Road To Nowhere (5 page)

Bill surprised her with the idea of auditioning after they’d been to a late movie. He was kissing her in his car outside her apartment. She was anxious to get inside before her dad came out, but at the same time she was hoping Bill wouldn’t stop with simple necking. Bill didn’t come on too strong, and she respected that. But now she wanted a little less respect and a lot more intimacy. She wanted to get closer to him, to love him more, and she didn’t know how to do that without having sex with him. But she couldn’t tell Bill that because she was too shy and he might not think she was good enough for him. That was the only thing she worried about when she was around Bill – how attractive he thought she was. His repeatedly telling her she was pretty didn’t free her from that insecurity. It seemed to heighten it, in fact.

“How would you like to have a bigger audience than me?” he asked, right in the middle of a passionate embrace. She had to pull back a foot to absorb what he had said, and even then she didn’t understand it.

“Pardon?” she said.

“I want other people to hear you sing,” Bill said.

“Why?”

“What do you mean, why? Because you’re great.”

“Do I have to be great for everybody? I like being great just to you. What are you talking about, anyway?”

“An audition,” Bill said.

“An audition for what?”

“At a club, down by the beach. It’s called the Summit. It’s a fun place. It has live talent every night. There's an audition this Tuesday afternoon. I think you should go. I’ll go with you. You’ll blow them away, I guarantee it. It’s a paying job, Teresa. You can make more in one night at the Summit than you do giving fifty private lessons.”

Teresa sat back. The windows of Bill’s car were steamed up. She reached over and cracked her window and took a deep breath of fresh air. “This is the craziest thing I ever heard,” she muttered.

“Why?”

“I can’t play at a club. I’m not loud. I’m not exciting. I don’t dance, and I certainly can’t get people up dancing. I play the guitar and piano and sing soft ballads. If I played at a club at night, people would go to sleep.”

Bill studied her intently. The light from a distant street lamp cut across his face, making him look like two people at once, neither of whom she knew as well as the guy she had just been kissing.

“The Summit hires all kinds of talent,” he said. “They have rock groups, rap groups – they have people who sing ballads. The main thing is they like people who are good. And you’re real good.”

“I’m in high school,” Teresa said.

“That doesn’t matter. It’s your talent that matters. Your age doesn’t count. They’ll recognize that, I guarantee it.”

She had to chuckle. “You can't guarantee anything, Bill. You’re in high school, too.”

He stopped. “I’ve already played them a tape of your stuff.”

“What?”

“You heard me,” Bill said.

“I don’t have a tape of my stuff. I’ve never taped anything.”

“I do. I have.”

“What? No. You taped me without my knowledge? How could you?” Her voice was choked with hurt. “How could you do that to me?”

“I didn’t do anything
to
you. I did something
for
you. Teresa, you're a wonderful girl, but you lack self-confidence. The only way you’re going to get it is by getting out into the big bad world and winning. You can win at this club. I played three of your songs for the owner and he just said, ‘I want that girl.’”

“Did you tell him how old I am?”

“I told him you were twenty-three.”

“Bill!”

“It doesn't matter! He wants you.”

She was close to crying and she didn't want to do that. Not in front of Bill. Crying girls were never attractive. She realized Bill had done what he had out of enthusiasm for her songs. Yet she felt violated. Her music was her secret. She had shared it with Bill, trusting him, and he had gone and told the whole world about it.

“It does matter,” she said. “I told you the first night, I’m not a performer. Entertaining people is a lot more than just being able to write music and songs. You have to have style and charisma. I’m not twenty-three. I’m barely eighteen, and I’m as charismatic as a doorknob.”

“Not when you close your eyes and sing,” Bill said.

“I don’t close my eyes when I sing.”

Bill laughed. “You always close your eyes when you sing. How do you think I was able to tape you without your knowing it?”

“You shouldn’t have done that, you know. I could sue you.” She pushed at him. “Stop laughing at me.”

“You're so beautiful when you're angry!”

She had to smile. “You’ve never seen me angry, buster.”

He kissed her suddenly, a quick one. “Will you do it?”

