Tune It Out

1

Bagels and Joe

Bagels and Joe can’t be more than the size of your average motel room, but it is wall-to-wall jars of roasted coffee beans. It smells nutty and warm on this cold September morning. No one looks for a truant in a place like this. Ordinarily I love it here, curled up with a book and headphones in a corner where I can be any age at all in the low light. But today I can’t hide. Because today I am the entertainment.

It’s been a month since our last show and my most recent episode. I can still feel the terrible panic, hear the confused voices of the crowd, and see Mom trying to gather our money and run. I suppose I should be grateful for the four-week break with no shows along the lake. She has a job now too, at the diner down the road, so we’ve usually got enough leftover hash browns and day-old donuts to keep us fed. But that doesn’t mean she still hasn’t been trying, like always, to land me the next big gig. And today we’ve got a show.

I can’t tell if the time off has made the fear better or worse. Do I want to throw up more or less than I normally do before a performance? It’s too close to call.

It doesn’t help that Bagels and Joe is also the place to come in Lake Tahoe to find undiscovered talent. I can’t believe Mom finally talked Joe, the owner, into it. Maybe he heard about what had happened in front of the restaurant. Everybody always feels sorry for me after they see me melt down.

That can’t happen today. Mom’s already given me the stand tall, be brave, keep it together speech. She also tacked on the you have a gift to share with the world speech for good measure. But there are so many people clinking cups and scraping forks on plates. They’ve crammed themselves around wobbly tables that Joe himself moved out through the open doors and onto the deck. I am standing with my back to it all, tuning Mom’s guitar and swallowing buckets of air. No matter how many breaths I take, it’s not enough. I feel light-headed and fluttery, like a paper caught on a fence.

The tuning is good. It gives my hands something to do. I won’t be playing the guitar, though. That’s Mom’s job. Whenever it comes time to sing in front of people, I can’t do anything but squeeze my hands tight behind my back. I used to close my eyes, too, but once I turned eleven, Mom said I had to keep them open or I’d creep out the customers. Good. Let them be as creeped out by me as I am by them. It’s like the moment right before you’re supposed to blow out the candles on your birthday cake, when all the pressure’s on you. Except none of them can step in and help if I can’t do it.

I look out over the railing. The lake and the sky are the same blue—so light they’re almost white, and it makes me think of heaven. And rest and quiet. I tug at Mom’s sleeve so she’ll pull back from the audience she’s currently meeting and greeting.

I want to start with the Patty Griffin song, I whisper. She nods without looking away from the couple in spandex active wear at the front table.

She jerks a glittery pink thumbnail toward them so only I can see. Ray Bans and Rolexes, she says. Today’s the day, baby. I can feel it. Somebody in this pack is a scout from LA.

She stares at the couple, lazily stirring their coffees with tanned hands, like she’s hungry for something that has nothing to do with food. My insides turn to soup, and I feel sloshy and heavy all at once. My suede jacket feels too tight. Like saran wrap that’s shrinking. Joe gives me a thumbs-up over by the open doors. He’s been nice, nice enough to let me sing on his property and to allow Mom in all her glory to put up flyers everywhere and basically boss his servers around all morning long. There’s always some promising musician up here trying to get a Saturday spot on the deck. He must do pretty well. I bet he doesn’t have to sleep in a truck like Mom and me. I shoot him a tiny smile.

Maybe this time will be different. At least out here on the deck, the customers are a good four feet away. No unexpected touches. I take a breath like I’m about to dive underwater as Mom starts to speak in the voice she saves especially for shows. She sounds like the ringmaster in a circus. Or a car salesman.

"Now this show is about to get under way, and we so appreciate your attendance. If you would, please hold your applause until the end. And boy will you want to applaud. She pauses and chuckles like she always does. And now, the lovely Louise Montgomery!"

