Shy by Thomma Lyn Grindstaff Read Free Book Online

then says, “Start anytime, after I step outside. Just pretend I'm not there.”
    “Pretend...” I intone. Pretend I'm Nikesha Sloane. I can do this. When the door shuts, I start noodling on my song “Glass Ceiling.” It's another dark, intense song I wrote about being—oh, the hated word again— shy . The song starts out with a singing intro, not a piano intro, but I play the intro on piano anyway. He won't know the difference. I'm psyching myself up. Got to do this. Got to. Got to.
    The intro is soft, with light piano. Don't think about him out there. Nobody is there. It's early in the morning, and I'm alone. I open my mouth, and softly, oh-so-softly, I sing:
    “She said I'd spend life on the outside
    A vague face looking in, looking terse
    Never a player on life's grand old stage
    Never to chip in a verse...”
    I don't sound good. My voice quavers. My tone sucks. I just can't forget he's out there. So I launch into the next part of the song, which is piano only, grinding, rolling, and aggressive. Lots of bass in the left hand. I play the rest of the song, too, with just piano. I try to sing when the verses come up, but my mouth no longer has any spit, and my throat feels plagued with phlegm.
    Fuck. I'm hopeless.
    I stop playing and want to cry.
    He comes back in. I'd expected him to look pitying, sad, but he doesn't. He looks astounded. “What a kick ass song!” he exclaims. “So totally and completely bad ass. Such emotion.” He doesn't mention me hardly singing, or singing at first and sounding pathetic. “What's that one called?” He looks genuinely impressed.
    You could knock me over with a feather.
    “It's called ‘Glass Ceiling,’” I say. “I'm sorry I choked when I tried to sing it. I just got to feeling...” I was about to say the hated word shy , but then I remembered what he'd said. “A bad case of nerves.” It sounds better than shy . Shy has become a weapon used to gut me, gore me, slice my insides to ribbons in relentless, judgmental criticism. It walks hand in hand with Not good enough, Never good enough, You'll fail at life , and the subtext of all of it: You're not worthy of love .
    “I'd love to hear you sing it sometime,” he says. “When you're ready.” Then he looks at his watch. “Shit. I'm late for class. I have to go, but I'll come by again. When would be a good time for you? I don't want to intrude on your practice, but I love listening to your playing.”
    I'm genuinely honored, humbled, and grateful. He likes my stuff. And he doesn't feel sorry for me. “I'd like that. I'll be here tomorrow morning, same time. Say, around seven. These early sessions are really for me to play my own music, anyhow.” Well, I haven't, until today, come here early in the morning, but for this guy, I'll do it. Hey, why not?
    “Well, that's incredibly fantastic,” he says, looking as though he just won the lottery.
    He makes me feel a little better about being me.
    “I'm sorry,” I say, “but I forgot your name. You told me the other day.”
    “Granville Watts,” he says and holds out his hand to me.
    “Yes, Granville.” I love that name. Before meeting him, I'd never heard it before. I take his hand and flush when his fingers gently hold mine as though he thinks they're precious. “I'm Frannie Forsythe.”
    “Short for Frances?”
    “No. Francesca.”
    His gaze is warm as he regards me. “A truly beautiful name. It fits you.”
    My flush deepens but he probably doesn't notice since he's turned toward the practice room door. Then he glances over his shoulder. “So. Tomorrow morning?”
    “Yeah.”
    And I realize that I absolutely can't wait.
     

Chapter Five (Granville)
    Frannie is such a far cry from Rowan that I have to wonder if I'm in the same universe when I step into her practice room. She's different from most any other girl or woman I've ever been around, and I can't help but wonder if I'm in the same dimension which consensus seems to agree that we usually inhabit.