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It had come to this: I was pining for homework.
There was a girl playing an acoustic guitar in the corner. Her playing was not wonderful, but it wasn’t terrible, either. Her voice, likewise, was too small, too tentative and untrained to be professional quality. But the song she sang . . . As I listened to the words of longing and hope, to the melody that floated so gently and insinuated itself so effortlessly into my heart, I knew I was hearing something more than a random girl in a random coffee shop.
The girl was only about sixteen. She was pretty and dressed in embroidered jeans and a peasant girl top.
She was, of course, Graciella.
I show you my bruises.
I show you my pain.
I show you the things I hide from myself.
Hope you’re not frightened.
I hope that you’re strong.
And pray that you’ll love me,
My bruises and all.
I’m a bit of a mess.
I s’pose that you know.
Does that scare you off, or push you away?
Are you fool enough
To love me despite?
Or love me because of,
My bruises and all.
It was country music, not my usual thing, a Lucinda Williams type of song, but Graciella Jayne was laying herself out there in her lyrics and her music, and it touched me.
When she was done the half dozen or so people in the room applauded, none more enthusiastically than a young woman—no, a girl, now that she turned around so that I could see her face.
There was something familiar about that face. I frowned, concentrating, but could not place it. Had she been on television? I had only the faintest wisp of a memory of a music contest.
She had the look of a girl who’d been put together professionally. The hair, the makeup, the outfit, even the shoes, all had the well-designed look of money and Nashville taste. Then, too, people in the shop were stealing discreet glances at her. She was someone.
This someone was with a man, older, much older, who nodded, made a skeptical face, shrugged, then got up and went to the bathroom.
Alone, the well-dressed girl motioned to Graciella to join her. Graciella obviously recognized the girl, and just as obviously was startled. Graciella pointed at herself as if the girl could not really mean her. When the girl smiled and waved, Graciella set her guitar down and came over, taking the seat the old man had left vacant.
“Are you really . . .” Graciella let the question hang.
“I’m Nicolet,” Nicolet said, and then the penny dropped, as the old saying goes, and I suddenly remembered. She was one of the youngest ever winners on American Idol. And since then her star had been rising. Had she won a Grammy? I couldn’t be sure, but I was quite sure she’d become very successful. The limousine outside was almost certainly hers—she didn’t look like a pickup truck kind of girl, at least not anymore.
We moved closer, Messenger and I, and heard Nicolet pouring compliments in Graciella’s ears.
“Now, I don’t want to offend you,” Nicolet was saying, “but you aren’t ready for performing. You’re just not. But you can write a good song, and that’s a fact. A song I could turn into a hit.”
Graciella’s eyes lit up. “Really? You would perform my song?”
“We’d like to see any songs you have.” This from the old man who’d come back from the restroom. He pulled a chair up. “Do you have others?”
