Someday You'll Laugh Read online

  I didn’t tell him about the guy I’d met named Paul.

  No reason to.

  ****

  My college routine fit like a comfortable pair of sweats. Of course I wasn’t adapting to dorm life or living away from home like other college freshmen. But I was helping my parents adjust to having a live-in college kid. I figured I no longer needed curfews or their eagle-eyes watching my every move.

  My parent-training was met with patronizing smiles from both Dad and Mom but, for the most part, the eagle-eyeing stopped.

  Classes were hard at LCC, but not more than I could handle. I did miss the extracurricular activities from high school, so I decided to take voice lessons. I’d always fancied the idea of being good enough to sing solos at weddings and banquets. I went to the Fine Arts Building to inquire. I knocked at Mrs. Claybourne’s office and poked my head through her half-open door. She was sitting at a desk buried in stacks of sheet music.

  “May I talk to you for a minute?”

  “Sure, come on in. It’s Brenda, right?” Her crooked teeth flashed at me from between thick ruby lips.

  I nodded and sat on her spare folding chair. “I’d like to take voice lessons. What do I need to do?”

  She leaned her elbow on her desk and rested her chin in her hand. Then she nodded her curly mop, narrowed her eyes, laid some sheets of music on her lap, and reached forward to straighten a bust of Beethoven. “Sign up and pay for them, honey. That’s about it.”

  “How much do they cost?”

  She rummaged around on her desk and pulled out a flyer from under a pile of ancient-looking hymnals. She shook it and then blew on it as if chasing dust-bunnies.

  “Here’s the info. I don’t teach voice. The teacher’s name is Mr. Tack — he’s excellent. Maybe you’ve heard of him.”

  “Mr. Tack? Really? He was my high school choir teacher. That’s plain weird.”

  “He retired from high school, so he’s snagging some extra work here. He’s a one and only, make no mistake.”

  She got that right. Mr. Tack was a one and only — an ogre, really — but he was the best teacher I’d ever had. Being his student was like subjecting yourself to a trigger-happy firing squad.

  “Are you still interested if he’s the teacher?” she asked.

  I’d survived him before; I could do it again. “Yep, still interested.”

  She rummaged further in her mess. “I sign up the students for him. He’s only here during the hours he gives lessons.” She looked at a spreadsheet, picked up a pencil and tapped her crooked teeth with the eraser.

  “How about four o-clock today? No reason to wait, right?”

  “Whoa, so soon? Well, okay. Thanks. Do I have to pay right now?” I hadn’t brought any extra money.

  “No, honey. You can even bring the money tomorrow. But after this, be prepared to pay on the day.” She turned back to her mess, and I was dismissed.

  I got up and hurried to English Composition. I adored the class, but then I adored any class where I got to write. Comp was my last class for the day, so I was finished by noon. I went home, ate, did homework, and returned to school at three forty-five, ready to face Mr. Tack.

  Since I was a few minutes early, I waited on a red vinyl bench in the cramped lounge area outside the lesson studio. Through the walls, I heard someone hit what had to be a high C. The singer was good. So good in fact, I almost got up and skulked off. I’d never measure up to the person in there belting it out like Miss Broadway.

  At five minutes till four, the music stopped and the door swung open.

  It was Paul.

  Paul?

  “What are you doing here?” I jumped up from the bench like a guilty party on trial. “That wasn’t you singing.”

  His brow furrowed and he smirked. “Hardly. My voice is considerably deeper. I’m the accompanist.”

  “What do you mean?” I felt the edge of the bench press into the backs of my legs.

  He tilted his head. “You know, the person who plays the piano for the person who sings.”

  “I know what an accompanist is,” I snapped. “Do you accompany for all the lessons?” A strange foreboding spread through my stomach.

  “For all of Mr. Tack’s students, I do. I make good money, too.” He strode by me to the water fountain in the corner of the lounge.

  I watched him bend and take a drink. I watched him stretch back up. Then I watched him wipe his mouth with the back of his hand.

  I watched him too much. But why did he have to have such a slender build and cute butt?