“No.”

“You have to.”

“Why?” she asked.

“Because I want you to. It will mean a lot to me. It’ll mean even more to you.”

“I’ll audition and they’ll see I’m just a kid.”

“We’ll dress you up,” Bill said. “You’ll look like a woman of the world when you walk in. You’ll look like Madonna.”

“I don't want to look like Madonna. She can’t sing.”

“And look how far she got. Will you do it?”

“No.”

“That no doesn’t sound as strong as the first one. Will you do it?”

“No.”

“They're getting weaker.”

“My parents won’t let me.”

“We won’t tell them.”

“What will we tell them?” she asked.

“That we’re running off for a romantic weekend – every weekend.”

She stared at him. He was so adorable and cute. She reached out and ran her hand through his hair. It was impossible to stay mad at him.

“Can we?” she asked.

“What?”

“Run away for a romantic weekend?”

He was surprised, but he recovered swiftly. “If you do this for me, Teresa, I’ll do anything for you.”

She considered, but not for long. “You have a deal, Mr. Bill.”

The Summit was bigger than Bill had led Teresa to believe. On a good night two hundred people could crowd in. When she got out of the car with Bill to check the place over, she wanted to faint.

“I can’t play here,” she said.

“What difference does it matter how big it is?” he asked. “Your eyes will be closed.”

He dragged her inside. There were no auditions going on then, just a chubby middle-aged custodian wiping tables up front. He had a cigar in his mouth and sweat dripping off his fat cheeks.

“We're here, Mr. Gracione,” Bill called.

“This isn’t the owner?” Teresa hissed in Bill’s ear.

“One and the same,” Bill said.

“Damn.”

“What?”

“Damn everything. I want to leave.”

“It’s too late now,” Bill said cheerfully.

“Are you the girl with the voice?” Mr. Gracione asked as he walked over. He had on a wine-coloured sports coat and a mine of gold chains around his hairy chest. He looked like a character who had been dug out of a scene from a
Godfather
movie. He stuck out his hand and Teresa felt as if she were being offered a bunch of sausages. Bill and he shook.

“This is the big lady,” Bill said. “Teresa, meet Mr. Gracione.”

“You look young,” he said to Teresa.

“Thank you,” she said.

The guy thought that was funny. They weren’t fooling him one bit. “I don’t care how old you are. I heard your tape. You really write that song?”

“Which song did you hear?” she asked.

“‘Until Then,’” Bill said.

“I wrote it,” Teresa told Mr. Gracione, surprised at the pride in her voice. He gestured to the stage at the front of the club.

“Play it for me now,” Mr. Gracione said. “Or something else, I don’t care. You have your guitar? Good. We won't bother with the mike for now. I’ll sit up front. Have you played in clubs before?”

“A few,” Teresa said.

“Which ones?” he asked. “You can make up names if you want, I’m not going to check.”

Bill mentioned three places in Hollywood that they had agreed upon ahead of time. Mr. Gracione grunted and took a seat. Bill walked her to the stage and left her there. That was the thing about being a performer. Someone could support you totally, be a hundred per cent behind you, but when it came down to it you had to do the performing alone. She set her case on the stage and opened it. Her guitar felt strange in her hands – as if she’d never held it before. She was so nervous, and there were only two people in the audience. How would she feel if there was a crowd? This was insane, this wasn't what she was about. Bill was trying to change her overnight, all the time telling her he liked her just the way she was. She turned to Mr. Gracione, prepared to say she couldn’t go through with it. The man was smiling at her.

“You got the shakes?” he asked. “Everybody who’s any good gets the shakes. If you didn’t get them I’d know you didn't care about your music. Teresa, I’m just a guy who owns a club. I’m not a judge for the Grammys. Just sing me a song or two.”

His words gave her confidence. “I’ll sing you something I wrote last week. It’s called ‘Warm Summer’.” She stepped up on to the stage and took a seat behind the silent microphone. She sat in shadow; the lights were all off. She strummed a few chords, liking the sound. She had tuned the guitar on the way down to Newport Beach. Clearing her throat once, she began.

