Breathe (Songs of Submission #10)(2)

“I don’t need to learn to sing per se.”

“Singing isn’t the problem. You barely know how to breathe.”

“I just need help with the one song.” Actually, I didn’t need help with shit. I needed to leave and just coast on what I had for the rest of my life.

“You’re breathing too late and too shallow. And you’re yelling. You’re so sharp you’re going to draw blood.”

I swallowed. She was right. I was too sharp, and I always worked around timing breaths. I’d been proud of finding a method to get around doing it right. Maybe I shouldn’t have been so pleased with myself.

“Have you ever used a tuning fork?” She held the box open in front of me. Tucked inside the velvet lining sat a silver two-pronged fork with a little ball at the bottom of the handle.

“To tune my viola. But if you can’t help me by opening day, I can just go.” I reached for my bag.

“You paid for this session. You might as well stay.”

She stood with her hands caressing the box, posture perfect, unrefusable. If Debbie found out I hadn’t made it through one hour, I’d be embarrassed. I could make excuses about scheduling for every other session, but I was here now. I put my bag down, and Mrs. Yuan nodded ever so slightly. I felt as if I’d lost a chance to save myself.

“You used the fork for the viola. And your voice? You tuned with what?”

“A sharp. On the piano.” I indicated the flawless black grand Steinway in the center of the room as if I had to tell her what a piano was.

“You tune your instrument to something impure, and what you get is an impure tune. They say in data analysis, garbage in, garbage out.”

“The pianos were always in tune,” I said defensively. “I was always careful.”

She tapped the fork against a corner of the piano that was dented and bare of gloss. “This is A four forty.”

“I know.”

“You’re so busy talking, I could be at middle C and you wouldn’t even hear it.”

I shut my trap. If this was how it was going to go, I’d just endure it. “Yes, ma’am,” I said without a lick of snot in my tone.

“Sherri,” Mrs. Yuan said.

The girl at the piano looked up.

“Give me an A please.”

Sherri hit the key. Mrs. Yuan tapped the fork and put the stem to my ear.

When it quieted, she said, “Do you hear that?”

“Hear what?”

“The oscillations between the fork’s tone and the piano’s.”

Maybe? Maybe something? They’d been the same note, but maybe…

“Can I hear it again?”

They did it again, and I listened. I knew what unmatched tones sounded like, but this was so slight, I didn’t think it really existed.

“I think so?”

She tapped the fork again, and Sherri played the note again.

“I think I—”

“There is no question of it,” she said, stopping the vibration with her hand. “Give me this A.” She tapped the fork and put the handle by my ear.

I sang a long note, matching the tone. I listened for the oscillations and heard none. The fork’s note drifted to nothing, leaving me singing the note. I sounded perfect. Exactly the same.

“Make it stop,” Mrs. Yuan said, throwing up her hands. “There are tire skids on the street that got closer to a pure note than you. And your breath. If you sang the whole song in A, you might not be so offensive. But the song goes from C to G to a series of flats…if your first note isn’t perfect and you’re panting like a Great Dane, you’re a fool in front of how many?”

Was I supposed to answer? How many seats did Dodger Stadium have? I knew this by heart, but I’d emptied myself so thoroughly to survive our conversation that I’d forgotten to think.

She waited, placing the fork in the box.

“Fifty thousand something?” I sounded as incompetent as I felt.

“Something? Fifty-five thousand six hundred ninety-four. Accuracy. Accuracy and precision. This is what you need.” She snapped the box closed. “There will be no charge for this session. If you want to commit to getting yourself in shape for this performance, come back tomorrow.”

She spun on her heel and glided to a door. Sherri didn’t make a sound as she got up, closed the lid over the keys, and followed.

three.

MONICA

I didn’t cry when I left Mrs. Yuan’s Music School for Masochists and Fucking Morons. I got in my little Jaguar and went home without thinking about anything. All I did was pull into the driveway, go up to the bathroom, and take a shower as if I could wash the shame off me.

I sang in that little wet glass room. The vibrations bounced off the tile and water droplets, making a mess of the sound and masking everything but the emotion.

I was good enough for my label, my new agent, my fans, everyone but Mrs. Yuan. I didn’t know if I’d have to send her my regrets, but I wouldn’t. I just wouldn’t call, period. Having made that decision, I finished up my serenade to the shampoo bottles and toweled off.

The phone rang. It was Jonathan.

“Hi,” I said. “Where are you?”

“Getting on the freeway.” He was in Van Nuys of all places, setting up an art foundation satellite site. He’d gotten the LA Phil to train underprivileged kids how to play stringed instruments, and I was supposed to be there.