  “Uh, this isn’t a good idea,” I said.

  Paul walked over until he stood mere inches from me. “What isn’t a good idea? Me accompanying you? Why wouldn’t it be? I’m a great pianist, so you don’t have to worry.”

  There was a definite sparkle in his gaze. It told me he knew full well what I meant — and it had nothing to do with whether he played well or not.

  “I… I…” Since when did I ever have trouble speaking?

  Paul shook his head and studied me. “Well, Greg Whoever’s Girlfriend, I think you’re next.” He gestured toward the open door. The earlier singer was gone, and I hadn’t even noticed her leave.

  I raised my chin, pushed my way past Paul, and entered the studio.

  Mr. Tack was sitting stiff-legged at a chair next to the piano. “Well, well, well, if it isn’t Brenda Haupt,” he greeted me. His icy white hair gleamed under the florescent lights. “Didn’t know you decided on Lower Columbia College.”

  “Yep, I did. How are you, Mr. Tack?”

  “Considering I got rid of all those high school scoundrels, I’m doing great.” He bellowed out a throaty laugh.

  I smiled. He hadn’t changed a bit.

  “Nah, I don’t mean it. I loved all those twerpy rapscallions. Glad to see you again.” He shifted his ample weight, and the folding chair squeaked beneath him. “I see you’ve met Paul.”

  “Yes sir,” Paul said in a jovial tone as he slid onto the piano bench. “We’ve met. Brenda’s quite excited that I’m her accompanist.”

  I whipped around and gave him a withering glare.

  Mr. Tack chortled. “Glad to see you’re getting along. Now, Brenda, I already know your voice, so we’re going to start right in on Ever the Love.”

  Paul began playing and I peered over him at the words on the music. Mr. Tack settled into his chair and closed his eyes, tapping out the beat on his leg. We ran through three more pop tunes and some vocal exercises before my hour was up.

  “That will do,” Mr. Tack said. He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “Same time next week?”

  “Same time,” I agreed.

  I crammed the music into my shoulder bag and charged out of the room, not wanting any chance of conversation with Paul. I was annoyed up to my eyebrows with him. Imagine him bragging that I was happy he was my accompanist.

  How aggravating could a person be? Not to mention vain.

  Voice students were responsible to set up practice sessions with their accompanists. I decided to ask Paul the next day and get it over with, but I cringed when I approached him right after choir.

  “We need to set up practice times.” I noticed the stiff irritation in my voice too late to disguise it.

  Sharon was stacking music on the long folding table. When she heard me, her head jerked around so fast I thought it’d fly into the rafters.

  Paul must have noted her reaction because a teasing smile played on his lips. “Yes, we do.”

  “When are you free?”

  “Well, since you’re Greg’s girlfriend, I’m not sure I am free.”

  Man, this guy was irritating beyond belief.

  Something brushed my arm. I jumped aside, swirled around, and nearly knocked into Sharon who had sidled up right next to me. Her drawn-together brows and tight lips were not a pretty sight. Piercing eyes darted between Paul and me. She pushed at me to step closer to Paul.

  “What are you practicing for? Choir? Do I n
eed to come?” Her voice was strained, too loud. Anyone could see what her attempt to be calm was costing her.

  “Brenda’s taking voice lessons from Tack,” Paul said and bent to pick up his books.

  Sharon looked at me with such hatred, I stepped back. “But that’s not possible,” she said.

  “It’s already arranged, plus I’ve gone to one lesson.”

  Her shoulders rose to her ears. “But Tack’s schedule is full.”

  “I guess he had an opening. Why? Did you want to take lessons too?” I swallowed the snarky tone that rose to the surface.

  Her lips puckered into a pout. “No. I just didn’t know you were taking them.”

  “Why would you care whether I take voice lessons?”

  But I knew full well why. Every movement of her body vibrated with worry. She thought I was going to take Paul away from her like I had taken Greg.

  The air around us bristled with emotion and I wanted out. Paul had already walked off, and I couldn’t wait to do the same.

