweetie,” says Dad.

  “Take the flowers with you,” says Mom. “They’ll help cheer you up.”

  I grab the vase and bring it upstairs to my room, placing it on my dresser and stopping for a minute to stare at the old album covers I have stuck on my wall. Loretta Lynn, Patsy Cline and Marla Belle Munro stare out at me, all big hair and bright eyes and wide smiles, hanging on to microphones like their lives depend on it. I wonder if anyone ever told them they were boring, that they lacked stage presence. Somehow I doubt it.

  I grab my laptop from my desk and flop onto my bed. I notice right away that I have a friend request and a new message. It’s from Poppy.

  Hey you! Hopefully this is Gerri Jones from the Big Time auditions, otherwise ignore this message because I’ll sound like a crazy person! How did your audition go? I asked a production assistant in the waiting area, but she told me they couldn’t give me any info about other contestants. Guess what? I made it! I’m flying to Toronto in a week for sudden-death round. Eek! Anyway, holla at me when you have a minute. Kisses! Poppy.

  I’m not surprised that Poppy made it. Not only does she have a killer voice, but she’s got me beat hands down when it comes to stage presence. I’m sure she was able to waltz into the audition room and shine that big smile at the judges and convince them that she’s got what it takes for Big Time, maybe even to go all the way. I’m not jealous, exactly. I’m really happy for Poppy, but I can’t help wishing I had her star quality. I guess some of us are born for the stage and some of us aren’t.

  I send her back a quick note, congratulating her and telling her my own news. She replies almost instantly.

  They don’t know what they’re missing, Gerri. You’ll just have to come back next year and show them how wrong they were. Wish me luck and promise you’ll meet me for coffee when I get back to town. It’ll probably be sooner than later haha! Xoxo. P.

  I’m supposed to call my friend Meg and fill her in on how the audition went, but I don’t feel like going over everything yet again. Instead I just lie on my bed, staring at the ceiling. I know my parents are right, that real musicians work really hard to be good at what they do. The thing is, I’ve been watching Big Time religiously since I was seven years old, and I know enough to realize that when someone comes in with enough raw talent, the judges will snatch them up and teach them how to work hard and get where they need to go. I’ve been waiting patiently for the day I became old enough to audition, preparing for the moment when I’d finally get to prove myself, and now that moment has come and gone. I’ve missed my big opportunity.

  Now Poppy’s about to be whisked away to Toronto, to the stage I’ve imagined walking onto for years, and I’m at home in my room. It was nice of Maria Tillerman to give me some words of encouragement, but I know I’ll never try out for Big Time again. I’d have to be able to show up next year and convince them that I’m a totally different person. It doesn’t matter how much practicing I do between now and then, I’m never going to be what they want me to be.

  Chapter Five

  Meg comes running up to my locker the next morning before I’ve even had a chance to hang up my jacket.

  “Okay, what the heck?” she says. “What happened? Why didn’t you call me?”

  “Sorry, I didn’t feel like talking about it.”

  “Oh no!” she says. “The jerks didn’t take you?”

  I just shake my head as I pull out my math book and shut my locker.

  “Ugh,” she says, hurrying to keep up as I walk down the hallway to Mr. Romo’s room. “So what happened, anyway?”

  “I still don’t feel like talking about it,” I tell her.

  “Oh come on, Gerri!” she says. “You’re the closest thing I have to a celebrity friend! How else am I going to live vicariously?”

  I laugh. “Celebrity friend? I was rejected from a reality singing show.”

  “Yeah,” she says. “But you got to talk to the judges! And there were cameras pointed at you, right?”

  “Seriously, Meg, I just don’t want to get into the messy details right now.”

  “Okay, fine,” she says. “Take some time to lick your wounds, but I want to hear all about it by the weekend.”

  I might not want to talk about it, but that doesn’t stop people from asking me about it. Everyone seems to know about the audition, and I have to just grin and bear it as one person after another comes up to find out how things went. I’m grateful when Denny Moir accidentally spills chocolate milk all over Valerie LaMarsh at lunchtime and I become old news.

  I’m on my way to the last class of the day when Ms. Kogawa, the music teacher, stops me in the hallway.

  “Gerri, I’ve been looking for you.”

  I’m surprised, since I don’t have music this semester.

  “I wonder if you can come see me in the music room after school,” she says. “It’ll only take a minute.”

  “Um, I guess so?” I wonder if I’m in trouble about something.

  “Don’t look so nervous,” she says, laughing. “It’s not a big deal, but I don’t really have time to explain right now.”

  “Okay,” I say. “I’ll be there.”

  I find it hard to concentrate in English class, and I’m happy that I’m not called on to answer any questions about Lord of the Flies. As the teacher talks about how the powerful, mean kids make life on the island miserable for the powerless kids, I’m reminded of the Big Time judging panel. After school, Meg asks if I want to go to the mall with her, but I tell her I have to stick around. I wait by my locker until everyone’s cleared out. Then I walk down to the music room.

  Ms. Kogawa looks up from her desk when I come into the room.

