Shy (3 page)

“I'm not a failure, fucking or otherwise,” I say, trying to sound strong but failing miserably, since my voice is shaking so badly. Yeah, Mom's drunk. She only cusses at me like that when she's drunk. And her words—
pathologically withdrawn and shy
—are like verbal bullets aimed at my heart.

I want to cry but I would rather have my head cut off than cry in front of her, especially over this. But I wish with all my heart I were a different person. I'd probably be happier if I could be what Mom—and the world—wants: bubbly and extroverted. I doubt Nikesha Sloane is painfully shy and withdrawn like me. I've never been to any of her live shows, but I've seen interviews and footage from her shows. I've seen no evidence of shyness. From what I know about Nikesha, she has always been a tigress, a go-getter, not held back by shyness—or by anything else for that matter. In her interviews, she talks about how her parents unconditionally believed in her talent and potential and how they never doubted she could do anything she set her mind to. They accepted her for exactly who she is.

Wow. What must that feel like? Incredible, I bet.

“You're headed straight for failure, mediocrity, and oblivion,” Mom says. “You don't have any friends except for that redneck boy who can't even be bothered to go to college and make a decent life for himself. Like attracts like. Failures attract other failures. Like him, you're not willing to do what it takes to develop yourself and take advantage of opportunities that are essential to your success.”

I hate how she so often brings Jake into her vendetta against me. Anger bubbles in me, along with stomach acid. “I'm trying, okay? I really am. I actually think I've accomplished quite a bit, even though I'm not successful by your definition. Well, I'm different from you, all right? I have to figure out a way to succeed in life while still being me.” I'm lying, though. I don't think of myself as accomplished. At all. But her words strike me as over-the-top unfair. False bravado is the only way I can think of to defend myself.

“Yes, you're you,” Mom says. “But you can be a much better you, Frannie. You're never going to make it in this world the way you are. It's not a matter of your definition of successful. What's important is the world's definition of success, and you have to be able to meet the world's definition. Do you hear me? Success on your terms isn't good enough. You're painfully shy, you're withdrawn, you just don't have an ability to connect with other people, and you don't seem to want to change any of that. And you must. To be able to compete, you have to be likable and outgoing, so you have to–”

So I'm not even
likable
now. Fuck. I'm feeling nauseated. I don't want to talk about this anymore. “I've made my decision,” I say in a low voice, which, somehow, is no longer shaking. “I won't rush, and I won't join that sorority or any other.”

Mom's brows come together and she gets up in my face, her own expression little more than a snarling mask. “This is no good. You have to change, god damn it, or you're going to fail in life. Do you hear me? You are going to
fail in life
!” She shouts the last three words, spraying her spittle on me, then turns on her heel and stomps away, out of the living room and probably to her bedroom and maybe to another glass—or a couple more glasses—of wine.

I sit on the couch, put my head in my hands, and cry. Quietly, so nobody can hear me. Silent crying is a skill I developed long ago, before I can remember being able to think. Even before I could think, I was aware that I'm not good enough. I offend Mom on every conceivable level.

But why? I just don't understand. All I've ever tried to do is to be myself.

Though I cry silently, Dad has a sixth sense where I'm concerned. Even when I was a little girl and received regular verbal thrashings from Mom about my failings, he would come and try to make things better.

His footsteps approach and I try to stop crying because I hate for anybody to see me cry, even Dad, even Jake, but I can't stop. After a lifetime of this sort of thing, you would think it wouldn't hurt so much, but it does. Mom's disappointment in me doesn't just eat at her. It eats at me, too. And with every hateful fusillade she hurls at me, my belief in myself grows less and less. Maybe she's right. Maybe this world just isn't the right place for somebody like me. A fish always out of water, flopping and writhing and gasping for breath on dry land and getting castigated and criticized for being a water creature.

But I'm a water creature. I always have been. What I need is a water planet.

Dad, my fellow water creature, has learned to survive on dry land. Though he's found little use for his gentle gills, I guess he has developed a set of lungs so he can breathe, but only as necessary, the corrosive, toxic air of this world's ruthless expectations, and it doesn't destroy him. Maybe, somehow, he can teach me how to develop my own lungs.

He pulls me into his arms and I cry against his shoulder, still silently. Making noise when I cry makes me feel even worse about myself, even more like a failure. If I can at least maintain a degree of stoicism about my shortcomings then I can retain a bit of dignity.

