The Second Chance of Benjamin Waterfalls, page 11
“And that is?” Niimi asks.
“An absolutely crippling case of stage fright,” she says.
“Prove it,” Niimi says.
Lulu reaches over and picks up the guitar. She holds it like a mother holds her baby. She adjusts the strings, secures it on her lap, and takes a deep breath. STRUM.
The melody is beautiful. And she knows it. It’s catchy. But the expression on Lulu’s face completely kills the vibe. She looks scared. She wants to sing, but she doesn’t. Her mouth opens on every break, but no words come out. She just looks like a deer staring at an oncoming truck. She stops playing. “It’s always the same,” she says as she sets the guitar down.
“What are you afraid of?” Niimi asks.
“I don’t know.”
“Have you tried—”
“I’ve tried everything. I tried closing my eyes, I tried turning around with my back to everyone, I even pictured everyone naked. Nothing works.”
Niimi scratches her chin, thinking …
“How do we know you just don’t suck?” I ask.
Niimi and Lulu glare at me like I suggested drowning a kitten.
“I’m serious. Maybe she shreds the guitar, but can’t sing?”
Lulu hisses, “I can sing!”
“Forgive my assistant, Lulu. He has a hole in his heart,” Niimi says.
“I do not. I am asking a valid question,” I add.
“Follow me. I’ll show you how good I am,” Lulu says, and leads us to the back bedroom.
Her bedroom has been transformed into a small recording studio. There is a mic stand, a couple guitars against the walls, and a desk. Atop the desk is an open laptop and synthesizer. The walls are covered in egg cartons, stapled from floor to ceiling, completely encasing the room.
“Wow. That’s a lot of eggs,” Niimi says.
Lulu laughs. “It soundproofs the room.”
“Having all this stuff still doesn’t prove you can sing,” I say.
Lulu walks over to her laptop and mashes a few keys and flips the volume up. A buzz hums across the room from the large speakers placed in each corner.
“But this does,” she says, and hits one last key. A guitar melody fills the room. “This is me,” Lulu says.
Lulu directs the laptop screen to face us.
Dressed in a black gothic dress, fashionably torn and hugging her body, she stares into the camera and sings … Lulu’s voice floats out of the speakers, beautifully, like a butterfly fluttering off a flower.
I’ve been dreamin’ of a dragon
Draggin’ me down, underground
To its lair.
But I didn’t care
I thought I deserved it
I thought I was worthless
But I was wrong.
So I wrote this song
And now care, I do
Because I am anew
A new Lulu
And tonight, I’ll fight back
And tonight, I’ll bite back
I’ll slay the dragon, I’ll slay my dragon
My song of fire—
Lulu closes her laptop, abruptly ending the song.
She stares at me with a cocky smirk. “So, you still think I suck?” Lulu asks.
Niimi claps. “No. You’re the opposite of suck. I mean, I don’t condone slaying dragons or any animals for that matter, but Lulu, you are the perfect medicine for struggling ears.”
“What does your assistant think?” Lulu asks, and they both look at me as if I were a judge letting her know if she made it to the next round of a talent competition.
“Honestly … I think … you’re amazing,” I add. “In a real fight, I think a dragon would defeat you easily, but for a song, it was really good. It definitely belongs on the radio.”
“Right?” Lulu smiles. “And this song has a million views. I have two other videos with double that. And next week I’m supposed to perform at the North House Folk School in front of a room full of music executives flying in from Nashville. I’ve packed my entire life in boxes to move to the Twin Cities. My career is out there, just waiting for me, but I can’t … As hard as I try … If there’s a crowd, my birds won’t fly,” she says.
Niimi approaches her and circles like a vulture. Lulu shifts uncomfortably in her chair, “What are you doing?” Lulu asks.
“Thinking. Tell me, Lulu … When did you first discover this fear?”
