Chapter Three
Elly
Tristan was being an ass; not sure why that surprised me. He seemed to purposely look right at me while he was hitting on that Brooke girl. I turned my head as quickly as I could, but I think he probably saw the look on my face when I heard him tell her they’d ‘have some fun’; it wasn’t a pleasant look. I had long ago discovered that I’d been cursed with a face that belied my every thought.
I was supposed to be working the front of the line, sending them out on stage when it was their turn. I took my place and as I stood there, I watched Molly rearrange the line according to her list. She had Tristan go in front of Brooke. He must be performing first. That was good; at least I wouldn’t have to watch him stare at her butt. He wasn’t the least bit subtle about it. Of course I wonder if he was trying not to be. I’m sure he was pretty pissed off at me for walking out the way I did, before he’d had a chance to get any relief. That night, I’d honestly not even considered it.
He flirted with the blonde bombshell until it was finally his turn. I was glad that he had to go out on the stage. They were making me nauseated. They called his name into my headset and I said, “Tristan, you’re up.” I felt my voice quake a little and I was relieved that it sounded steadier than it felt.
Tristan looked at Brooke and, just like he had said to me that first day, he said, “How about a kiss for luck?” She was happy to oblige. It was a closed mouth kiss, but it was a kiss nonetheless. Afterwards, he turned back towards me and, with a smile, he walked right past me like I was invisible, strutting onto the stage like he owned it.
As disgusted as I was with him, I had to admit that he looked like he owned it. He was born to be a performer. Some people just had that star quality. I really believed that if he would stay sober, he could end up being a superstar. I wondered why he couldn’t see that.
I looked back over at Brooke as the sound of Tristan’s voice began to waft through the speakers. He was nailing it…again. It was a beautiful song that I’d never heard before. I wondered if he had written it. It was a love song with an upbeat tempo, something similar to Van Morris’s Brown Eyed Girl but still completely original. Brooke was watching him like I knew that I did when he sings, with a reverent expression on her face. She turned to the girl behind her, a contestant named Hayley, and in an almost breathless voice she said, “Oh my God, he’s amazing.”
The other girl smiled and nodded; Brooke looked back out at Tristan. She looked like she was having a hard time catching her breath. I knew that she was going to call him, and before the night was over, she’d very likely be in his bed. I really wished it didn’t bother me so badly.
I felt sick to my stomach. I tried to deny since day one that I felt anything for him other than lust, but it was suddenly apparent that I was feeding myself a line of bullshit. I wasn’t just pissed that he was using drugs—I cared that he was. I cared that every time he used, he took a chance on accidentally killing himself like my late boyfriend did. I wasn’t just pissed that he was hitting on other girls—I hurt because of it. I really hated the thought of him being with anyone but me. I had feelings for him, and while I was telling myself that I didn’t, they were getting stronger.
The thing that didn’t make any sense at all was that, on my list of things I didn’t want when it came to a relationship; a druggie was right up there at the top. Of all the men I could have gotten myself involved with, I picked one that has a drug problem. A psychologist would have had a field day with me.
I looked out towards the stage. He was so comfortable up there, and his voice was spot-on, pitch perfect. Even angry and disgusted with him, my heart swelled when I looked at him. My mother was right: I felt myself wanting to save him. I also wanted to tell myself that there was definitely something there worth saving. How could the world not be a better place with Tristan singing his beautiful songs? The big question that I needed to ask myself was whether he’d let me try to save him or if he’d just tell me to fuck off.
He hit the last note of his song high and hard, and when he finished and looked towards the judges, I could see that he didn’t just think he had nothing to worry about—he knew it. They were all three on their feet, applauding him. They rarely got on their feet for a contestant—especially the grumpy record producer.
When the applause finally ceased, the country star told him, “Just so you know man, the only reason we’re going to stop clapping right now and sit down is because we have to move on. You blew that out of the water and, if you made a record today, I’d go out and buy it. I think you’re finally starting to believe that you’re as talented as we keep telling you.”
Tristan smiled and actually looked somewhat humbled as he said, “Thank you. I appreciate that.” Humble was definitely not a look he used often, if ever.
