Hello, corny headline.
Dad pats my back. “That’s a great picture of you! Your mom will go crazy when she sees this. I’m gonna tell her to buy a bunch of copies.”
Dad goes to call Mom, and I eat my doughnut and dig into the article. It talks about how “after spending nearly four months out of the limelight following an incident in which he fell off a yacht on the Cumberland River, Jesse made an impromptu visit to a fan’s birthday party with a spunky girl, seventeen-year-old Maya Henry of Franklin, Tennessee.”
Spunky? Seriously? I need to write a complaint letter to the editor, because that is beyond dorky. My eyes drift back to the picture of Jesse and me, to a moment in time when we were both happy and free and loving life and music. Forget about him, Maya. The same thing happened with Nate. You always get your hopes up, and guys just let you down.
I fold the newspaper in half, hand it back to my coworker, and grab my clipboard. Time to get this day started. I’ll be working reception later when it gets busy, but first up is an oil change for a 2005 Toyota Camry and then cleaning an air filter on a Mazda.
“Bo-ring,” I sing to myself, because these are pretty lame cars—at least compared to a Maserati—but completing the two tasks clears my mind. Then I change the oil on my next two cars: a Nissan Sentra and a Ford Focus (double boring), and that’s when the mayhem starts.
During his break from bussing tables over at the Roadhouse, Dave comes rushing into the garage wearing his uniform: a neat brown apron and crisp blue button-down shirt. Evan and Nick stop hammering out a dented fender to greet Dave, probably hoping he brought biscuits from the Roadhouse.
“Look at this!” Dave says, holding out his phone. He presses play on a YouTube video of me and Jesse singing on the Belle Carol Riverboat.
“Does that say 715,000 views?” Nick asks, leaning over my shoulder to watch the video.
“Maya, this is so, so cool. You sound amazing,” Dave says.
“Finally, a YouTube video where I don’t sound like a banshee!” I reply, and that’s when reporters from the Tennessean, NBC, ABC, the Franklin Times, the Nashville Scene, and the Tullahoma News arrive to interview me, like I’m some sort of celebrity. I’m mortified when I look down at my greasy white T-shirt and jeans. The reporters thrust microphones up to my mouth.
“How’d they know where to find me?” I ask Dad.
“They came by the house first,” he replies quietly. “Your mom got excited and sent them here. I hope Mr. Caldwell doesn’t get angry.”
“Mooooom,” I whine, and Dad gives me a sheepish shrug.
The first question the press asks is, “Do you know why Jesse’s quitting the business?”
“No, I’m sorry, I don’t.” Can they tell I’m lying?
When they realize my mouth is glued shut to talking about Jesse, they start asking questions about me.
“Jesse Scott’s manager Mark Logan told our producers you are skilled on guitar and have a nice voice,” a lady from Channel 4 news says, holding a microphone up to my mouth. “So what’s next for you?”
“School on Monday, I guess.” I shrug, smiling. Mr. Logan said that?!
The reporter’s question strikes a nerve, and I can’t stop asking myself that same question. What’s next? Rejoining show choir and the church choir? Trying to find members to start another band?
I gaze around Caldwell’s, from the oil spots on the floor to the guys covered with grease, and let out a long sigh, trying to keep it together. I like working here, but it’s just a job for me. I want to perform.
It sucks having a once-in-a-lifetime day, a day that changes you, only to hear the same old song repeated on the radio over and over.
I don’t want yesterday to wither away and die.
• • •
When I get home after work, I plop down on a bar stool in the kitchen, exhausted from not having slept last night and having to fend off reporters at Caldwell’s. Dad had to kick them out because no work was getting done, and he sent me home three hours early to stop the press from coming back. I really could’ve used that money.
I swipe my cell on to find a ton of texts from Mom, Dave, Hannah, Nate?, and everybody I’ve ever met. Foolishly, I had been hoping Jesse might reach out to me.
I rest my head on the counter and sigh. I shouldn’t have invited myself backstage to Jesse’s concert tonight. It spooked him. What is it with me and guys? Do I come on too strong? Why do none of them want to stick around? I’m gonna be forty years old and out on a date with some man, and we’ll make out, then he’ll tell me we’re not meant to be, and I’ll go home to my fourteen cats.