Reese’s mind raced as she took her place on stage with her guitar. She had an extensive repertoire to choose from, but she picked one of her all-time favorites—Tina Turner’s rendition of “Proud Mary.” Strumming a few chords on her guitar captured her audience’s attention, but when she began to sing, they sat up straight in their chairs, all eyes on her. She hit all the notes and when she’d finished, her classmates were on their feet, their loud clapping ringing throughout the auditorium.
“Very nice, Miss Carpenter,” Professor Hunter said. “You just set the bar very high for your classmates.”
Reese listened with rapt attention as, one by one, her classmates performed knockout performances, off the cuff in a variety of genres from pop to country to classic rock. She’d suspected they were gifted. Everyone had to audition in order to be accepted to the music program. She just wasn’t expecting this level of talent and would have to step up her game if she wanted to outperform the others.
Reese’s stomach knotted when Professor Hunter asked to speak with her after class. Had she done something wrong? He’d complimented her performance, but she’d gone first, ahead of twenty other stellar performances. Was he going to tell her the competition was too stiff, that she didn’t have what it took to compete at this level?
They stood together in front of the stage until the last student had left the auditorium, and then he turned to her. “You’re a natural.”
Her belly tingled with excitement. “Do you think so, really?”
He smiled. “I do. Really. You picked a great song to show off your vocals. You’re obviously comfortable on stage. But I want you to work on developing your own style instead of adopting the personality of the vocalist whose song you’ve chosen to sing. Does that make sense?”
“Yes, sir.” He wasn’t telling her anything she hadn’t been told a million times before. She had no stage presence.
“Do you always sing R&B?”
“When I have a choice. My voice coach at home says I remind him of Teena Marie.”
Hunter considered the comparison to the singer and songwriter from the 70s and 80s era known as the Ivory Queen of Soul. “I can see it. And there’s nothing wrong with vintage R&B. Personally, it’s one of my favorites. But I’d like to see you try some music from contemporary artists. Like Mariah Carey.”
Reese groaned inwardly. She didn’t particularly care for Mariah Carey, but she was willing to do whatever it took to find her place in the modern music world. “Yes, sir.”
“Next time, I’ll give you a chance to prepare for your performance. I’m happy to help with song selection.”
“That’d be great.”
They walked up the aisle toward the back of the auditorium where her classmate Franny was waiting for them.
“Did you need to see me?” Hunter asked.
“I always need to see you, Professor Hunter,” Franny said, batting her eyelashes at him.
Reese would trade her vocal cords for the ability to flirt like Franny.
Hunter laughed out loud. “I could get fired for having this discussion with you.”
“Fine,” Franny said, sticking her lower lip out in a pout. “I was waiting for Reese, anyway.”
“In that case, I’ll leave you ladies to enjoy your weekend,” Hunter said and disappeared down the hall toward his office.
“Girl, you were amazing in there,” Franny said, taking Reese by the arm and leading her in the opposite direction toward the building’s exit.
Reese’s face grew warm. “Thanks. So were you.” Franny had strutted her petite body across the stage with her mess of reddish-blonde corkscrews bouncing around her pretty face as she’d performed Pink’s “What About Us.”
“Meh.” Franny waggled her hand in a so-so gesture. “My performance was mediocre. You, on the other hand, hit it out of the park. How do you manage to stay so calm?”
“I don’t honestly know,” Reese said. “It’s just like that for me.” Pretending to be someone else on stage was so much easier than being herself. Especially when she didn’t know who herself really was.
They burst through the exit doors at the end of the hallway into a glorious early fall afternoon.
“Do you want to go with me to a party tonight?” Franny asked.
“I have to study. I have a lot of homework.”
“On a Friday night? You’re joking, right?” Franny’s mouth formed an O. “I get it. You’re rushing a sorority.”
“Not hardly,” Reese said with a humph. “Much to my mother’s disappointment.”
Franny burst out laughing. “I feel your pain. My mother is all over me about joining a sorority.”
They compared notes about their overbearing mothers as they walked across the green to the flagpole. “So, we’ll meet here at nine,” Franny said, more a statement than a question.
“I guess,” Reese mumbled.
As she headed toward the library, Franny called after her, “And don’t forget to bring your guitar.”
My guitar? Reese wondered. When she turned back around to ask why she needed it, Franny was already out of earshot.
Only a few students were in the library that afternoon, and even fewer in the cafeteria that evening for dinner. As she picked at her lasagna, she imagined her classmates going in groups for dinner to one of the trendy restaurants and pubs on Main Street in the small college town of Mapleton, Ohio.
When Reese returned to the room, Mary Beth had already gone out for the evening, the scent of her Chance perfume lingering in the air. Her roommate spent very little time in the room. And when she was there, she hogged the bathroom, which irritated their suite mates more than it did Reese.
She showered and was brushing her teeth when she noticed Mary Beth’s makeup bag on the window ledge. Helping herself to a swipe of designer mascara, she practiced batting her eyelashes in the mirror the way she’d seen Franny do with Professor Hunter.
She spent two hours trying on every outfit in her closet before settling on an ochre-colored dress, washed-out denim jacket, and tattered Frye boots. A few minutes before nine, with one last glance in the mirror, she swung her guitar over her arm and set out to meet Franny.
“Whoa, girl! You look hot,” Franny said as Reese approached the flagpole.
Reese thanked her. “You look pretty fab yourself.” Franny wore a wine-colored, bell-sleeved top with skinny jeans tucked into black cowboy boots. She’d straightened her hair, which now flowed in a thick mane down her back. “I like your hair that way.”
“It took, like, forever to blow it out,” she said, emphasizing her frustration with expressive hand gestures.
As they started off toward town, Reese asked, “Who did you say is having this party?”
“Friends of mine. Of my brother’s, actually. Well two of them. The third is from DC. They’re upperclassmen, two juniors and a senior. I guess you can say they’ve adopted me. As a favor to my brother, they asked me to hang out with them one night the first week of classes. When they began playing, I started singing along. I guess they like my sound, because they’ve kept me around.”
The smell of wood smoke filled the brisk autumn air as they strolled several blocks to Sycamore Street. For the first time since arriving on campus a month ago, Reese felt like a real college student.