  “See you later,” I said abruptly and left Sharon sputtering like a drowning victim.

  ****

  Greg’s letters poured forth like water surging from a flooded river. Every day I’d dash home for lunch and Mother would greet me with a letter in hand like my personal mailwoman. She’d stand at the bottom of the stairs and hold out Greg’s latest note like a subway token. I’d grab it from her and dash upstairs to sprawl across my bed.

  I’d tear open the letter, read it, and then write back. It was the perfect ritual and I loved the sense of security it gave me. One day, Greg’s letter was longer than usual. After the first paragraph, I jolted upright and my reading slowed to a crawl.

  They need one more soprano in the Lady’s Light Ensemble. I thought about you. How would you like to live in California? You’d love the school. And we could be together. No more long distance crud. I already asked the director, and he’ll grant you an audition. The ensemble performs across the country. It’s a big deal and comes with a nice scholarship. You might want to fly down because auditions are only available next week. What do you think?

  I jumped off my bed and shot down the stairs straight to the kitchen where Mom was wiping dishwashing suds off her arm.

  “Can I go to California?”

  She threw the dishrag onto the counter. “What are you talking about?”

  I flapped Greg’s letter in front of her face. “I can try out for an ensemble and transfer colleges. If I make it, I get a scholarship.”

  Mom took off her apron and slung it over the back of a kitchen chair. “How much scholarship?”

  “I don’t know. Do you think I should go?”

  Lower Columbia College slipped completely out of my heart as I dreamed of joining Greg. It could be wonderful, and if I were down there, we could call off this whole seeing-other-people nonsense. Things could be like they were before.

  I also wouldn’t have to deal any further with Paul the Arrogant.

  When I had applied for college the spring of my senior year in high school, I hadn’t considered going to California. The out-of-state tuition was too high, but with a scholarship, it might be doable.

  Mom pulled out a kitchen chair and sat. “You couldn’t drive to Southern California alone and neither your dad nor I can take you.”

  “I know, but I could fly.”

  Mom’s eyes widened. “You’ve never flown before, and I’m not sure you need to start now.”

  “There’s a first time for everything.”

  Her pursed lips moved from side to side like a slow waltz. “I’ll speak with your dad, and in the meantime, you can find out how much a ticket costs.”

  In Mom language, that was a go. I gave her a quick hug. “I can pay for the ticket. I’ve got money saved.”

  I raced to my room to write Greg and tell him to set it up. I was coming.

  ****

  By Friday, all arrangements had been made. I was to fly out on Sunday afternoon and audition on Tuesday morning. I had set up a practice session with Paul for three o’clock on Friday, which was perfect timing. I needed to practice before my audition and accompanying myself had never worked well. I had chosen two songs — both of them from high school choir the previous year.

  When I arrived to practice, Paul was waiting at the entrance of the rehearsal room. He leaned against the door frame and watched me approach. His eyes roamed up and down my outfit. At first, I worried I’d spilled a blob of food goo down my shirt, but then my cheeks grew warm as realization dawned. He was admiring me. No matter. Soon I wouldn’t be around, and he’d never see me flush hot again. I’d be tucked safely away in California with Greg.

  “Hey, Greg’s girlfriend, how’s it going?” His voice was smooth, yet I could sense an underlying excitement.

  “The name is Brenda.”

  “Okay then, Greg’s Girlfriend Brenda. How’s it going?”

  He was teasing me now, and I was surprised to find I wanted to join him.

  “Maybe I should be calling you So-and-so’s Boyfriend Paul? Seems only fair.”

  He took a step forward and his blue eyes were playful. “Nope. Nobody’s boyfriend.” He ushered me into the rehearsal room with a gallant sweep of his hand.

  “You were fishing, I assume?” he asked, sitting on the bench and scooting himself up to the piano.

  “Fishing?”

  He twisted around, looked at me over his shoulder, and winked. “Trying to find out if I have a girlfriend.”

  I stepped back. “Hardly! Whoa, you’re conceited.” But of course, he was right — I had been fishing. I did want to know if he was attached — a senseless move because I’d be leaving soon, probably for good.