“I used to perform for my parents when I was your age. I loved the attention. Imagine that. They’d watch me for hours. I’d change outfits and lip sync to Red Hot Chili Peppers, Dolly Parton, Radiohead, Sheryl Crow … I knew every song by heart. My mom and dad even helped me with my hair and makeup. Everything was in its right place … But then … at my eighth-grade talent show, the day after my parents separated, I was going to perform a Lady Gaga song, but … I just stood there. I couldn’t sing. I was Lady Nada. Nothing came out. And it’s been like that ever since.”
“But if you’re alone?” Niimi asks.
“If I’m alone, I can sing to the moon and back.”
“Interesting … My assistant and I are going to head back to our office and—”
“We don’t have an office,” I add.
“Correction. My assistant and I are going to take a walk and come up with a game plan. We’ll be back shortly.”
“So, you think you can fix me?” Lulu asks.
“There’s nothing to fix, because you are not broken. There’s just a villain inside you, and that villain conquered your mind and kicked you offstage. Your songs are held captive somewhere near your throat. But the superhero inside of you is in there too. We just need to wake her up and let them fight it out. That’s the only way for your voice to be free,” Niimi says.
I stifle my laughter. Who does this girl think she is?
“Miigwech,” Lulu says, her voice soft with relief. “Your mother bloomed my uncle a few years ago. If you’re even half as gifted as she was, then I’m in good hands.”
Lulu and Niimi walk out of the room. “You coming?” Niimi asks.
“Yeah, I just wanna write that down. I’ll be right there,” I say.
Once I hear them talking in the front of the house, I turn to the microphone case behind Lulu’s desk. This looks expensive. I could get some serious cash for it. My blood begins to rush. It’s the familiar adrenaline coursing through me. The need to take something that isn’t mine. The need to prove I can. To show this boot camp, whenever it starts, that I can do whatever I want, including taking whatever I want, whenever I want, from whoever I want. I open my backpack and stuff a shiny black microphone inside.
Lulu walks us to the front door and hugs Niimi goodbye. She offers me a handshake. I’m not sure if she likes me or not, but to be fair, I don’t think making new friends is a high priority for her. Or me. She just wants to sing. I just want to get this over with.
Niimi passes our bikes and continues down the street. I rush over to join her.
She turns off the sidewalk path and heads into the forest. I stop.
“Aren’t there wild animals in there?”
“Don’t be scared. I’ll protect you.”
“How? I’m bigger than you.”
“Yeah. But I’m smarter.”
Okay. I guess when she’s trying to outsmart the wolf, that will buy me enough time to run. So I hurry to keep up with her.
CHAPTER 13
MADWEWECHIGE (SHE PLAYS MUSIC)
I hear birds chirping, but I can’t see them, and it makes me uneasy. Like I’m being watched but can’t see the watcher. I guess that’s how nature is: always curious, always there. I’ve never really been around nature before. Duluth has parks, but I stuck to shopping places like Matterhorn, Miller Hill Mall, and Stoneridge; after all, there’s nothing to steal in a forest.
As we venture deeper in, I keep wondering why Lulu didn’t say anything about Niimi’s appearance. I guess everyone around here knows about Niimi and her mask? Everyone but me.
Niimi stops. “What do you see?” she asks me.
“What do you mean? I see trees.”
“Exactly,” she says, and keeps walking.
Huh? Was that supposed to mean something? “What are we doing out here?” I ask.
“Searching for answers.”
“We aren’t gonna find out why Lulu has stage fright by getting lost in the woods,” I say as I pick my way over branches and rocks.
“If we get lost, we’ll need to be found. So, by that same logic, if the answers are also lost, we just need to find them. Or they need to find us. They’re here. I can feel them. Now, stop the jaw-joggin’ and help me look,” she says.
This girl. I can’t figure her out. “What exactly am I looking for?”
“Well, answers are usually right in front of you, so look there, but they also tend to be where you least expect them to be, so look there too,” she says.
“I least expect them to be in this forest,” I say.