Diva went next. She wiped the tears from her perfectly made up face and, after a dramatically long pause, she actually yelled out, “You burnt down that stage, baby! I loved it so much; I want to hear it again—right now!”
“Thank you,” Tristan said. That time he had an amused look on his face.
The grumpy guy was always the one everyone worried about. Tristan never seemed intimidated by him, but who knew what he was really feeling inside. He had stood and clapped with the other two judges, but he was now leaning back in his chair giving Tristan a look that was impossible to interpret. When Diva stopped gushing and sat down, he finally said, “First of all, Tristan, you look like a million bucks tonight, congratulations on that. Second of all, you better get used to seven figure numbers, because you’re going to be counting them someday. Whether America has enough sense to crown you the winner of this competition or not, you’re going to be a star.”
I didn’t pretend to ever know what went on in Tristan’s head, but at that moment, everyone in the room could read the joy and the pride on his face. That comment meant more to him than any of the rest of them. That guy was known for his brutal honesty, he was a successful producer that knew music, and if he said someone would be a star, it was practically a guarantee. Tristan stood up a little straighter and taller as he thanked him, and I wondered if the hope of a second chance doing what he so obviously loved might be enough to make him re-think the way he’d been living his life. He had only been a kid the last time around. Maybe he would realize it was time to grow up on his own.
Tristan stuck around until the show was over that night, flirting more with Brooke and actually getting to his feet and clapping for her performance. It was the first time I’d seen him show any interest in the other contestants at all. I knew it was all part of his flirtation with her, but she looked like it meant the world to her. He left—alone, thank goodness—when it was over, without as much as a glace in my direction. I wondered if he was finished with me for good. I looked back over at Brooke, who was gathering her things to go, and I wondered if I was a fool to care.
******
I had chorus the next morning. I loved to sing. Since I was a little girl, my parents had both told me how good I was and how I should go into the music business. My elementary school, middle school, and high school teachers said so as well. My parents enrolled me in voice lessons and paid for me to have piano and violin lessons as well. They were always my biggest fans. Neither of them ever said they were disappointed in me for going into production instead of singing, although maybe they were…just a little. That was the great thing about my parents: they were supportive of me no matter what, as long as I was happy and healthy. They did what good parents were supposed to do: they loved me, taught me, and encouraged me, and then they’d set me free to do with it what I may. I couldn’t imagine the kind of parents that Molly said she’d read Tristan had. It was no wonder he had issues.
My problem with singing had always been with being the center of attention. I’d had this problem most of my life: I just wasn’t a girl who liked to be in the spotlight. On the days I had to give a speech in front of my public speaking class, I would get physically ill. I didn’t have a problem with groups of people, as long as I wasn’t the singular one standing up in front of them. Chorus let me keep singing without having to be center stage. The production thing gave me the chance to still be in on making the music without having to be the one that was being judged. It was the best of both worlds. I’d take my spot in the middle during chorus and sing my heart out and then I’d set the stage for those people who thrived on the attention to do what they loved as well.
I walked into the music room about fifteen minutes early. There were only about five students milling around. I said hello to a guy named Steve and I started to go take my place when Miss Bitzah, our music professor said, “Elly, can I see you for a moment?”
Miss Bitzah knew about my issues with stage fright. She was always trying to give me tips and advice on how to get over it. She also always gave me the lead in any of the female lead songs we did. It used to make me a nervous wreck, but she had been kind enough to arrange us so that I could stay in my spot and my back-up was positioned mostly in front of me. I still felt comfortable enough to manage it that way. She was gently easing me more towards the front, but she wasn’t sneaky about it at all; she’d told me her goal was to relieve me of my silly concerns about being on stage. She told me at least once a week that it was a crime to keep a voice like mine in the shadows.
When she called me over, my stomach twisted in knots. I knew it wasn’t about what we were singing at the Dean of Student’s retirement party the next week. Miss Bitzah wasn’t pushy, but she was relentless. Each time the university was putting on a musical production, we had this talk. She tried to talk me into trying out for every production, telling me which parts she thought would be perfect for me. I kept saying no every time, and eventually she would find someone else. She was persistent, however.
