The Torch Singer Ch. 01

Bobby reported that he'd made peace with Jake later that week, but grew uncharacteristically stone-faced and silent when pressed for details.

A few weeks later, Alice learned from her next door neighbor that Jake's mother had decided to remarry, moving with her son and fiancé to California. Just like that, he was gone.

Frankie seemed inconsolable. It was like the life had been sucked out of her at the age of fourteen.

Alice would sometimes walk into the living room to find her sitting at the piano, running her fingers softly across the top of the keys without pressing down. She'd flinch guiltily when discovered, as if she had been doing something wrong. Frankie would slam the cover shut and run off to her bedroom. Then the melancholy voice of Billie Holliday could be heard through her closed door for the next several hours.

Luckily, Frankie thrived in High School, finally making friends with a nice group of girls who were also college-bound. She joined the acapella choir. Most people were surprised that such a rich, mature mezzo-soprano voice came from such a slight, pale girl.

Her naturally effervescent personality re-emerged eventually, but Alice's heart ached whenever her girl would lapse into a brooding silence, a haunted expression in her eyes, when she thought no one was looking.

Nothing is ever as completely devastating as failed young love.

***

"DOLOROSSO"

[The direction to play a section of music sorrowfully, plaintively.]

Jake sat at his desk, the pen in his hand poised above a piece of ivory notepaper. A small pile of crumbled up pages lay on the floor at his feet. He was in agony. He was scared, too.

How the hell could he explain this? He ran his fingers through his hair for what was probably the hundredth time.

He needed to say something. To tell her why he was not coming back. To make it okay.

But really, he began to reason, the problem was his, not hers. Maybe she wouldn't even expect an explanation. But even as he mulled this over, he knew it was a lie. He knew she was in love with him, too. They were in love.

It was the simplest thing. It was the most complicated thing.

The problem was his - and it was a BIG problem. Christ! He was 18 years old, of legal age. What was wrong with him? She was so young. Did this make him some kind of creep? A pervert?

No - it's not as if he felt this way about anyone else - any other girls. This wasn't some weird, pedophile thing. Frankie was different. She was more aware of -

Jake groaned, cutting off this thought. He'd read Lolita last term, and he knew this sounded a lot like the lines that Nabokov had written for Humbert Humbert. Maybe he should get some therapy.

He stared, unseeing, out his bedroom window. He could hear his mother in the kitchen, rattling pots and dishes as she made supper. She, at least, was happy. Jake was glad for her - Mike was a nice guy and would be good to her. She deserved that. He wondered how their lives might change after they married.

He pulled his attention back to the task at hand. What was he going to do about Frankie?

The best part of each and every day was the time he spent with her. She was so fresh, unspoiled and natural, and seemed to get him in a way that no one else did. When he was with her, he felt like he was home. Something about the way she spoke, the way she hummed a tune, the way she laughed, just made Jake want to compose an entire symphony. The excitement of being with her, playing his compositions for her and listening to her feedback, and just watching her lovely face light up as they discovered new music together - these were the things he lived for.

Except that it started to not be quite enough. He wanted more - and what he wanted - well, it just wasn't right.

So now, he just couldn't - he couldn't keep spending time with her and pretending that he was just a friend or worse, some kind of surrogate brother. The way she'd been looking at him lately - the way it felt when their hands accidentally touched, or when her hair brushed across his arm. He could swear that she wanted him to kiss her. If he concentrated, he could still smell her intoxicating perfume.

And when those knuckleheads thought it would be funny to spray her with the hose, ruining that beautiful dress with mud, making Frankie cry - well, he'd just lost it. She was so stunned and heartbroken that they would treat her so cruelly. He remembered literally seeing red, like in the cartoons.

Jake never punched anyone in his entire life, but he smashed one of his best friends in the face, possibly breaking his nose. Before he even knew what he was doing, Bobby was in the dirt, blood all over him. Because all Jake could think about was: "I won't let anyone hurt my Frankie."

Shit, he was in some kind of trouble. The kind that lands a guy in jail.

If only all of this with Frankie had happened four years from now. Then it would all be normal and fine. They would be able to do what they wanted.

