She was both sun and moon, ice and flame, night and day, sadness and joy all wrapped into a single body. Dark hair swept down one side of her face with reckless abandon. Flyaway hairs and split ends, but still beautiful and silky hair that fell thickly across her chocolate skin. The color of embers coated her almond-shaped eyes paired with thick and fierce eyeliner that flicked upwards with careless flair. Her cheeks were lightly spattered with dark freckles and dusted with the lightest shade of blush. Her lips stained with blood red lipstick, one corner upturned just slightly, forming a small dimple in her cheek. She stepped out onto the stage dressed in something that was a mixture of rebel punk and a fairy princess. Her black ankle boots were a size too big and her toes curled nervously inside. Her black leggings were patterned with constellations. A sheer white blouse flowed around her thin frame and fluttered from the rush of air that was blowing from the fan behind her, the hem reaching just below her knees. The final touch was the black leather jacket that clung to her like armor. She walked across the stage and felt the sudden heat of fear form in the pit of her stomach.
She settled on the stool that sat at the edge of the stage. She felt the guitar settle into the crook of her arm with familiarity. She felt comfortable with the guitar in her hand. The noise of conversation and social gatherings quieted to a soft buzz. She looked up, the spotlight on her obscured nearly everything past the stage, but she could still see the shapes and lines of faces, people with their eyes on her. She ingrained their image in her brain, memorizing the contours and shapes of the room, the number of faces. She took it all in, absorbed the fear and apprehension and soaked it inside of her. She closed her eyes, seeing the vision in her head. She took a deep breath, and once she drew in the air, she imagined that each element each person and table disappeared until there was no one there except for herself and the guitar. There was nothing left but music.
Her
fingers fell into place on the frets, she lifted her foot and hooked it over the
bar on the stool and let out the breath she had held in and then she sang.
Her
voice was deep, completely opposite of the voices from her Indian roots. It was
resonant, clear and organic. Her voice was laced with emotion, open for
every listener to hear and understand as she sang of fears, tragedies, and the
undiscovered. There was an edge to her voice that made each word sound like a
poem on its own. Her voice was completely and utterly in her control, no
wavering, no stuttering or skips, it was smooth and then suddenly jagged and
laced with rage and emotion and then it soft, tender and intimate. She manipulated
each note, each word and phrase to reflect the very emotion in her heart. She
felt her heart beating hard and loud inside of her, reminding her of the human
weakness called mortality.
The
music ended, and as she looked up the vision of her and the music alone in the
room began to blur and fade as the shapes of observers and customers came into
focus behind the blinding spotlight. She smiled at the considerably loud
responding applause. She pulled her hair back from her face and stood to bow, her
guitar sliding to rest at her side. She gripped the neck tightly as she clunked
back across the stage and to the small back room that was poorly called backstage.
“Wonderful
as always, Miss Scott.” The manager of the café, Jorge, said with a polite
smile and a welcoming handshake. “You always know how to set the mood for
open-mic night.”
“Thank
you Jorge.” She said.
“Thank you.” He said with a final vigorous handshake. “Please help
yourself to any drink, though I imagine I will find you drinking the same spice
tea you always drink.”
She let
out a polite laugh. “Always.” She waved at Jorge as he walked over to a nervous
looking teenager who had a guitar in their hand. She could see the
deer-in-the-headlights look that every first-time performer had. She smirked
and then walked over to where she had hidden her guitar case away. It was
safely tucked under a bench that was at the base of the stairs that led to the
basement of the café. She flicked the buckles up and lifted the lid of her
case. She rested her guitar inside with extreme care. She would be nowhere
without her guitar and treated it with equal respect.
She
zipped it and then buckled it closed. She grabbed the ragged backpack that was
tucked behind it and flung it behind her back before hoisting the guitar case
from the ground and carrying it gingerly out of the backstage room and to the
main floor of the café. She was finally able to see the kind of crowd that
showed up for open mic night that evening. She nodded politely at anyone who
glanced her way and whispered words of thanks to those who complimented her
song. She weaved through the labyrinth of chairs and tables and wound her way
to the back of the room, in the farthest and darkest corner of the café. It had
the perfect view of the stage, but it was also the most private. If it was
anyone else sitting in that booth, they would most likely be forgotten by the
staff. She had been there enough times that the employees recognized and
knew her and took extra care in making sure she was well taken care of.
