I'm Glad I Did (3 page)

I almost smiled. “Definitely the black sheep.”

“You're in high school, right?”

“I graduated last week.”

“You must be smart,” Bobby observed. “You going to college?”

“Yeah, I got into Barnard, but I could work part-time after school in the fall if you wanted me to.”

“I got it.” He leaned back and closed his eyes. “Now play me something you wrote. Play me a song you've written that should be recorded.”

The last bit caught me off guard. I had never thought about getting my songs recorded. I just wrote what I liked. But wasn't that what I was here for? My heart was pounding like a bass drum as I sat down, but once my fingers touched the keys, I was home.

The song was called “We Will Rise.” I had written it only last week, so it was fresh in my mind and my fingers. I wanted to write something idealistic. The feel came from a folk song I loved that Pete Seger sang called “We Shall Overcome.” My song was proud with similar gospel chord changes and lots of passing tones. The words of my first verse went:

I tried not to let my nerves make me speed up. I made believe I was playing just for me, and when I did that, I actually thought it sounded pretty good.

When I finished, there was dead silence.

I looked at Bobby. His eyes were still closed. “What else do you have that you think I could pitch?” he asked without opening them.

That shook me up. I'd only rehearsed one song. My mind went blank. I had never heard the word
pitch
before used in this way, but I could guess what he meant. He wasn't talking baseball. He wanted a song he could play for a record company. A song to show him I was worth hiring.

Then I remembered one I'd written a year ago called “Where Would I Be.” I had fallen in love with the score
How to Succeed in Business Without Really Trying
, and my favorite song was “I Believe in You.” It was a love song, but the character, J. Pierrepont Finch, sang it to himself in the mirror. I tried to write a pop song that did the same thing, that made sense as a song you could sing to yourself or someone else. I wanted it to have the same kind of lilt and drive and humor as “I Believe in You.” I wasn't sure many pop songs had any humor, but why not try to write one?

It started with the chorus, but I played it out of tempo so it almost sounded like an intro until the tempo picked up. I had to concentrate hard to remember the words.
Once I began, though, they came rolling off my tongue. I made believe I was looking at myself in the mirror like J. Pierrepont Finch.

It was hard not to speed up, and my hands got kind of clammy, but I made it through without a major screw-up. Then I sat there, heart still pounding, listening to the loudest silence of all time.

Finally Bobby sighed. He opened his eyes and looked straight at me. “You don't listen to the radio, do you?” It was a statement in the form of a question. He didn't wait for an answer. “You listen to folk music and go to Broadway musicals, right? You need direction lyrically. If you want to write pop songs, forget complicated ideas. Don't try to be funny. I can't get records on inspirational songs with inner rhymes or lyrics that sound like something out of a musical comedy. You need to write words that come from your heart and can touch the hearts of other girls your age. Write about how you feel. Write about love.”

I opened my mouth and then closed it. Love? What did I know about love?

“Do your homework,” Bobby continued. “Listen to the radio. Listen to Cousin Brucie and Murray the K. Learn the Top Ten songs well enough to play them backward and forward. Study grooves, chord progressions, and ideas. You need to remember three things: Simple, simple, simple. Thanks for coming in.” He stood up and held out his hand.

I took it, fighting back tears. “Thanks for your time,” I mumbled and sprinted for the door.

“How'd it go?” asked Rona as I raced past her.

I shook my head and bolted through the inner sanctum and reception area. Out in the hall, I allowed myself to cry as I leaned on the elevator button. Fortunately, when the doors opened, the elevator was empty except for Nick, the operator. My nose was leaking along with my eyes. My handkerchief was a soggy, coffee-stained mess, so when Nick handed me a Kleenex, I took it gratefully.

“Hey, who did what to make a cute kid like you cry those big tears?” he asked sympathetically.

“Bobby Goodman,” I told him between sobs. “He basically told me I'm an untalented idiot.”

“Not a good feeling.”

“No, my mother'll be happy, though. She doesn't want me to be a songwriter. She hates the music business.”

“Most mothers do. What does she know?”

“A lot.” I sniffed, then shoved the Kleenex in my pocket, trying to regain some composure as the elevator descended. “Her brother is the godfather of the music business.”

“Bernie Rubin?”

“That's him.”

We reached the lobby. Nick hesitated before he opened the door. “I don't want to open up until you're okay,” he said.

“I'm as okay as I'm gonna be. I won't have to tell my family anything now. Nobody knew I was applying for this job. I'll just have to go to work for my mother this summer. Good for me.” The thought sent more tears rolling down my cheeks.

Nick sighed. “Listen, kid, there's one thing I know for sure: ya never know what's gonna happen, so save the tears for when you really need 'em. You may be wasting them today.”

It was such a sweet thing to say—and he was such an unlikely guy to say it—that I dried my eyes and almost smiled.

“Good for you, kiddo,” Nick said, smiling back. He pulled the door open with a flourish.

AFTER WANDERING THE STREETS
for a few hours in a fog of self-pity, I finally shambled home at two o'clock. Juana was the only person in the apartment, of course. I strolled past her nonchalantly and headed for my bedroom. But she'd caught a glimpse of my face, and in less than a minute she was knocking on my door.