“Sure,” I said. What choice did I have? I made my way up to her podium and said, “Hi, Miss Bitzah, how are you today?”
“I am dandy,” she said. She always said that. I wondered if she’d ever not been dandy in her life. It was possible. If you read her bio in the teachers and professors section of the university website, you would get the impression that life for her had definitely been dandy. She’d gone to UCSF and then she had transferred to Julliard. After she graduated magna cum laude from there, she got a job teaching music at Ohio State. She was there for a few years before she was offered the job at my college. She was very good at what she did, and I for one was glad they’d wooed her away from OSU.
“That’s good,” I said, taking her at her word that she was dandy. “What can I do for you?” I asked her.
“It’s not what you can do for me,” she said in her strong, Austrian accent. “It’s what you can do for yourself.” She handed me the flyer that I’d been expecting. I looked at it to be polite. I’d already seen them hanging all throughout the campus. It was an advertisement for tryouts for the universities rendition of My Fair Lady.
“Miss Bitzah, it’s not that I don’t appreciate your confidence in me, because I really do. It’s just that I’ve told you…I have this fear of performing in front of an audience…I don’t think I could do it. I’d choke and ruin it for everyone else that worked so hard.”
“Oh pish posh. You perform for an audience of forty every time you come into this room. Your voice is center stage in every performance we do. Last week when we performed in the student union, your voice was ninety-percent of what your fellow students heard, and they loved it. I have people asking me all the time who my soprano is. Most importantly, you have done it, Elly, and nothing bad has ever come of it, right? You just have to learn a way to cope with the audience. We all do when we perform, in our own way.”
I sighed. “I know, but I’m stuck in the middle of all of the other people when I perform with the chorus and it makes me feel more secure. If you take away all of those people…”
She closed my hand over the flyer and said, “If you take away all of those people, you could carry the performance on your own. Will you please just think about it? You have such an incredible talent. It would be such a waste not to share it.”
I smiled at her. She was one of those people that, no matter how annoyed you might be with her tactics, you at least knew that she truly had your best interests at heart. I could never really get mad at her. After all, she only wanted me to succeed.
“Okay, I’ll think about it,” I told her. I didn’t intend to. I knew what my limitations were, but I didn’t have the heart to refuse her outright.
She clapped her hands together and said, “Wonderful!” She acted like I’d made her whole day by agreeing. That at least felt good. She tapped her podium then and said, “Take your places, people; it’s almost time to begin!”
I took my place where I was comfortable…in the middle. We were practicing for a big party in the student union the next week. Another one of our professors was retiring and we had agreed to perform. His wife had sent over several songs she wanted us to sing, and we even got one from his son, who was also a music teacher, but at a middle school. His son wanted us to perform The Cat’s in the Cradle. That song always made me cry.
I walked out of chorus that afternoon feeling better than I did walking in, as usual. Singing did something to my soul; it made me feel light and happy. On my drive home, I started thinking about Tristan again. I knew he’d been to rehab before. I didn’t know which ones he’d tried, but I did know that the one I’d gone into when I was in trouble had done wonders for me, and it also came highly recommended. I was suddenly overcome with the idea that I had to at least try and help him.
We had been talking about the civil rights movement the past week in my sociology class and we read some things that Leroy Eldridge Cleaver, a Black Panther activist, had said during the Civil Rights Movement. One of them was now an old saying that was often misquoted. Cleaver had said, “There is no more neutrality in the world. You either have to be part of the solution, or you're going to be part of the problem.” I had to try, and if it pissed Tristan off and he refused to let me help, then so be it. I would at least know then that I did all I could.
I drove out to the rehab facility I had stayed at when I was going through my problems. It was in Orange County and it was a nice place. It was expensive, too. My parent’s had paid for me to go. I didn’t have any idea what Tristan’s situation was financially, or if he had insurance or not. I picked up an application and brochure anyways. I planned to take it over and give it to him and let the chips fall where they may.