That's it! His hands flew up in the air, and he looked to the ceiling. This is what he would say to her - he'd tell her to wait four years, and then find him. He didn't have to say goodbye. It wouldn't be easy, but it would be the right thing. And he would let her decide, so then he could be sure that he didn't influence her unfairly. He began to write.

Dearest Frankie:

You're an amazing girl, beautiful on the inside as well as out. I love spending time with you, so much more than I can say. You inspire my music - I hear it whenever we're together. When I see myself in your eyes, I think I can do just about anything. What we feel for each other is very special.

But you are still only 14. Though it may not seem like it today, those four years make a big difference. So I need to go away. I need to give you that time. You need to go to high school, and have the time to grow into the incredible woman that I know you're going to become.

I will always be thinking of you, my beautiful, bright angel, especially when there is music.

When you are 18, if you still want to see me, I will be waiting. If by then you've moved on, then at least you will know that somebody out there cares about you and wishes you only the best.

And if you ever need me, I'll be there for you.

Love,

Jake

There were tears in his eyes as he carefully folded the note and slipped it into an envelope. He wrote her name on the front, and then sealed it shut. As he stood, he saw Bobby coming up the walk to his house. He smiled, happy to be able to make peace with his friend.

He tucked the note in his back pocket. 'Bobby can bring this back to Frankie when he goes home', he thought.

He walked out of his room as the sound of knocking could be heard at the screen door.

***

"INTERMEZZO"

[A short musical section or interlude connecting major parts of a composition.]

The last of the video medleys showcasing the work of this year's nominees for "Best Original Score" had just ended. The audience in the Los Angeles Dolby Theater naturally hushed as the presenters, a young up-and-coming actress, and last year's Best Actor in a Foreign Film, delivered their lines of light banter leading up to "and the winner is". Cameras six, seven, eight and nine focused on the four nominees, and the broadcast montage showed them looking up, with nervously expectant looks on their faces.

All but one, that is. Jake Garner, the young first-time nominee, smiled pleasantly as he looked briefly to his right at his pretty date. His humility was apparent, and he had no expectation that he'd win. Not with the legendary talents who were also nominated. While most people in his position tell the media that they are "just happy to be recognized among such distinguished company", Jake honestly meant it. It was a thrill for him to be doing what he loved, and be part of such a great movie. Not to mention actually getting to go to the Oscars. Not bad for a working-class boy from a scruffy industrial town outside of Boston.

The presenters struggled even longer than usual to tear open the card, which drew out the tension of the moment for the other nominees, whose faces started to show the strain.

After ad-libbing a joke about recycling, they finally yanked out the card and the actress read the winner: "The Oscar goes to Jake Garner, for Andromeda Rising!"

It took Jake a second to realize he'd heard it right. His shock was genuine, which the show director loved. They zoomed in for a tight shot as Jake stared up at the stage numbly. His gorgeous date and the other cast and crew members sitting near him jumped up in delight, hugging him and planting kisses on his handsome face.

'SHIT!' he thought. 'Is there some mistake?' As people around him urged him to get up and head to the stage, he bemusedly shook the outstretched hands and accepted the congratulations. Collecting himself as he got to the aisle, he made a point of going to each of his fellow nominees to show respect, bowing and shaking their hands as he made his way forward.

The rush of actually winning the damn thing was suddenly swamped by the realization that he had absolutely no idea what to say when he got up there! He'd never bothered to write a speech, since it never occurred to him he might win - not among such august company.

'Just breathe, you can do this.' He told himself, as he accepted the presenters' handshakes and best wishes, and took hold of the surprisingly heavy statue. He looked across the massive, packed house, feeling the pressure of the cameras, the bright lights and the attention of the hard-bitten industry professionals. He shook his head in disbelief for a brief moment before taking a deep breath and finding his calm, the way he does before performing. He decided humble honesty was the best way to go. Bullshit had never been a natural part of Jake's vocabulary.

The prompter cued him, and the clock began to tick down.

"Wow. I have to be honest here, I never expected to hear my name tonight. Not after being nominated alongside people who have essentially defined this genre: the prolific and legendary Mr. Williams, the genius, Mr. Byrne, and the awe-inspiring Mr. Marianelli. Compared to them I am just a green and wholly unworthy novice-" Jake had to pause as the crowd interrupted him with their applause. The audience cameras showed his competitors offering up their respective thanks.