  “Thanks for coming, Gerri,” she says. “Grab a seat.”

  I pull a chair over and sit across from her desk.

  “I’ll get right to the point,” she says. “I heard through the grapevine that you tried out for that singing show.”

  Poppy’s version of “I Heard It Through the Grapevine” immediately runs through my head, and I smile.

  “Yeah,” I say. “Big Time. I didn’t make it.”

  “I heard that too,” she says. “I have to say, I was a bit surprised. You’ve never joined school band or performed in any of our yearly concerts. I didn’t know you were a musician.”

  “I’m not,” I say. “Not really. I just sing a little bit, for fun. I’m not very good.”

  “What makes you say that?” she asks. “You thought you were good enough to try out for the show, right?”

  “Yeah, and then they didn’t take me.”

  She waves her hand as if swatting a fly away. “I wouldn’t read too much into that, Gerri. Anyway, enough beating around the bush. I’m starting a choral club, and I wonder if you’d like to join?”

  “A choral club?” I ask. “Like on Glee?”

  “I guess you could say that,” she says. “Not nearly as elaborate though. It’ll be more of a bare-bones operation, no costumes or choreography or pyrotechnics, but it will be a lot of fun. It’s extracurricular, but you’ll learn a lot too.”


  I’ve never considered joining a group chorus. When I’ve sung in the past, it’s always been by myself or with my granddad.

  “I don’t think it’s my thing,” I say. “I’m not really into that kind of music.”

  “What kind of music?” she asks.

  “You know, like choir music and stuff.”

  She laughs. “Well, I don’t know if it will change your mind or not, but part of the fun of being in a choral club is picking the songs to sing and coming up with cool arrangements. We can do pretty much any kind of music we’re interested in. Everyone will have a say and the group will decide.”

  “Thanks, Ms. Kogawa, but I don’t think it’s for me. I appreciate you thinking of me though. Really.”

  We both stand up and she walks me to the door.

  “Well, it never hurts to ask,” she says. “If you change your mind, feel free to show up here for our first rehearsal. Sunday at one o’clock.”

  When I leave the school, I text Meg and then walk to the mall to meet up with her. She’s hanging out in the food court, sipping on an Orange Julius and staring blatantly at a group of guys goofing around a couple of tables away from her.

  “You’re so obvious,” I say.

  “What are you talking about?” she asks. “Those boys should count themselves lucky that I think they’re worth checking out.”

  I look over at them in time to see one guy stick a French fry up his nose as his buddies laugh like a bunch of orangutans.

  “They sure look like a bunch of winners,” I say.

  “They can’t all be Prince Harry,” she says. “Come on, I want you to tell me what you think about some shoes I saw at Sexy Pixie.”

  Usually, helping Meg pick out clothes is the most boring job on earth, but today I’m happy to be distracted, so I follow her up the escalator to the top floor of the mall.

  “So what did you need to stick around school for?” she asks.

  “Ms. Kogawa wants me to try out for her choral club,” I say.

  “Whoa,” says Meg. “Lame. You told her no, right?”

  “Yeah,” I say.

  “Good,” she says. “The last thing your street cred needs is to be seen singing ‘Wind Beneath My Wings’ with Bernice Sneed and whatever other music geeks Kogawa’s rounded up.” She shudders. “You’d probably have to do jazz hands and everything.”

  “I don’t think it’s like that,” I say, but she isn’t listening.

  “Check out that top!” she says, beelining to the Sexy Pixie store. I’m about to follow her when I catch the eye of a guy coming out of the music store. We recognize each other at the same time. It’s Keith, the cute guitar guy from the auditions.

  He smiles and walks over to me. “Gerri, right?” he asks.

  I can’t believe he remembers my name. “Yeah,” I say. “Keith?”

  “That’s right. How’s it going? How was your audition yesterday?”

  “Ugh,” I say. “Not good. They tore me apart.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” he says. “But you know what they say, misery loves company. I didn’t make it either.”

  “Wow,” I say. “That really surprises me.”

  “Ditto,” he says. “So was Tim Canon really mean to you?”

  “Yes!” I say. “He told me I was the most boring performer he’d ever seen!”

  “That’s nothing,” says Keith. “He told me I was an unkempt folksinger wannabe and a simpering cliché.”

  “What does that even mean?” I ask.

  “I have no idea,” he says. “But I’m totally gonna write a song called ‘Simpering Cliché’.” He laughs.

  “You write your own songs?”

  “Yeah,” he says. “Some of them. I do covers and stuff too, but I love writing. I’m kind of happy that I didn’t make it onto Big Time, because they don’t let you do originals. I won’t lie though—it was a blow to the ego.”

  “Tell me about it,” I say.

  “Oh well, maybe I am a cliché. But I’m not going to give up playing music because those jerks didn’t like me.”

  I just nod, thinking that it must be nice to have real musical talent. Keith’s the real deal, not a poser like me.

  “I should get going,” he says. “I’m supposed to meet my dad in the parking lot. Cool seeing you, Gerri.”