  I shook my head in what I hoped looked like disgust. “I don’t even like to fish. I need you to help me with these two songs.”

  Paul looked at the music. “These aren’t songs from your lesson.”

  “I know. I’m trying out for an ensemble in California, and these are my audition pieces.”

  Paul shifted on the bench and stared at me. “An ensemble in California? That’s quite a commute isn’t it?”

  I smiled, but for some reason my heart didn’t join in. “If I make it, I’ll be moving.”

  He nodded with slow deliberation. “Moving, huh? Well, that is news.”

  “Greg attends there, so it makes sense.”

  “But it didn’t make sense earlier when you enrolled here and not there?”

  “Getting into this ensemble means a sizable scholarship.”

  Paul’s eyes narrowed. “Ah, I see. It’s the money.”

  The way he said it, I felt like I needed to defend myself. “It’s not the money. I want to be with my boyfriend. As I said, it makes perfect sense.”

  As the words came out of my mouth, I knew I was lying. It was the money. Being with Greg was part of it, but I hadn’t made any big effort to follow him south before the scholarship came along.

  We glared at each other in silence. Then Paul scooted over on the bench to make room for me. “Sit here. You’ll be able to see the music better.”

  I sat down, and his closeness made my heart quiver. Our faces were only inches apart. He gazed at me with such intimacy I involuntarily scooted backward and nearly fell off the bench.

  “Maybe I shouldn’t sit since I’ll be standing for the audition.” I scrambled to get up. My legs shook and for a brief second, I thought I was going to fall right on top of him.

  “Whatever you say.” Paul turned to the music and his hands slid over the keyboard with smooth grace. He was the best pianist I’d ever heard, and I became mesmerized as I watched his strong fingers play over the keys like a caress.

  I botched my entrance and Paul stopped and swiveled around to me. “You missed your cue.”

  “I know, sorry. Can you start again?” A shudder passed through me. Why was I so flustered? I’d already sung in front of him. I was being ridiculous.

  “After practice, do you want to run over
to McDonald’s for french fries?” he asked.

  I blinked at him, my mind trying to switch gears. “French fries?”

  “Do you want to go to McDonald’s?”

  “With you?”

  “Of course with me. What did you think?”

  “Sure,” I answered, and then I moved right into scolding mode. Whatever this was with Paul had to stop; it was getting out of hand.

  He patted the bench again. “Come, sit back down.”

  My mind raced ahead. Greg had said we should see other people. Yet eating french fries with someone hardly classified as seeing other people. After all, a person had to eat; it was a simple necessity.

  I was fine. Nothing to worry about at all.

  Chapter Three

  But I did worry — all the way to McDonald’s. The restaurant was located fairly close to the Fine Arts Building so we walked. The air was crisp and I pulled my sweater closer around my neck. Walking so near to Paul, I felt stupid with my hands hanging like limp fish at my sides so I grabbed each shoulder strap of my backpack and held on. Paul glanced over at me.

  “Too heavy? You want me to take it?”

  “No, it’s fine.”

  We kept walking, both of us quiet and avoiding each other’s eyes. Being in close proximity in a music room and being in close proximity in the open air were two different things. I felt anxious and awkward. It was a relief to enter McDonald’s and be in the middle of the afternoon crowd. Paul paid for two orders of french fries and two sodas.

  I slid into a booth and he joined me with our food.

  “You’re flying to California?” he asked.

  “It’s too far for me to drive alone.”

  “I’ll drive with you,” he offered, and I almost dropped my soda. When I looked into his eyes again, I saw he was joking.

  “In your dreams, mister,” I said, knowing how stupid I sounded and how stupid I felt. Did he realize I’d believed him for a nano-second?

  “I’ve never flown,” he said.

  “Me neither. I’m kind of nervous.”

  He took a long french fry out of the cardboard container and dipped it into his mixture of ketchup and mayonnaise. “You’ll do fine. It’ll probably only take a couple hours to get there.”