The clock read 25 seconds. He thanked the Academy, his amazing orchestra (calling out key performers), the film's director - who happened to be a good friend, also up for several awards this night, the producer, main actors, and studio, as well as his agent. He still had 10 seconds left.

Suddenly, an image of his first and enduring love flashed in his head: her long, platinum hair, huge green-blue eyes, porcelain milk-and-roses skin. He thought of her willowy grace, ready laugh, and beguiling behavior that was so improbably feisty and wild, like some wayward celestial or elf warrior princess. She was his every melody. The image of her was never very far from him, but for some reason she was omnipresent tonight. Barely thinking about what he was saying, he closed with:

"And to the beautiful, bright angel who is my true muse - this award belongs to you. Thank you for putting the music in my heart." He held the golden trophy aloft as the red light came on and the walk-off music swelled. The audience cheered, and it sounded genuine.

He walked backstage with the ushers and presenters, blinded by the flashing cameras and the other video lights. People were shouting questions at him, asking him how he felt and what would be next.

His date, Sunny, the lovely but melodramatic fashion model he'd been seeing for the last couple of months, launched herself into his arms, kissing him elaborately before bestowing dazzling smiles on the various cameras. The rest of the night seemed to happen in a sort of fast-forward of parties and after-parties. Jake felt dizzy from the overstimulation, and secretly just wanted to go home.

It wasn't until the next morning, after reading the trades and watching the recap coverage on various channels that he realized everyone - Sunny included - thought he was referring to her when he thanked his "muse".

'Oh, fuck.' Jake thought, raking his hand though his thick dark hair. 'How are you going to get yourself out of this mess, Einstein?'

***

"FIRST MOVEMENT"

[The initial major section of a composition.]

"They call you the ice princess."

Amy giggled after saying this, as if it was hilarious. She sipped her diet soda noisily through a plastic straw. Their waitress refilled their water glasses, tiny chunks of ice clinking against the spout of the pitcher. The waitress had a tired, long-suffering look on her face, making her appear older than she probably was. Frankie smiled up at her, thanking her softly and waiting for her to walk away before replying to her friend. It gave her the time to will away some of her annoyance.

"THEY do? Who are 'they' again, exactly?" Frankie asked, the sarcasm evident in her tone and her facial expression. A half-eaten western omelet was growing cold on her plate.

Amy waved her hand about as if the question was irrelevant, picking her chocolate chip muffin to pieces. "Oh - everybody. But it's funny because you even look like her - you know—the princess from the Disney movie..."

Frankie rolled her eyes, interrupting her before the giggles came back. "Yeah, yeah - I get it. Frozen. Ice Princess. That's SUPER funny. I just love being compared to a cartoon character."

Amy grinned, and started to sing, spreading her arms wide: "Let it go, let it go! Can't hold it back any more..." People in the adjacent booths of the Midtown diner began turning to look at them. Frankie quickly shushed her, going so far as to put her hand across Amy's mouth. She apologized to the people around her in general, feeling her cheeks grow pink with embarrassment.

"Will you PLEASE shut up?!" She hissed, trying very hard not to laugh. "Didn't we talk about this spontaneous singing thing?" She reminded her overly theatrical friend. Sometimes she felt more like Amy's babysitter than her friend.

Amy was unfazed. She liked nothing better than being the center of attention, even if that attention was sometimes negative.

Frankie's friend was a collection of extremes, and somehow made it all very attractive. Barely topping five feet two, Amy was improbably buxom, with a tiny waist and shapely arms and legs. Her mouth and eyes were very large in her small face, and thick, dark, dramatic eyebrows swept like a pair of wings over eyes so deep brown they almost looked black. It gave her an aspect of perpetual surprise or excitement. She had long blood red nails and matching lipstick, and favored clothing that looked like the discarded cast wardrobe from Mad Men. Frankie thought she was very "VA VA VOOM", and enjoyed her energy and sense of fun.

