Read Online American Blonde by Jennifer Niven - Free Book Online Page A

into Sam Weldon outside the scenario building, where the writers worked. “So. Kit Rogers. Not sure how I feel about the new name.” The script was tucked under his arm. With his other hand, he scratched his forehead, cigarette burning red. “Sounds too much like an Old West outlaw. You know, grizzled beard. No teeth. Makes it harder to know what to call you.”
    “How about my real name?”
    “Too easy. I kind of like Pipes. Because you’ve got a hell of a pair. Seriously, if they had to butcher my story by adding songs to it, I’m glad you’re the one singing them. Besides, there’s not much more they can do to screw up this script.”
    “Has anyone ever told you that you’re terrible at giving compliments?”
    “Yes. I imagine you’re good at it though. Southern belle and all.”
    “I take it you weren’t happy having to write in Betsy Ross?”
    “Let’s put it this way. Historically, we don’t even know for sure that she sewed the flag, but by the time L. B. Mayer and Billy Taub are done with her, moviegoers across the country are going to think she single-handedly won the Revolutionary War, not to mention that she was a hell of a singer.”
    A group of contract girls swished by in a cloud of perfume. They glanced at Sam—to see if he was someone, to see if he was watching—and he smiled like a rake in a novel. “Ladies.” They went off giggling. He watched them. I cleared my throat. He turned back to me. “Pipes. Sorry, what were you saying?”
    “I wasn’t.”
    “Right. Well then, what do you think of the story?”
    “I haven’t read it yet.”
    “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were trying to flatter me.”
    “I’m not.”
    He dropped the cigarette, stubbed it out with his shoe, shoved his hands in his pockets. “No, you’re not. Much as I enjoy flattery, it’s refreshing. This place is full of people who do nothing but flatter from sunup to sundown. They excel in flattery. They’re paid a lot of money to flatter. Frankly, I’d rather be insulted. At least it’s honest.”
    “Is that an invitation?”
    I cocked my head and smiled. He cocked his head and smiled.
    “Speaking of invitations, I’d like to extend a more overt one. Have dinner with me. If all goes well, have more than that.”
    “I’m afraid I’m busy tonight.”
    “Tomorrow night, then.”
    “I’m pretty sure I’m busy then too.”
    “Ah, the hard-to-get type. My favorite. Or maybe you’re just old-fashioned. I’m not as crazy about that one.”
    “Good afternoon, Mr. Weldon.”
    “Good afternoon, Pipes.” I could feel him watching me go and so I swished away like the contract girls, sending my hips from side to side like a metronome. He was still laughing as I passed Main Street.
    I reported to Miss Burns and had a voice lesson with Miss Fogler. Then I met with Harriet Fields for pop music. She had the thinnest painted-on eyebrows I’d ever seen.
    For ten minutes she told me about her work with the unparalleled Judy Garland, and then she said, “We’re going to focus on scales.”
    I thought she meant for a few minutes, but she meant for the entire hour. I sang up and down, over and over. The only thing that changed was the vowel sound. “Sing ah,” she’d say, smacking the piano with a baton. “Sing e.” “Sing eh.” “Sing oh.” Then we started all over again with consonants. “Sing caw.” “Sing muh.” “Sing tee.”
    Afterward, I reported to Earl Brent for my jazz singing lesson. When he started me on scales, I said, “I just spent an hour doing this with Miss Fields. I’m as warmed up as I’ll ever be.”
    “It’s customary to spend the first several lessons vocalizing, Miss Rogers.” But he stood and sorted through the sheet music stacked atop the piano. He pulled out three songs and said, “Let’s see how you sight-read.”
    We started the lesson without accompaniment because Mr. Brent said this was the way of finding your key, the one you felt comfortable in.