his name was—winked at her. She looked him full in the eyes, tilted her head slightly. “I can sing that too.”
He shrugged, lifted an eyebrow. He was interested, Melody thought with amazement. Not in the song, but in her. Her palms started up again. “Go to it,” said Chris.
She turned around to face the audience. No one was there, really. Just a couple of strollers in the square, and a few more down Chartres Street. That made it easy. Melody took a deep breath and started belting: “Jambalaya, crawfish pie, file gumbo …”
The familiar words bounced off the concrete louder than she’d expected, raised the energy in the street like a parade coming through. Melody felt the shock of it, saw the strollers in the square point and start to walk toward her. She’d only sung in controlled situations before, had no idea how she’d sound out here.
Someone behind her said, “Holy shit.” One of the guys, she couldn’t tell which one. And that was all she needed.
After that, it was fun. Her feet started to move and magic happened. The music flowed through her like a gift from another dimension. She was a musician, she was an artist, this was who she was. She knew now, just as she’d known it the first day she’d sung the same song, and danced in front of her mother’s full-length mirror, just fooling around but feeling the magic. She’d been about eight.
Part of what was happening, the sudden party feel of it all, was the song. She realized it even as a crowd started to gather. People responded to songs they already knew. But, hell, it wasn’t just that, she was singing well. Really well. They were loving her. They were tossing money.
Melody finished the song, and before the applause had stopped, before she had time to catch her breath, Chris started “Breakaway.” The others joined in, but Melody got there first:
“I made my reservations
I’m leavin’ town tomorrow
I’ll find somebody new and
There’ll be no more sorrow …”
They did that and then they did “La Ti Da,” and some others; Chris just started a song, never asking if Melody knew it. And she always knew it. The crowd never got huge, but people came and went and dollars piled up in the kitty.
After about an hour and a half, they took a break. The ugly guy, the piggy one, was all over her, hugging her, kissing her, sweating on her. “You are something, kid!”
Melody shrugged graciously. “You guys just needed a singer.”
“Let’s go eat,” said the redhead. “I’m Sue Ann, by the way. And this is Chris.” She leaned on him for a moment, sending a message, Melody thought. But Sue Ann grabbed the fat one too, around the upper arm. “This is Randy.”
They went over to Decatur Street, walked down to get a pizza, Sue Ann asking questions a lot faster than Melody could think of answers.
“Where are you from?”
Where the hell was she from? “Abbeville,” she said.
“Funny, you don’t look like a Cajun.” This from Chris.
“Um, only on my mom’s side.” She wished she’d thought to get a story together.
“How long have you been here?”
“In New Orleans? Gosh. Seems like forever. How ‘bout y’all?”
“Oh. Awhile.” They didn’t like answering questions either.
Chris kept looking at her sideways, keeping his distance, seeming amused, as if she were a hamster someone had brought him to play with. It made her nervous, but on the other hand, it was attention from the person she wanted it from. She wanted to get closer, to close the distance between them, but she didn’t know how. She felt tongue-tied every time he spoke to her, wouldn’t have known what to say even if she’d met him as Melody Brocato.
Oh, God. What if they ask for a last name?
Robicheaux. That was safe. Everyone was named Robicheaux.
But they didn’t ask. They asked how old she was, or the piggy one did. “Eighteen,” she said, not missing a beat.
The guys slapped each other high fives. Melody flushed, thinking they were
He shrugged, lifted an eyebrow. He was interested, Melody thought with amazement. Not in the song, but in her. Her palms started up again. “Go to it,” said Chris.
She turned around to face the audience. No one was there, really. Just a couple of strollers in the square, and a few more down Chartres Street. That made it easy. Melody took a deep breath and started belting: “Jambalaya, crawfish pie, file gumbo …”
The familiar words bounced off the concrete louder than she’d expected, raised the energy in the street like a parade coming through. Melody felt the shock of it, saw the strollers in the square point and start to walk toward her. She’d only sung in controlled situations before, had no idea how she’d sound out here.
Someone behind her said, “Holy shit.” One of the guys, she couldn’t tell which one. And that was all she needed.
After that, it was fun. Her feet started to move and magic happened. The music flowed through her like a gift from another dimension. She was a musician, she was an artist, this was who she was. She knew now, just as she’d known it the first day she’d sung the same song, and danced in front of her mother’s full-length mirror, just fooling around but feeling the magic. She’d been about eight.
Part of what was happening, the sudden party feel of it all, was the song. She realized it even as a crowd started to gather. People responded to songs they already knew. But, hell, it wasn’t just that, she was singing well. Really well. They were loving her. They were tossing money.
Melody finished the song, and before the applause had stopped, before she had time to catch her breath, Chris started “Breakaway.” The others joined in, but Melody got there first:
“I made my reservations
I’m leavin’ town tomorrow
I’ll find somebody new and
There’ll be no more sorrow …”
They did that and then they did “La Ti Da,” and some others; Chris just started a song, never asking if Melody knew it. And she always knew it. The crowd never got huge, but people came and went and dollars piled up in the kitty.
After about an hour and a half, they took a break. The ugly guy, the piggy one, was all over her, hugging her, kissing her, sweating on her. “You are something, kid!”
Melody shrugged graciously. “You guys just needed a singer.”
“Let’s go eat,” said the redhead. “I’m Sue Ann, by the way. And this is Chris.” She leaned on him for a moment, sending a message, Melody thought. But Sue Ann grabbed the fat one too, around the upper arm. “This is Randy.”
They went over to Decatur Street, walked down to get a pizza, Sue Ann asking questions a lot faster than Melody could think of answers.
“Where are you from?”
Where the hell was she from? “Abbeville,” she said.
“Funny, you don’t look like a Cajun.” This from Chris.
“Um, only on my mom’s side.” She wished she’d thought to get a story together.
“How long have you been here?”
“In New Orleans? Gosh. Seems like forever. How ‘bout y’all?”
“Oh. Awhile.” They didn’t like answering questions either.
Chris kept looking at her sideways, keeping his distance, seeming amused, as if she were a hamster someone had brought him to play with. It made her nervous, but on the other hand, it was attention from the person she wanted it from. She wanted to get closer, to close the distance between them, but she didn’t know how. She felt tongue-tied every time he spoke to her, wouldn’t have known what to say even if she’d met him as Melody Brocato.
Oh, God. What if they ask for a last name?
Robicheaux. That was safe. Everyone was named Robicheaux.
But they didn’t ask. They asked how old she was, or the piggy one did. “Eighteen,” she said, not missing a beat.
The guys slapped each other high fives. Melody flushed, thinking they were
Similar Books
