10. Because you showed me that it’s not just about waiting around for an idea to come but also about knowing when the idea has finally arrived (Thursday, July 18).
11. Because whenever I had good ideas for lyrics, you used them.
12. Because you listened so closely to my memories and you asked questions and you’re pretty much the only person who’s ever done that besides doctors and talk-show hosts.
13. Because you can speak with a British accent.
14. Because you know a lot about John Lennon and Paul McCartney.
15. Because you do the best rock-star look I’ve ever seen.
16. Because you have a great voice and not just for singing. I bet you’d be great at reading bedtime stories.
17. Because I love my dad more than anyone in the world. No matter what he does or says or where he goes, I love him. You have nothing to worry about.
18. Because you’re my partner and I know that deep down you haven’t forgotten me.
Sorry, I had more than ten.
Love,
The Walrus
Don’t Let Me Down
I fit the cassette into Dad’s old Walkman. I rewind the tape and it squeals all the way to the beginning. I press down on the chunky Play button and through the hiss I hear Grandma Joan’s piano and her voice. I shut my eyes and pretend she’s here in my bedroom giving me a concert.
When Grandma lifts her hands off the keys and her foot off the pedal, you can hear her sigh and it’s the kind of sigh you do after a tasty drink or a deep laugh or when you’ve just remembered a great memory.
The recording ends but the tape still plays. I let it hiss and it feels like she’s still here.
“I wish you could hear my song.”
The wheels spin through the plastic window.
“I wish it could go deep into your system.”
Dad says I carry her memory and he’s talking about my name when he says this, not my HSAM.
“I want to win because of you. I’m going to win.”
I listen.
“Hello? Grandma?”
The wheels get slower and the cassette clicks and the hissing stops and the tape runs out.
My door opens. “Ready to go?”
Dad is wearing his lace-up boots and tight jeans and button-down shirt and a black jacket on top to fancy it up. It’s the kind of outfit he used to wear for his meetings in New York before he shut down the studio and before the new lady moved in downstairs. Pam is her name and she’s hardly ever home because she works part of the week in Toronto, which is in a separate country, and she says we can use the courtyard as much as we like. Also, she didn’t make Dad tear down the Quiet Room because she says it’s a good place to keep all her clothes. She swears my initials are still there above the socket.
Dad comes up behind me and sees the tape player. He lifts the ends of my hair and pretends to pull. “Are you going to be okay if you don’t win, kiddo?”
“I don’t want to think about it,” I say.
“Just remember, art is subjective. People like different things.”
“Like how some people like Paul McCartney and some like John Lennon?”
“And some like both.”
“I like Paul McCartney too,” I admit.
“So do I,” Dad says. “I love all the Beatles.”
He kisses the top of my head and walks to the door.
“No matter what happens,” Dad says, “I just want you to know that I’m really proud of you. I hope you’re proud too. You just have to keep making art that feels good to you. You can’t control what happens after that. It seems like no one’s paying attention, but then, when you least expect it, someone hears it. Just keep putting yourself out there. It’s the hardest thing. But you never know. That’s it. You just never know.”
It resonates, which is something guitars do but also words. It resonates because one day this summer I was eating dinner with my family and I was worrying about my own stuff and out of nowhere a stranger asked to shake my hand because she saw me on TV (Saturday, August 17, 2013).
Dad taps his hand on the door, not like a drummer, more like a bee that’s banging against a window, looking for a way out. “I’ll go pull the car up,” he says and leaves.
There are fewer than thirty people in the world with HSAM but right now there are only ten people in the world who can win the Next Great Songwriter Contest and I’m one of them. That means I’m even more special at music than I am at remembering. (Some of the finalists are more than one person, but there’s only one award given out, so that’s why my math works. Mom would be proud.)
Dad hates when a person says to be honest because it means that the person was just lying or is about to lie but I want to say it anyway. To be honest, I didn’t think I’d actually make it to the finals because usually when I want something really badly it doesn’t happen, like when I want to turn the TV off just by blinking my eyes or when I want a three-legged dog to grow back his missing leg.
To be even more honest, I thought my music days might be over too because wanting something so badly is tiring and it makes me do things I shouldn’t do, like sneak off to the city by myself. And to be really, really honest, I haven’t been thinking too much about the contest over the last two and a half months. I’ve been busy with other stuff like Dad taking us to Six Flags and Grandpa taking me to the music store to buy a new guitar and Mom taking me to the dentist and also to swim at Harper’s house and also to shop for school supplies. And then I started school and I wrote new songs that are even better than my old ones and I watched the walrus swim up and down the coast until they finally caught him all the way up in Nova Scotia, Canada.
That’s why when Dad got the e-mail inviting me to the ceremony in New York City on Friday, October 25, which is today, I was surprised. Now that the contest is on my mind again, I know I have to win, no matter what Dad tries to tell me. He’s been so great to me these last few weeks but I still worry about my memory not being safe with him or Mom or anyone else. I can be the busiest girl in the world but I’ll never forget my dream to one day be important enough to be remembered. Not just today but always.
I get up off the floor and straighten out my dress and take a look at myself in my long mirror: navy and red dress, sparkle Converse, glitter barrette. That stuff is there, but not really, because my mind is somewhere else. My mind is always somewhere else but I finally found the look to match how I feel.
Or maybe I always knew how to do the rock-star look. Maybe it’s the kind of thing you can’t watch yourself do in a mirror, just like you can never see what you really look like in sunglasses, because it’s something only other people can see for you.
Dad says we’re here, but this can’t be the right place because there’s no red carpet or reporters or cameras and there’s no sign outside announcing the contest. It’s just a fat doorman with a clipboard.