Velva Jean Learns to Fly by Jennifer Niven Read Free Book Online Page B

guitars and fiddles and dulcimers—anything you could play a tune on. They were handsome and pretty and plain and short and fat and skinny and weathered.
    It was the same everywhere—the receptionist would write down our names and tell us someone would be in touch, which I was starting not to believe for a minute. I never once got to sing for anyone or play them my record.
    I thought about Waynesville, back when I first went to see Darlon C. Reynolds, who was looking to record hillbillies down from the mountains, and how all those people stood in line for hours, burning up in the hot sun, just waiting to be heard. And then Johnny Clay made me go around back and sneak up the stairs and go through the balcony, and that was how Darlon C. Reynolds heard me sing. I’d made two records for him that day, and I knew I was going to have to do something like that again—go around back and sneak up the stairs—if I ever wanted a chance.
    At the very last place, I thanked the receptionist and turned to leave, and the person behind me stepped up to give her his name. I thought, There’s got to be a better way than this. As I walked out onto the street, I wished for Johnny Clay because he was brave and always knew exactly how to get the things he wanted and what the right way was for going about something, even if it was an up-the-back-stairsand-through-the-balcony kind of way.
    Outside on the street was a girl I recognized from waiting in line. She was standing on the corner, guitar case open, playing and singing for passersby. Every now and then someone would throw a quarter or a fifty-cent piece into the case and keep on walking. She nodded at them when they did, and kept on singing her heart out.
    The song was a good one—pretty words, catchy tune. It made me want to hum along. She was young and fresh looking, and her voice was clear and bright and strong. I thought she sounded as good as I did, maybe even better, and here she stood on a Nashville street, singing for strangers just like she was a down-and-out.
     
    That night, before bed, I shut the door to my room and dug in my hatbox for my Nashville money: $101.65. It was all the money I had in the world. Out of it I had to pay for food and gas and my room here at the Lovelorn Café and anything else I might need. I tried to figure how long it would last me.
    If I didn’t make a record by the end of three weeks, I decided, I’d be in a pickle. I wondered how quick they would pay you at these recording studios. I should have asked them when I was there. I thought I’d go back the next day, and if they didn’t want to make a record with me, maybe they would buy my songs. I would take all the ones I had with me and see if anyone was interested. If that didn’t work, I would tell them I’d be willing to sing backup on a record or two and maybe play mandolin or guitar just till they wanted to record me on my own.
    It was good to have a plan. I would get a contract and then that would show Gossie. She would say, “I’m sorry for ever thinking you couldn’t do it, Mary Lou.” If there was one thing I hated in this world, it was folks who told you that you couldn’t do something. That was worse than being told you shouldn’t do it. I knew she meant well, but a person had to believe in herself even when no one else did.

FOUR
    T he woman looked down her nose at me, blinked three times, and then leaned forward. The sign over her desk read: “Insurance Company of North America: Your fire-insurance policy is a price tag on your house!”
    The office itself was dark like a cave—dark-brown carpet, dark-brown chairs, dark-brown desk. The receptionist had fat orange-red curls all over her head and glasses that sat on the end of her nose. There was a mole beside her left eyebrow and another one on her right cheek. They looked painted on. She wore a navy-blue suit that was so crisp and clean that it must have been brand new. She smiled the kind of smile that didn’t leave her