In many ways, they were polar opposites, and not just physically. Amy was a "leap before looking" kind of girl, whereas Frankie lived in a more deliberate, careful way. They met in an acting class a week after Frankie moved to New York. That was three years ago. They'd been close friends ever since.

"So... why won't you go out with him? Brad's really a catch." Amy's question sounded almost petulant. It flashed across Frankie's mind for a moment that the girl was strangely overly concerned with this situation. Why should she care so much whether Frankie went out with Brad, or not? The answer came to her as soon as the question materialized in her head. Amy liked him herself!

Glancing back up at her friend, she realized that the signs had been there all along. Amy was totally into Brad, but was trying for the sake of their friendship to encourage Frankie.

It was sweet, really, in a sad, twisted, self-destructive kind of way.

'Actresses.' Frankie thought to herself.

"Look, Brad's great, and cute, and is a wonderful dancer. But he's just not my type." Frankie pronounced, in an effort to be as unambiguous as possible. Amy's left eyebrow shot up skeptically, as if she couldn't believe that anyone could feel that way.

Sipping her coffee, Frankie counted to five in her head before continuing. Feigning innocence, she said carelessly: "Maybe YOU should go out with him..."

Amy's reaction was priceless. A study in mock surprise, followed by denial, followed by insecurity.

"I... No! Not me. That's not what I'm- Why, do you think he likes me? Did he say something to you about me? Would you mind? I'd never consider it if I thought— But you just said he's not your type, so... Oh, I don't know. But he's probably not interested in me - not with you around. Is he? What should I do?"

Frankie had to bite her lower lip to stop herself from laughing.

"Well..." she began, tilting her head to the side, studying Amy's anxious face before continuing, "I'd suggest you let him know that you like him. But SUBTLEY, Amy. Don't stride up to him and shove your tongue down his throat, or anything."

Amy snorted at the idea, but then her face got all dreamy, as if she was imagining it.

"And," Frankie paused to sip her coffee first for dramatic effect, "Don't flash your tits."

"Ha, ha." Amy retorted sarcastically. "I wasn't planning on flashing anything. And besides, I only did that last year to that ONE guy because Heather dared me to..."

Both girls erupted in laughter at the memory. Between snorts, Amy choked out:

"Seriously, she bet me fifty bucks that I wouldn't do it. I'm a struggling actress... fifty bucks is the ConEd bill... Remember that day? I was all like-" She pantomimed pulling up her top. "And he was like—" Amy's eyes went wide and her mouth fell open as she imitated a shocked and lustful expression.

Frankie was so caught up in a fit of laughter that she couldn't talk for a minute. Her stomach actually started to hurt, so she wrapped her arms around her middle, leaning forward toward the table. Amy's answering laughter was loud and almost shrill.

Suddenly, the surly waitress was back, standing next to them. They attempted to simmer down and looked at her, their faces still flushed and smiling. She didn't crack a smile, and stood looking down at them with one hand on her hip. A disapproving silence hung in the air.

"Did you want something, Flo?" Amy intoned theatrically.

Frankie lost it again, covering her face with her hands as she shook with the giggles. Amy didn't know what the woman's name actually was, but it probably wasn't the same as the famous cheesy waitress character from that old TV sitcom, "Alice".

The waitress rolled her eyes in disgust and slapped the check down on the table before walking away.

Amy looked at Frankie and shrugged. "Uh oh, party's over, I guess."

Still giggling a little, Frankie answered: "It's okay, I have to get downtown for rehearsal. Call you later." She was giggling again as she fished her half of the bill out of her wallet, gathering her things.

She stood up and slapped it down on the table in the same way the waitress left the check, giving her friend an exaggerated imitation of the waitress's glare. Amy guffawed even louder.

Frankie gave her friend two air kisses before dashing to the exit. She could still hear the sound of Amy's laughter as she pushed her way out the heavy glass door to the sidewalk.

She ran lightly down the steps to the Subway station, using her Metrocard to get through the turnstiles. Her timing was lucky; the next train was just arriving. She stepped onto the F train heading downtown to the Lower East Side. She had plenty of time to make it to the club before rehearsal started. She felt the tickle of excitement in her tummy and then lower, as she always did when she contemplated work. Hell, she even loved rehearsal.