Chapter Twenty-Three

Emmett

“Define comedy,” Watford said at the start of class. She stood poised behind her podium and waved her arm out, giving us the floor. It was a rare opportunity.

Students spoke up, firing out answers. Definitions rang through the air. Satire. Funny. Parody. Humor. Jokes. Sketches. Something created to make people laugh.

I drew figure eights in the margin of my notebook, waiting to hear an interesting response.

Watford’s mouth was fringed in disappointed at the textbook answers. I continued with my doodling.

“CeCe, how would you define comedy?” she asked.

“Comedy and tragedy are basically the same thing,” she said.

I lifted my head up.

Watford’s mouth turned up at the corner. “Go on.”

I looked over at CeCe. The entire class all turned to look at her.

“Comedy is just the art of making light of life’s sufferings,” she said. “Turning all your pain into a joke.”

She was met with skeptical expressions.

“Think about it,” she said. “In a comedy, instead of crying at how pathetic and awful your life gets, you laugh,” I said. “You make fun of yourself. You turn awkward situations into a joke. Or you deny your hardships completely, which is sad but also ironically funny. Ben Stiller made an acting career out of it.”

I thought about her words. How true they were. Suddenly the problem with my song was starting to make sense. It wasn’t honest. All this time I had been fighting the frustration in my music. The doubt. The possible tragedy that could play out. I was playing what I wanted to hear, not what I was feeling.

Watford offered CeCe one of her hard-earned smiles. It was her way of telling her she was impressed. CeCe grinned and looked down at her notebook. It was probably hard not to look around at all the English majors and gloat.

“The only major difference is the ending,” CeCe added. “Is it going to end well for the characters, or will it end badly?”

Watford nodded and looked around the room. “And do you think we have control over these endings?” she asked, introspectively.

…

Two days later, I had finished my song. I finally found the inspiration I needed. I just hadn’t expected it to come from CeCe. Now I just needed validation.

I swung the door open to the music shop and headed toward the back of the store. I passed Josh and turned down the hallway.

“Employee’s only,” Josh yelled after me. I ignored him and he caught up to me, blocking the hallway.

“I need to talk to Frank,” I said.

He shook his head. “You don’t just drop in on Frank. He doesn’t like surprises.”

I shrugged off the warning. “I need him to listen to my song. I need someone who will be brutally honest.”

Josh took a step back and dropped his arm. He waved me through. “He’s been known to make people cry,” he warned me.

A side office door suddenly clicked open. It opened and closed a few times, like the hinges weren’t working. I stared at the door, confused.

“It’s his OCD,” Josh whispered to me.

I nodded slowly. That explained the black gloves he always wore.

The door opened wide and Frank loomed in the entrance. He crossed his arms over his chest, glaring at me through narrowed eyes. I looked over his shoulder, into the closet sized room where he worked. I was surprised a guy as big as Frank could fit in such a confined space.

“The football player,” he stated. His eyes were level with mine. “You finished your song?” he said.

I nodded.

“How did it go?”

“Somewhere between torture and relief,” I said. “I need you to hear it.”

He considered this. I probably looked desperate. Or terrified. On the football field I never buckled, but Frank was right. It was linear. There was only one goal. Music was the opposite. The point wasn’t to put on pads or helmets to protect yourself from the hits. The point was to take off all of that protection and expose your bruises and scars.

He nodded once. “Meet me in the auditorium in five minutes.”

My stomach balled into nerves. “You want me to perform on the stage?” I asked. I thought we would use a practice room. Someplace quiet. Safe.

He raised his eyebrows. “Is there a problem?” He raised his eyebrows and dared me to argue.

I shook my head. “No problem.”

Ten minutes later, I pounded out the final notes of my piece. My fingers hovered for an instant above the keys. I waited and chanced a look in Frank’s direction. He sat in the third row of the auditorium, center seat.

I was waiting for a look of disgust. Boredom. A verbal bashing. But he looked thoughtful.

“Your posture’s pathetic,” he noted.

I sighed. “I know. I’m too tall. Can we focus on the song?”

“It’s a story,” he said.

I nodded.

“It’s a love story.”

“Yes,” I said and breathed a sigh of relief. He got it. Thank God.

“Well, I don’t know if I’d call it a love story, per say, more like the tumultuous terrain of a confusing relationship.” He stood up and started to pace as he thought. “It’s off kilter, but I like that. It’s unexpected. I mean, it goes all over the place. Your head is a complete mess right now.”

I nodded again.

“The juxtapositions in the melody are really interesting. Just when you think it reaches a crescendo, it sidetracks. I like that. You’re letting the audience in. But it needs more. It’s missing something.”

He tapped his chin and then his eyes widened with an idea.

“Another instrument,” he said.

“A duet?” I shook my head. “I don’t have time for that kind of rewrite.”

He shook his finger at me. “Not your typical duet. Just something that builds off of the beat. That takes it deeper. That brings out the conflict in the story.”

I thought about it. The recital was in two days. It was definitely cutting it close. He guessed my hesitation.

“I know a couple of guys who would perform with you,” he offered.

“Why two instruments?” I asked.

He opened his arms like it was obvious. “Because your song’s about two women.”

I stared at him.

“Right?” he asked. “That’s why it’s so messed up?”

I was surprised to feel angry by the accusation.

Frank started to laugh. “Oh my God. You didn’t even realize you were writing about two women?” His smile widened. He looked extremely proud of himself. “And the best part is, you’re falling for the wrong girl. Because she’s not turning out to be the person you wanted her to be. That’s why you’re so messed up. Or maybe she’s been playing you this whole time…”

Heat rushed to my chest. It coursed through my body, all the way to my fingertips. I pushed the piano bench back and stood up.

“For a guy who sits alone in a closet all day, you make some pretty bold assumptions about people,” I said.

He glared at me. “I listen to music all day. It speaks a hell of a lot stronger than words, Brady. If it’s any good.”

My heart was pounding in my chest. He waited for me to respond, but I just looked back at my music sheets. I wondered if he was right.