My insides have liquefied. But I hand Mom the guitar and watch her count off: A one, a two, a one two three four— and then I find it. One red spot on a pine branch five feet away, just above the heads of the spandex couple. It’s a cardinal. And today he’s going to be who I sing to so I don’t have to look at the crowd. I fix my eyes on him, and as I do, he turns his tufted head toward me and our eyes meet and it is luck and it is just enough to get me going.

I let the beat of Mom’s guitar strum through me and start low, lower than a twelve-year-old girl should be able to go, or so Mom says. I sing of heaven and clouds and troubles blowing away in the wind.

I go high on the trouble, and my cardinal friend cocks his head, like he knows I’m lying, because nothing chases away trouble. Except maybe the sound of my own voice in my head.

I close my eyes and let the music take me. I sing of sorrow and time I can’t borrow, and too soon I feel a tightening in my gut over what I have to do when the song’s over. I never want it to end. If I could sing forever, I would. Then I’d never have to speak to a living soul other than my mom.

I go so low on the last line that it feels like a secret to myself. I say it over and over. Finally, my voice quivers to a stop like a penny settling on a counter. When the applause hits, it’s loud and sharp and knocks me back like a crack of thunder. The cardinal springs from his tree, and I drop to my knees. I will not rock back and forth. I will not whimper and whine. We can’t have a repeat of what happened at Christy’s. We can’t. I bite my tongue until I taste blood.

I feel Mom come up behind me. She shoves the guitar at me and mutters, Pretend like you’re tuning. She’s covering. Like she always does. She tosses her dyed blond hair over her shoulder and begins a speech mostly knit together with thank-yous. She takes her time asking for requests from the group, beaming most of her megawatt smile at the couple at the front table. I get myself under control.

By the time we begin the rest of our set, I am back to normal enough to finish three more songs. When the applause comes again, I stick my fingers in my ears while pretending to hold my hair back for a curtsy. I’m so relieved it’s over I feel woozy.

Joe approaches with a cup of coffee. I take it and breathe it in. The foam and sugary sweetness hit me like smelling salts and bring me back to myself. I study Joe over my cup while he keeps an eye on the crowd. He’s a muscly guy with tan lines from his sunglasses that make him look like a very nice raccoon. Right now, his arms are crossed like he’s my own personal bodyguard. People give us space.

Not bad, Louise. Not bad at all, he says once the crowd begins to move back inside. Your mom was right when she said you had the pipes.

I smile into my cup.

Don’t tell her I caffeinated a minor, okay?

We both look over to where she’s standing, her hands on the hips of her tightest black jeans, talking to the Ray Ban guy.

I don’t think she’d care.

No? Joe gives me a look like he wants to ask more. I’ve already said too much, gotten too comfortable. He’s easy to talk to, and that’s a problem. What happens between me and Mom stays between me and Mom.

I begin packing up the guitar and tasseled rug we unroll for performances.

Thanks for the joe, Joe, I say.

Was that a joke? He makes a shocked oh face, and I laugh, because the caffeine has kicked in and I’m happy my job is done for the day. I didn’t think you had it in you. Stay cool, Louise, he says, and walks back into the café, throwing a dish towel over his shoulder.

Oh no. Mom is leading the fancy spandex couple over, and I immediately tense up. I guess I’m not quite done for the day after all.

Mom starts the introductions.

Louise, I’d like you to meet Howard Maze.

Howie. Please. Howie sticks out a big hand with stubby fingers. I can’t do it. A shake is too much. I give a little wave instead. He doesn’t seem to mind.

This is my wife, Margaret. Maggie.

Howie and Maggie. Same height, same glasses, same dark hair. They could have been cartoon supervillains.

We’re a husband-and-wife talent team—the Maze Agency. We’re a family business, and we’re in the business of making families’ dreams come true, Howie says like he’s in a commercial. And we love your sound.

You’ve really got something, honey, Maggie chimes in, lifting her glasses and eyeing me up and down. Kind of raspy, like a modern Stevie Nicks.

A tiny dynamo, like Amy Winehouse, Howie adds.