She
couldn’t stop from grinning when an already steaming mug of her Coco Chai
Rooibos tea was waiting for her at the table. She collapsed and settled into the booth and breathed in the rich
aroma of the tea. It was an exotic mixture of ginger, black pepper, cinnamon
and the slight hint of coconut. She sighed and then lifted to take a sip.
“I hope
it’s to your liking.” One of the employees said as they passed by. “I made that
one for you, just barely set it out so it’d be ready when you got off
stage.”
“Thank
you.” She said with a gracious nod. “You did well with the concocting of my tea.”
He
grinned. “Thank you.” He was about to walk away when he turned back. “Your name
is Naomi, right?”
She
nodded. “That’ s right, Naomi Scott.”
He
seemed to be eager to say more, ask other questions but he nodded cordially
before saying, “Well, it’s a pleasure serving you. Enjoy your tea.”
She
winked. “I plan to.”
She
took one more careful sip before setting it just off to the side. The
frightened musician had just walked onto the stage. His eyes were wide as
saucers and their he stumbled as he walked across the small distance
between the stool and the curtains.
“H-hello.”
He said, clinging to the guitar with all of their might.
No one
responded.
Naomi
returned her attention to her private space she had created. She unzipped her
backpack and pulled out a tattered and abundantly full leather journal. More
than half of its pages were wrinkled and stained with tea stains, water colors,
and the thousands of thoughts, ideas, and stories Naomi had started this journal the summer before she had moved to Clearwater City. She flicked through the pages, they crinkled
joyfully and flashes of color flew by. There were photographs, paintings,
sketches and pages made entirely of scribbled out lyrics and poems. Some pages
were made of entirely just one word over and over again while others were
journal entries, thoughts from the day she had experienced. Some were lists of ideas, things she wanted, things she did, and things she saw. She found each page
to be precious and a valuable treasure that she clung to.
She
reached into her backpack again. The young musician had begun to sing. Their
voice was a solid tenor with a rich sound, if only they weren’t so nervous and wavering.
She looked up to see him. He was slouched over his guitar and she could see his
eyes were watching his fingers on the frets, making sure he didn’t place his
fingers in the wrong place. He was a careful musician, taking the time to make
each note and chord on the guitar right; but his focus on the guitar was losing
his focus on his voice and the song was tragically slow, like a funeral dirge. She turned away and
pulled out a black pen from the depths of her backpack and then she began to
write.
She
recognized the song the teenager was playing and she hummed softly along to the
music. She scratched into the white blank page the contents of her brain,
occasionally adding a doodle here and there to keep her mind from straying too
far.
It has only been a month since I moved from Westville and only two weeks since Sammy moved in. It’s a bit surreal how quickly life can change. Last month, I was a country girl born and raised to be a mixture of two different cultures and I didn’t know where to go. Now I am alone, without my family but with my two very best friends. It's strange to see how different I am now, then I was back in Clearwater. I'm not sure who I want to be yet, but I believe my heart resides in the music that has always guided me. The same music that has guided hundreds from their darkest days; I only hope that I can replicate such emotions in my listeners.
She doodled around the
lonely paragraph with stars and shooting comets. She added the date and a large loopy signature at the bottom of the page.
She signed and dated every single page. She secretly joked that she did it to practice for the
day she’d be signing autographs.
The
young teenager had left the stage with a crooked and rather deflated smile. She
clapped loudly, hoping he heard her from the back. He exited the backstage door
a few minutes later with a defeated expression.
“Hey,”
She said in a half-shouting voice. He looked up and recognized her, his eyes
widened with fear.
“I
know, it was bad. You don’t have to tell me.”
“No,
actually, I was going to tell you that you sounded good.” She said. “You just
need to be more confident in your voice and I think you’d be more spectacular
than you already are.” She smiled softly. “And the best way to build confidence
is to not stop and just keep singing. You got that?”
“So you
think it was good?” He asked.
She
nodded. “Just keep working hard, okay?”
He
nodded vigorously in returned. “Thank you ma’am!” And he bowed just slightly
before bursting out of the door and leaving the café. Beyond the glass, the
young teenage boy scampered over to a car that was parked in idle. A middle
aged woman was waiting with the windows down and taking a slow drag from a nearly
stub-sized cigarette. Naomi could see the boys excitement as he climbed into
the car, eager to tell the woman about the good news Naomi had shared with him
just moments ago. She felt her spirits lift at the thought that she had had
helped someone.
She
looked down at her journal and then quickly squeezed between the doodles of the page.
I enjoy seeing people smile. As long as I can make people smile, that’s what really matters.
She
decided to sign and date that sentence too, just for the heck of it.