“Exactly,” she says, and gets on all fours, clawing at the dirt and shoving twigs this way and that way.
I want to laugh, but I also want to get this over with so we can return to civilization.
“Okay. What exactly do answers look like?” I ask.
“They are tricky little things. Sometimes they disguise themselves as questions. And sometimes they hide in fear, like how hermit crabs hide in shells.”
“How will I know if I find it? Does fear bite? Is fear dangerous?”
“My daddy says if you see fear, confront it. Fear is usually afraid of confrontation. Remember, fear’s more afraid of you than you are afraid of it.”
“So, you’re not afraid of fear?” This conversation is going in circles. “Isn’t fear supposed to be … feared?”
“No, Benny. I’m not afraid of anything.”
“Impossible,” I say. “Everyone’s afraid of something.”
“I’ve seen a lot of scary things in my life. I know fear very well. And I also know its weakness.” She whispers into my ear, “Fear is afraid of you not giving in to it. If you don’t, it loses its power over you. And without its power, there’s nothing to fear about fear. It will eventually give up on you and go find someone else to scare the crap out of.”
“I don’t buy it. What about spiders?” I ask.
Niimi laughs. “Totally misunderstood creatures. Plus, I happen to speak Arachnid. I’m not fluent, but I understand enough to know that they are good eight-legged peoples,” she says. “If people understood them more, they’d actually love spiders. They’re perfect roommates. They make your home a no-fly zone.”
It’s not like I’ve been taking notes, but this is maybe the most ridiculous thing she has said so far. I immediately scan my surroundings for a hidden camera that is documenting this elaborate prank on me … But it’s just us. I am literally wandering around the forest with a girl who thinks she can outsmart wolves and speak to spiders.
“You’re not afraid of dying?” I ask.
“Death is just a staircase, and I’m not afraid of heights,” she snaps back.
“I’m starting to see that your mask is the least odd thing about you,” I say.
“Good. You’re still learning.”
I’m guessing she’ll just wiggle her way out of every scenario if I keep this line of questioning up. I may as well start looking for fear. I get down on my knees and mimic her. After sifting through the dirt for a minute or so, Niimi shouts, “Eya!”
I know that one. That means yes. I get up and walk to her. She lies on the ground, ear to the earth. “I’m afraid to ask, but … what are you doing now?”
“I hear the answer. It’s saying something,” she says.
“No, you don’t. You’re just pressing your ear to the dirty ground. What you hear is probably insects,” I say.
“Listen for yourself.” She pats the ground beside her.
I sigh and lower my body to the ground, placing my ear in the dirt. I hear nothing.
“Listen carefully,” Niimi whispers. “Not with your ears, but with your brain. Ears are just outlets. You need to connect to the vibrations of the aki.”
I listen, and as soon as I’m about to tell her how useless this is, I actually hear something. A hum. A light hum under the dirt. Almost like a distant approaching train. What is that?
“You hear it, don’t you?” she says.
“I hear something. But I don’t know what it is,” I say.
“That’s the answer. Lucky for you, I also understand Earth-tongue.”
“Yeah. That’s not a thing,” I say.
“Of course it’s a thing. It’s everything. We all understand it,” she says.
“We?”
“The animals, the trees, the wind and water, all the rocks and dirt. It’s just us humans who have forgotten how to communicate with the earth,” she says. “Before we had cars and buildings and desk jobs and bank accounts, all of this was common sense. It came to us naturally. Nature speaks to whoever will listen. And I am listening.”
“So the answer is in the ground?” I ask.
“It sees us. But … Maybe it’s not staring up at us. Maybe it’s staring down at us. Lie on your back and stare up at it,” she says, flipping her body over and staring straight up to the sky.
I do the same, and for a few moments, we lie perfectly still. We probably look like two dead bodies left in the forest by some serial killer.
“Now what do you see?” she asks.
“I see trees, the sky, maybe a cloud—that’s it,” I say.