  “Yeah, you too,” I say.

  I watch as he disappears into the crowd. I’m not even aware that Meg has walked up next to me until she reaches out and pokes me.

  “You’re so obvious,” she says.

  “Cut it out,” I say, blushing.

  “Who was that shaggy masterpiece?” she asks.

  “Just a guy I met at the auditions.”

  “Maybe it wasn’t such a waste of Big Time after all,” she says. “Did you get his number?”

  “No,” I say. “It wasn’t like that.”

  She rolls her eyes at me. “Gerri, you need a life coach, do you know that?”

  Chapter Six

  On Saturday I decide to visit my granddad at the seniors’ residence where he lives. Lilac Grove Retirement Complex is way out in the suburbs, so I have to make two bus transfers and then walk several blocks to get there. I don’t mind, though, because it’s a nice day. When I arrive at Lilac Grove, lots of elderly folks are wandering about the grounds, but not Granddad. I know exactly where I’ll find him.

  Sure enough, he’s on the wide back veranda, happily strumming on his guitar and smiling down at the other residents who pass in front of him as they wander through the flower gardens.

  “Gerri!” he says, waving happily when he sees me. “How’s my girl?”

  “I’m great, Granddad,” I say, leaning down to hug him. “How are you?”

  “Well, it’s hard to complain on a day like this,” he says. “Have a seat.”

  I pull a wicker chair up beside his bench and sit down.

  “What were you playing?” I ask.

  In response, his fingers begin to pick out a cheerful bluegrass melody that I recognize right away. After a few bars, he starts singing.

  You are my sunshine, my only sunshine

  You make me happy when times are gray…

  I love my granddad’s voice. It’s sweet and simple, with a soft, husky edge. I smile broadly at him and tap my feet with the rhythm, happy to be listening, but after another verse, he stops abruptly.

  “Gerri,” he says. “What in blazes is wrong?”

  “What do you mean, Granddad?”

  “I’ve been playing that song for you since you weren’t even up to my knee,” he says. “That’s the first time you haven’t joined in.”

  “Sorry,” I say. “I guess I don’t really feel like singing today. I love listening to you though. You should keep playing.”

  “Not a chance, sweetheart,” he says. “You’ve gotta pay if you want to hear me play, and the only currency I’ll accept is your pretty voice.”

  He carefully lays his guitar down on the bench next to him and leans in to look me in the eye.

  “Tell me what’s wrong, Gerri.”

  “It’s no big deal,” I say. “It’s just this stupid TV show.”

  “Is this the one you were talking about last time you visited? The singing contest?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “I had my audition last week. They didn’t pick me.”

  “So now you don’t want to sing because some TV people didn’t want you on their show?”

  “Yeah, I guess,” I say, shrugging.

  “Are these people friends of yours?” he asks.

  “No. They’re the judges. They travel to cities around the country and look for talent.”

  “So some complete strangers didn’t much care for your singing, and that bothers you enough that you won’t even sing with your dear old granddad the way you have been since you were just a wee little thing?”

  “It’s not like that,” I say, although it kind of is like that.

  “Do you remember when I moved in here, Gerri?” he asks me. “
How unhappy I was?”

  I nod.

  “I missed your grandma something fierce,” he says. “I missed that little house we spent all those years in, and the garden we planted together. I missed my workshop and my reading chair next to the big brick fireplace. Moving in here felt like a death sentence, like I was giving up my independence.”

  I remember how sad he was all the time, sitting in his room and staring out the window. Before Lilac Grove, I’d always loved visiting my grandfather, but when he had to sell the house and move into his little apartment, it stopped being fun.

  “I remember that,” I tell him. “You were depressed.”

  “I got over it though, didn’t I?” he asks. “Do you want to know how?”

  “Sure,” I say.

  “Well, Gerri, I was sitting in my room one day, a few months after I moved in, just staring at the television. I don’t even remember what I was watching—probably wasn’t even paying attention to it. Anyway, a commercial came on and the jingle in the background was an old country-and-western tune I used to play, and I started kind of humming along and tapping my feet. Before I even realized what I was doing, I was up out of my chair, digging around in the closet.”

  He reaches over and picks up his guitar. “I hadn’t so much as looked at this old girl the whole time I’d been living here, but she was in there waiting for me.”

  He starts to play a cheerful, fast-paced tune that I recognize right away. This time, when he starts to sing, I lean forward in my chair and join him. I’m still not really in the mood to sing, but I don’t want to disappoint him a second time.

  Hey, hey, good-lookin’

  Whaaaatcha got cookin’?

  The funny thing is, as our voices weave together and I fall naturally back into the harmonies that Granddad taught me so many years ago, I start to enjoy myself. There’s something really nice about singing with someone whose voice fits well with yours. On the surface, you wouldn’t necessarily expect my high young voice to match with Granddad’s husky old baritone, but when they blend, a whole new sound emerges. It’s hard to know where it even comes from.

  He brings the song to a close with a tidy little riff and a couple of pats on the guitar, then reaches over and slaps me on the knee.