The sweat of the night touches my skin.

I lie on the sheets.

Dreams waiting to begin.

For when, this sin.

I think of you touching my skin.

But I am not so bold.

I say only this to myself.

Skin waiting so cold.

For me, this gold

Would be having you to hold.

Warm summer, warm night.

With time you take flight.

Warm summer, cool night.

I miss you.

Do you miss me?

Tonight?

Days so long.

The sun burns my sky.

Everything seems so wrong.

For me, this sad song.

Is knowing you’ll be gone.

Still, you say, I love you.

Your words sound so fine.

But are they true?

For I, I love you.

I wish we could make this all brand-new.

Cold winter, cold night.

With time you took flight.

Cold winter, lonely night.

I still miss you.

Do you miss me tonight?

Tonight?

When she finished no one clapped – she hadn’t really been expecting it. But it would have been nice if Mr. Gracione had jumped up and cheered. He only stared at her with an odd expression, and his first question puzzled her.

“Are you two going together?” he asked.

She hesitated. “Yes.”

Mr. Gracione glanced at Bill. “But you’re getting along fine?”

“Great,” Bill said.

Mr. Gracione nodded. “Just wanted to be sure.” He grinned. “Teresa, you put such sorrow in your voice you had me worried for a moment. That’s an amazing song.”

“You liked it?” she asked, sounding as if she were three years old. “Do you want to hear more?”

He stood and clapped his hands together once. He was excited. “I loved it and I want to hear everything you’ve written. But I can tell you right now you’ve got a job here, if you want it. You’ll have to play Tuesday and Thursday evenings. Traditionally those are quiet nights – both for the number of people we draw and the music we offer. But when you get more experience we might stick you on a Friday or Saturday night, just to see how it goes. On weekends this place cooks. How does that sound?”

Teresa beamed. “Wonderful.” She knew she would remember this moment and feeling for a long time. Because it was a feeling she had never experienced before, except perhaps when Bill asked her out the first time. She looked at him from her triumphant place on the stage, and saw how happy he was for her. It was true; he had made it all possible. She couldn’t imagine loving him any more than she did right then. “It sounds wonderful,” she said.

Her opening night didn’t come for another two weeks. The delay was at her request. She wanted to get her act really together and polished. She was surprised to learn that Mr. Gracione didn't mind if she played the same songs twice in the same night – because she was to come on twice. Her set was to last about forty-five minutes. She was to go on at eight o’clock and then again at ten. Mr. Gracione hadn't gone totally out on the limb with her. He still had two other acts playing the same nights she did.

Teresa was delighted to learn that Mr. Gracione was an intelligent and sensitive man, one who was always in an upbeat mood. There was nothing he loved more than owning a place where people could have a good time. He told her, in fact, that it was OK if she bombed her first night out. He wasn't going to drop her because of it.

Strangely enough, or maybe it wasn’t so strange, while she got ready for her debut she saw less of Bill. Practising with him in the room didn't work. They’d end up spending most of the time talking. Also, he frankly didn't know much about music. He’d want her to change a chord on a particular song, or drop a line here or there, or add one that he’d written – his list of changes went on and on. She didn’t mind his making suggestions, it was just that they weren’t any good. It was hard to tell him that without hurting his feelings, but she managed somehow.

Telling her parents about her job proved the disaster she had anticipated. She broke the news to her father first and hoped he’d help her convince her mother that it was a good thing rather than the end of the world. Her father’s reaction was curious – he hardly reacted at all, which somehow hurt more than anything. But her mother was not so impartial. The lines started immediately. Was she out of her mind? Did she think she could just drive to the other side of the city twice a week – in the middle of the night for God’s sake – because she wanted to? In the car
they
had given her? Who did she think she was anyway? Madonna? What songs was she going to sing? When had she ever written songs? How come they hadn’t known about them? Why was she keeping secrets from them? What other things hadn't she told them? Who had put her up to this, anyway? Bill? Of course, it was that Bill. She shouldn’t be seeing so much of that guy anyway. He just wanted her for one thing. All guys did.