“So, you see it too,” she says happily.
“See what?” I ask.
“An audience.” She sits up. “There’s our answer.”
I stare up, and I guess, in a way, I kind of see what she means. The tall trees, the sky, the passing cloud do resemble an audience. And they are all around us, staring at us—well, they would be if they had eyes.
“Even if these trees look like an audience, how does that help Lulu?” I ask.
“Lulu has stage fright because she can’t perform in front of people. I believe her brain convinced her to stop singing because her parents split up. She sees everyone as her mom and dad. And her voice couldn’t keep them together. So it stopped working. That leaves only two solutions for us. One, we get her parents back together, which is not going to happen, I know them. So that leaves us with only one way to save Lulu.”
“And that is what?” I ask.
“We convince her that she’s never been alone, even when she thought she was.”
“I’m not following,” I say.
“Think about it. The trees, rocks, birds, bugs, and whatever else is in here watching us, are alive too. We are not alone. We need her to know that she’s been performing in front of living things this entire time. Her dresser, her guitar, her walls, they all come from wood. That means they were once trees, like these ones here. Her couch spends many hours a day with her. Her bed cradles her in its arms when she dreams. Her clothes hold and hug her all day and night. Comforting her, supporting her. She’s never alone. Lulu needs to see that. Come on, we have a lot of work to do,” Niimi says, and walks back the way we came.
“Wait! Her bed cradles her? Her clothes hug her? Her walls are trees? Do you hear yourself? None of what you just said makes sense.”
“Sense, sense, sense. You want everything to always make sense.”
“Yeah. If it doesn’t make sense, it’s called nonsense. Like everything you just said.”
“Benny, when we enter this world, we are given six senses. Sight. You see it, you believe it. Smell, you smell it, you believe it. Taste, you taste it, you believe it. Hearing, you hear it, you believe it. Touch, you touch it, you believe it.”
“That’s five. We have five senses.”
“Sense number six. Feel. You feel it, you believe it. And I feel it. You’ve just convinced yourself that your sixth sense doesn’t work. You forgot how to feel. That’s why none of this makes sense to you. Don’t use your eyes, ears, tongue, hands, or nose. Feel it in your heart.”
Where does she come up with this bumper sticker stuff? And she’s wrong. I didn’t forget how to feel. In fact, I feel like I want to get out of this darn forest! I feel very strongly about that.
I follow her out of the forest, and when we reach Lulu’s home, near our bikes, Lulu is pacing back and forth on the lawn, waiting for us.
“Did you come up with a plan?” Lulu asks.
“Yes,” Niimi says. “But in order for it to work quickly and efficiently in time for your upcoming performance, I will need some money for a few much-needed supplies.”
“How much?” Lulu asks.
“I don’t know, maybe one hundred dollars,” Niimi replies.
Lulu digs into her pocket and pulls out some cash. She counts it. “I have sixty. I don’t get paid for another two weeks,” she says.
“Sixty will do. It will just force me to be a bit more creative, which is always a challenge I will eagerly accept. In fact, we’ll make it an even fifty,” Niimi says, and accepts the money from Lulu.
“Wait. You’re paying this girl fifty dollars to solve your stage fright? That doesn’t seem ridiculous to you? I mean, I steal from people, but this is highway robbery,” I say, finding this all to be a bit too unbelievable.
“What my assistant fails to understand is that every problem has a solution. He is of the mindset that you’re required to play the hand you’re dealt, not realizing that all this time, you’ve held the entire deck of cards. You don’t like your hand, shuffle again. Lulu, I promise you that you and I will not stop shuffling your deck until you’re satisfied with the cards in front of you.”
“Did you read that on a bumper sticker too?” I ask.
“No. It’s something my mom told me,” she says, and I immediately shut up because I remember what I said last night about her mom. Ugh. I asked her dad if he laughed when his wife died. I do not want to remind her of that. I should have never said it.