But fragile-looking, counters Maggie, like early Taylor Swift. This is too weird. I feel my jacket getting tight again. Mom nods. She’s been following the two of them as they size me up like it’s a tennis match. But I’m white-knuckling the coffee cup for all I’m worth. I can do this. I can be calm. Please, please don’t let the Mazes try to touch me.

Just as Howie’s reaching toward me like he wants to try that handshake again, Mom bumps Howie’s shoulder with hers like they’re old friends and says, I told you you were in for a treat. He drops his hand as she keeps talking. And this is just a taste. Wait until you hear her miked and in studio.

What is Mom doing? I study my toes while the three of them look at me. I have never set foot in a studio in my life. She’s making promises I can’t keep.

Yeah, I believe it. I like her sound already. And the acoustics out here are zilch. I’m thinking commercial jingles at first. Then we’ll talk singles. She’s young yet. Does she act? Could she do Disney?

The idea of television makes me want to puke. I consider puking right here to prove my point, but he keeps talking, more to himself than to us.

Never mind, never mind, he says. This is vacation, not business, and believe it or not, we like to keep the two separate.

It’s the first thing he says that makes me think I might like Howie Maze. Maybe he really is a family guy, and it’s not just a line? Disney’s a joke. Commercials of any kind are a joke. There’s no way a camera pointed at me would turn out well. But could I handle being alone in a studio? I picture it. A black box with nothing inside it but me and the music. It sounds soothing, like a sleeping bag zipped all the way up. But he ruins the dream with what he says next.

We can’t tell anything until we get her into our offices back in LA. We’ve got a studio there, and we’ll see how she reads and looks on camera. Do you have a headshot?

For just one second Mom looks as panicked as I feel. But then it’s gone. Ah no. Sorry, Howie. Left those on the plane, I’m afraid. It was a rough transfer from Chicago to Reno.

We have never been on a plane in our lives.

Maggie taps my shoulder, and I flinch. Here, honey, you take this. She hands me an ivory card with THE MAZE AGENCY printed on it in big blue letters. Call us at the office, and we’ll set something up when we get back. She turns to her husband, who is snapping to-go lids on both their lattes. What do you think, Howie, end of next week?

Next week. Yeah, that should work. Vacation first, then work.

Excellent. We’ll check our schedule and get back to you, Mom says like we’re on tour. But the Mazes are already making their way through the doors and back out into the Tahoe morning.

I swallow the last of my coffee and stare into the bottom of my cup. This was supposed to be free coffee and enough of a gig to keep Mom happy for another few weeks. Despite all her pep talks over the years, I never thought I’d actually have someone think I was good enough to sign. I love to sing because the sound of my own voice in my ears steadies me. It makes me feel stronger than I am. I try to imagine doing that in front of cameras and crowds and high fives and handshakes and applause. An acidy burp escapes my throat and burns. As soon as the Mazes disappear, I grab Mom’s hand.

Mom, we can’t go to LA next week.

Why not? She’s smiling and clicking her fingers together like there’s a song playing I can’t hear.

Because… you have a job here.… Because I like the mountains and the quietness of this place, I think. Because if someone tries to fit me for a Disney costume, I will implode.

A job? She stops and points to a stool so I’ll sit. "You mean the minimum-wage, no-insurance, waitress job? Yeah, tough decision there."

I shake my head. I hate it when she gets sarcastic with me. The deck is almost empty now that the free entertainment’s over. I move to set my cup on the stool next to me, and it wobbles because my hands are shaking again. She sees it and leans her shoulder, as carefully as always, into mine. I sigh with relief at the weight of it. If either of us were to pull away, we’d both topple over.

It’s about a seven-hour drive down to LA, she says in a low, calm voice. How about this—we go next week, see what happens? The way it comes out, she sounds like she couldn’t care less if I get it or not. But I know better. And then, hey, if they love you as much as I think they will, we’ll sign a big contract, make this our home base, and fly back and forth like fancy jet-setters?

There it is. Her not-so-secret Hollywood dream life. But I can’t pretend I don’t