Chapter Two
The lights dim onstage, a weird sort of mist rises, the band plays the familiar opening notes to “But You Said,” and now, I am in my element. This is my zone; this is where I belong. Singing my heart out, because I love music like it’s my life force. A microphone in hand, I sing the song I know so well, the song I lived, the chorus so harshly me…
But you said you’d love me
You said you’d stay with me
And now I’m that girl
Saying those words
But you said, but you said, but you said…
There’s more to it, but you sort of get the gist from those lines. Because that’s sort of the essence of that phase of a breakup. The denial, the begging, the pathetic “but you said you loved me” pleas, whether public or private. Like there was a contract. So you try to negotiate your way back by saying, “What we have here, Your Honor, is a man who pledged to love this woman forever. I urge you to force him to honor his contractual obligation.”
And yet, there is no argument more pointless—none in the entire universe—than the one that begins with the words, “But you said you loved me.” You will never win; you will never emerge victorious like a successful high school debate student. Nope, when it comes to love, a thoughtful position paper will not win him back.
The last note fades, the crowd claps, and I wave to the audience. I feel that familiar rush from performing—a pure sort of joy that never grows old. And the song, it does this thing to me—every time I sing it, I feel like it stitches me up a little more, like the music heals my heart bit by bit. Maybe the music is why I’ve started to move on. Music mends.
The usher escorts me offstage and back to my seat in the third row. As Katy Perry takes the stage to present the final award, my palms start sweating and butterflies take flight in my belly, while she rattles off the other names: Coldplay, Florence + the Machine, Adele, and Bianca Sweetwater, the American Idol winner from last year.
Will she ever say mine, I wonder?
Maybe I wasn’t really nominated. Maybe it was all just a dream. You’ve been punk’d, Jane Black.
Natalie squeezes my hand. Ethan starts tapping my arm in excitement.
Time has slowed to a glacial crawl. Finally Katy Perry says, “and Jane Black for Crushed.” Okay, I was actually nominated.
Then, she pauses, another endless, interminable hiatus as she opens the envelope, before she says, “And the winner for best album of the year is…”
She won’t say my name again, she won’t say my name again, she won’t say my name again. It’s not going to happen. It’s not going to happen. It’s not going to happen. There’s no way. There’s no way. There’s no way.
“…Jane Black for Crushed.”
I put my right hand on my mouth in disbelief. This didn’t just happen. It can’t have happened.
But there’s applause somewhere. Arms around me. A squeal of joy. Another squeeze. A bear hug. Huge, euphoric smiles on the three people surrounding me, like they knew it all along, like they were in on the joke.
Yes, a joke. It must be a joke. A great cosmic joke and Katy Perry and the whole Recording Academy and even the broadcast network carrying this awards show must be in on it, too.
Then Owen whispers in my ear, “Stand up and go to the stage.” I follow his orders and step past my sister and into the aisle. She gently nudges my arm and I put one foot in front of the other.
I’m walking down the aisle, up the steps, to the middle of the stage. Katy Perry gives me a huge hug, like we’ve been friends forever or something. Then she hands me the most adorable little inanimate object I have ever seen in my life—a golden gramophone on a wooden base.
I roll through several curse words in my head a few more times, super fast, so I can get them out of my system before I speak into the microphone.
“Holy sh—” I begin, then try to catch myself. But it’s too late. It still comes out as, “Holy shit.”
There’s some laughter. Oh God, are they going to give me the hook now? Are they going to fine me, take away my award, pull me offstage?
But I can’t unsay the words, so I make the best of it. “I guess I should have taken it more seriously when I made that New Year’s resolution not to swear.”
More laughter.
I look out at the crowd. “As you can guess, I didn’t prepare a speech,” I start, recovering from my verbal snafu. “I didn’t believe there was a rat’s chance I was going to win. So, suffice to say, I really am in shock. But I’m in bliss too. Jubilation. Ecstasy. Take your pick. This is more than I ever imagined and all I can say is this is without a doubt the single coolest thing that has happened to me professionally.”
I barely even take a breath before I continue. “And there are so many people to thank.”
I start listing names—my label, my brother, the band.
“And of course, my family. My parents watching from home in Maine, and my sister who I adore is here with me. My sister’s kids, I know you’re up late and loving it in New York. And my amazing son, Ethan, in the third row there. And to everyone who bought the album, bought a song, listened to a song, a snippet, a line, a verse. I thank you all. And I suppose, yeah, what the hell. It’s no secret that Crushed is a breakup album. So I guess tonight, I can say thanks, Aidan, for dumping me.”