“Go away, please,” I pleaded.

Today she chose not to listen. She opened the door and sat down beside me on the bed, which for some reason opened the floodgates again. She didn't even ask what
was wrong, just patted my back, and when I sat up, she pulled me close. Now I realized what she'd known all along: I needed unconditional comfort. The smell of her cologne and the softness of her pale coffee skin had consoled me for as long as I could remember—and it still did. Whenever I was upset, she always spoke to me in English, even though I spoke Spanish fluently. It was her way of reaching out.

“Tell me,
cariña,”
she whispered.

“I thought I had talent, but I don't.” My voice was hoarse. Saying the words out loud didn't help either. “Someone who really knows told me my songs aren't simple enough, and my words aren't any good.”

“I don't know anything about talent,
mi niña
,” she said softly, “but I know this is not the only time you will be disappointed. It hurts not to get what you want, but sometimes you learn from it.”

“You don't understand,” I told her. “I write too complicated. I don't know a hit, and my lyrics aren't—”

The phone rang. I pulled away and hurried to the living room, grateful for the interruption.

“Hello.” I sniffled.

“May I speak to JJ, please?”

“This is JJ.”

“Hi, this is Rona at Good Music.” She paused. “Are you okay?”

This was such a loaded question that when I tried to answer, nothing came out.

“Congratulations, JJ,” Rona continued in the silence. “You got the job.”

“I got the what?” The room seemed to swirl around me. I wasn't sure what I felt, other than disbelief. This had to be a mistake.

“You got the assistant gig. We're sending over a three-month contract for the songwriting part. The messenger will be there within the hour. Your parents have to sign since you're under twenty-one. Bobby wants you to start Monday at ten, so bring the signed contract with you when you come in.”

“I really got the job?”

“Abso-elvis-lutely.”

“But … but … I don't understand …”

“It's what we say around here when someone asks an obvious question. Just be here Monday,” Rona cut in. “Ten o'clock. See ya.” Before she slammed the phone down, I heard her yelling, “Bobby's in a meeting. Don't touch that door, Steve.”

Grinning through my tears, I dropped the phone back on the hook.

Juana rushed up to me.
“¿Qué pasó?
”

“This is really, really crazy, but I got the job.”

The worried look disappeared from her face. “
Mira
, you learned something from this,” she whispered as she hugged me. “You learned not to cry too soon.”

Laughing, I hugged her back. “You're the second person who told me that today,” I confessed. I was happier than I thought possible, but I couldn't help wondering what could have made Bobby change his mind. Were the ones after me so bad that my songs began to sound good? Was it worth trying to figure out?

Couldn't I just accept it and be happy?

Of course not. I would never take a “yes” for an answer without knowing why it had changed from a “no.” I was, after all, a Green.

I waited as long as I possibly could before spilling the beans. After dinner when Janny and Jules were relaxing in the living room, I retrieved my contract from my bedroom. Jeff, of course, chose this night to stick around. He knew something was up long before our parents had finished their coffee and were sloshing brandy around in snifters. I'd changed for dinner into an elegant red Anne Klein sheath that Janny had loved and bought for me and reapplied lipstick to match. No fake lashes either.

Once I was sure the liquor had taken effect, and Jules was smoking his after-dinner Marlboro, I sat down, papers in hand.

“I have a summer job,” I announced. Best to start with the good news.

“JJ, dear, that's wonderful,” Janny enthused. “Truthfully, I was hoping you'd end up working for me, but congratulations. Isn't that wonderful, Jules?”

“Wonderful,” echoed my dad, exhaling a cloud of smoke. “Tell us all about it.”

I took a deep breath. I was sitting so close to the edge of my seat, I thought I'd fall off. “Before I do, I want to ask you something. Mom, did you have any idea where I was going today?”

She laughed. “I'm an attorney, Justice, not a detective. You never told me where you were going, so obviously I didn't know.”

“So you never said anything to Bernie?”

“Bernie?” Her tone changed. The glaze over her eyes evaporated, replaced by a focused stare. She sat up straight and placed her brandy on its coaster. “This is not headed in a good direction.” She shot Jules a
pay attention
glance, then zeroed in on me. “You know I haven't spoken to him in six years, not since—”

“Not since he showed up uninvited to Jeff's bar mitzvah,” I finished.

“Exactly.” Janny's voice became tense. “Your uncle is a gambler, a thief, and a music business lowlife. Why would I want to speak to him about anything?”

“Now don't get worked up,” Jules cautioned. “You're not telling us you got a job in the music business, are you, Justice?”

“That's exactly what I'm telling you,” I said, trying not to get defensive. “And I wanted to be sure that Uncle Bernie wasn't involved because I want to make my own way on my own talent. At first it seemed like I didn't get the job. But then I got it, and I can't figure out why, and I just thought maybe …” I ran out of breath and stopped.

“There is no way Bernie heard about it from us,” Janny snapped. “Since this is the first
we've
heard of it. And now I want to know where you were, who you saw, and everything about them.”