Saugatuck Summer (Saugatuck, #1)(66)
I sighed wistfully. “He went to my high school about twenty years ago. Which is, of course, why he’s my idol.”
“He does mostly alternative stuff?”
“Yeah. Think Tori Amos with a dick. Angsty, introspective, sometimes pissed off. That’s when things get fun.” As if to prove my point, the next track on the playlist was “You Were My Religion,” with its driving beat and power chords. That one had always resonated with me because of the anger and defiance in the lyrics. We were listening to Signs of Life—my favorite album—and I had plans to move on to The Crossing. Jace had no idea what he was in for.
I caught myself singing along and stopped before I got lost in it. “If you think he sounds good recorded, you should hear him live. You don’t really get the full impact of just how talented he is until it’s just him and a keyboard, no processing. Brilliant piano. Gorgeous voice. He’s just amazing.”
Jace flicked that perceptive gaze at me for a second. “You wish you were him.”
“Yeah.” I nodded, suppressing another sigh. Listening to someone that good was a bit of an exercise in masochism, really. Casey had done what I would have sold my soul to be able to do. It didn’t matter that he wasn’t a household name with millions of dollars and a shit-ton of Grammys; it wasn’t about being famous. Casey had made that clear by his choice to go indie, even though it meant he’d never get the exposure a major label could provide, and I felt the same. It was just about being good, being able to make music and give the finger to all the people who’d ever told me I wasn’t good enough, or mocked me for dreaming I ever would be. Casey had done that. And as much as I loved his music, at times it made me ache with envy. “But, he was, like, you know, a prodigy. Mostly self-taught and just, you know, one of those guys that gets clobbered over the head by the Talent Fairy until they have the stuff coming out their ears. I’m slightly above average, but not anywhere close to that.” I laughed softly at myself. “He still lives in Grand Rapids. When I was in high school, I used to imagine contacting him through his website and . . . I don’t know . . . asking him to meet for coffee, beg him to be my Yoda. Something. Ask him to tell me how to survive that f*cking little narrow-minded ’burb and get out and rise above it all.”
“Well, why didn’t you?”
I shrugged, ducking my head. “Because that’s just stupid fanboy shit. I don’t have what he has, talent-wise. I can’t do what he did.”
Ouch. There was that stab of envy and hopelessness again.
Jace grimaced but said nothing. We fell silent again, the music surrounding us. It soothed me and lifted me up out of my readiness to feel sorry for myself. It didn’t take me long to forget myself and begin singing along again, transported by piano, strings, and soaring high notes.
“You’re really better than you give yourself credit for,” Jace said after a few minutes.
“People keep saying that, but it’s not true.” I gave him a frank look. “That’s not false modesty or self-denigration, either. I know I’m good; what I’m not is great. I don’t have that level of natural talent, and I know it. With the right training, I could have made up the difference, but I missed that window, so all I’m ever going to be is a gifted amateur.”
It was way too emo to say aloud, but sometimes in my melodramatic moments, it felt like—barring some divine revelation—the only thing at which I’d ever truly excel was f*cking up. Fucked up my relationship with my family, f*cked up my opportunity for a good education, f*cked up my best friend’s family and, by extension, my friendship with her.
That’s me. Christopher Carlisle: Professional Fuck-Up Artist.
And that was quite enough with the pity-poor-me bullshit, thank you very much. I wasn’t going to f*ck up this weekend with Jace, too, by going down that spiral. I jerked myself out of it and smiled, ready to change the subject.
But Jace wasn’t done with it. “I think you give up too easily.”
I rubbed my forehead. “Didn’t we have this conversation by the pool the first time we slept together?”
“Yeah, well I guess I’ve got more to say still. You compare your worst to some genius’s best and decide you’re not good enough? How the f*ck are you ever supposed to win that game? It’s still possible to find some way to do what you love and feel like you’re successful at it. You just need to find out what your options are.”
“And do what? Be told that I’m not good enough? Again? Because, you know, I haven’t heard that message thousands of times already.”
It was hard not to sound as frustrated and inadequate as the subject sometimes made me feel. “Do you know how hard I worked back before I stopped doing choir and plays? Every single conductor and director I had agreed on one point: I had an amazing work ethic. I was always at rehearsal, always ready to put in one hundred and twenty percent, always had my part memorized well before it was necessary. But no matter what I did, it was never enough to get me solos, and the only time I got the lead in a musical, it was because I was right for the part physically, not because I was the best option vocally. What I needed was training, and my family wouldn’t let me have that. I can’t afford it now, even if it weren’t too late. So I mean, really, how many times do I have to be told I’ll never be more than mediocre before it stops being worth the effort?”