I'mmore important. Me as a whole person. The best person I can be.
So now it's time to win Josh back, whatever it takes.
Chapter 32: Josh
It's not right. The song. This damned, infernal song. The power ballad, the turning point. And it's not right.
"No, no, NO! Stop. You all need to stop. It's terrible." Kori looks at me. Jasmine looks at me. Marcelina looks at me.
I look back.
I've got nothing.
All I know is it's not working.
We've got approximately two hours to finish the choreography for this song before we have to run throughParis. It's already Wednesday, and I'm running out of time. The Edison's season officially ends on Sunday, at which time the cast and crew will leave.
I've got to show these two numbers to Tabitha prior to that. With two shows on Saturday, that pretty much leaves Friday for the informal workshop.
"Okay, let's take five," Kori finally calls.
"We don't have time to take five," I practically growl.
"Josh, baby, you take five, or you're gonna find yourself doing all the singing and dancing because we're going to leave your perfectionist ass to do this on your own." Kori walks out of the room. I get glares from Jasmine and Marcelina that back up that sentiment.
Okay, so maybe I'm being a little harsh. And a huge dick. I sort of have to be. If Tabitha doesn't like it, then the last five—ten—years of my life have been wasted. If she does like it, well, then my career is finally starting. I sit at the piano, staring at the music. Do I make that note higher? Add a harmony line?
No, that's not it.
Despair crashes down on me like a wave at high tide. A fitting analogy, since I feel like I'm drowning. I haven't felt this way since my parents died. So lost, grasping for something to pull me back in. I yank out my phone to call Kim—my lifeline—but get her voicemail.
I stand up from the piano bench and pace around the room to see if it helps. It doesn't. If I were a more aggressive type, I'd smash something. If I were more of a dance type, I'd pour my frustration into explosive dance moves, surely worthy of the most epic dance fight scene.
I can't do that either, so I lie down on the floor and try to meditate. I try to empty my brain so that some kind of inspiration can float in and magically give me the answers to this mess.
I've never been very good at meditating. I feel the hard floor under my back. I hear the voices out in the hall, including Jasmine swearing a blue streak in Spanish. I don't actually speak Spanish, but even I know those words and who they're directed at.
My head is pounding. Maybe my brain's about to explode and I won't have to worry about this. Maybe they'll even produce my show, shades of Jonathan Larson'sRent, and I'll posthumously be a critical success. It actually seems like a good option at this moment.
The pounding and throbbing continue until I realize it's not in my head, but outside of it. The drums. The beat. I stand up, following the rhythm. I know what it is before I even open the door.
Leslie's in the middle of the room, dancing to the Polynesian—Fijian—music. Gloria's perched on a stool, watching intently. This time, Leslie's hair is slicked back into a low ponytail with a thick braid trailing down. No chance of it springing free like the last time. While her hair may be restrained, her dancing is not.
It's free and joyful and full of pride. She's beaming, radiant. Or maybe that's the sheen of perspiration. As I look at her, everything snaps into place. What I need. What I need to do. Before she can see me and stop, as she does whenever I enter the room these days, I close the door and hurry back to the large dance studio.
I don't have much time, but I've got to rewrite this whole number. I scribble furiously, afraid the inspiration—the vision—will fade off like the morning fog. Kori returns to the room, leaning over my shoulder. I'm not sure how she can decipher the chicken scratch, but she stands for a long moment, trying to process.
Finally, she says, "You keep working. I'll start to map it out in my head, but get me what you can as soon as you can. I think I see where you're heading."
I look at her, my eyes taking a moment to focus on her face rather than the sheet music and the notes that still appear to be dancing in my vision. "Can you see it?"
Kori nods. "I think I know right where you're going with it."
"It sort of means a rewrite."
"Not all of it. Just of some of it. And this is going to make it stronger. Deeper."
"It wasn't supposed to be deep. Oscar Wilde wrote his play purposefully to be trivial."