He says, “I heard what she said, and honey, she's wrong. It's okay to be the way you are. You're like me, you're just like me, and I've done just fine in life. And you are doing great. I'm proud of you, proud of your beautiful piano playing and all you've accomplished. Please don't let her make you feel bad about yourself. Don't let her make you feel bad about who you are. Please.”

It's what he's always said to me, ever since I was little, enduring criticism from Mom for not wanting to go to some stupid kids' birthday party, or when I would came home, miserable, from my own birthday parties to which she'd invited twenty children who couldn't stand me. I can't remember a time when Mom was happy with me. Even when she gives me praise, it's qualified, conditional. There is always a caveat:
If only you were more outgoing. If only you were more extroverted. Your lot in life—and my love for you—depends on you changing your personality.

As much as I love Nikesha Sloane and her music, even she sends me, however inadvertently, the same message that you have to be outgoing and expansive to succeed, even in music. But unlike Mom, Nikesha infuses me with a sense of possibilities for what a talented person can do. Surely, if I lack only the one thing... surely, if there's just this one hurdle I must overcome...

But when Mom rips into me, I feel all is lost and to even try is hopeless, pointless. Why bother?

I cry harder but still manage to stay silent. I don't want Dad to feel bad. It comforts me that he loves and accepts me for who I am.

But he's not good enough in Mom's eyes, either. And he, too, has suffered because of his shyness. He has the perfect job for a shy guy. He's a computer nerd, a technical person, brilliant at what he does. But he's so shy, he can't play classical guitar for anyone outside family. And I have seen the pain on his face when Mom confronts him with his shortcomings, just the way I'm sure he sees the pain on mine when she does it to me. If only Dad and I could emigrate to our water world and live with people who are like us, a world where our gentle qualities would be assets, not liabilities.

If only. If only.

If I only dream, I can never do.

I have to live in
this
world, like it or not.

“Thanks, Dad,” I manage to say. “I just couldn't do what she wanted, but then what's new? But I have to make my own choices. Being in a sorority would make me miserable.”

“I know it would,” he soothes. “I would never have been in a fraternity for any amount of money. I couldn't have stood up to that kind of schedule, where you have to be always on, always socializing. It isn't the kind of thing I've ever wanted or needed. For me, it would be a burden.”

Yes. A burden. He gets it. I nod against his shoulder. “I wish Mom could understand. For both of our sakes.”

“I wish she could, too, honey,” Dad says.

After Dad goes back into his study, I call Jake. I want to hang around him for a while. He always makes me feel better, even though I can't figure him out. Sometimes, in a strange way, it hurts to spend time with him. But there's something that keeps drawing us to each other. My senior year, we dated, and oh, my God, did we sizzle together. I still remember our heated kissing and necking, our almost-but-not-quite-doing-it sessions. We had it bad for each other. He made me absolutely weak-kneed with desire. Honestly, he still does. I seemed to have the same effect on him, too.

But then, as the end of my senior year got closer and closer, he pulled away. I noticed that it happened around the time Boston Conservatory offered me the scholarship. He really thought I'd go. We had a talk about the future and he told me he really thought we needed to slow down, that I had a promising future and he didn't want to hold me back. During my senior year, he'd already been out of high school for one year, and he never showed any interest in going to college. He always told me college was a waste of time for someone like him, who knew exactly what he wanted to do—play bluegrass—and the only way he could be a bluegrass player was to get gigs and play shows.

I never thought he ruthlessly dumped me or anything—you'd have to know Jake to understand. We still love each other, and we always will. But Mom doesn't like him, and while he's only a year older than me, sometimes I feel as if he's about ten years older. He has a protective streak and wants to make sure I fulfill my potential, but unlike Mom, he thinks I can do it as exactly the person I am. He wants to give me freedom to do that. Though our breakup hurt, I appreciated his attitude and I kind of assumed we'd get back together romantically at some point.

We haven't, though. Not yet. Honestly, I don't understand that.

But he's my best friend and he's there for me, no matter what. That, I
do
understand.

“Wildflower.” His deep voice reaches my ear and I squeeze the phone fondly. “How did it go?”

“Not well. Mom was pretty mad.”

“I'm sorry.”

The warmth in his deep voice makes me cry again. Only, I do it quietly so he can't hear me. But he knows anyway, I'm sure.

“It isn't right, your mom's attitude toward you,” he says, an edge to his voice. “What did she say?”

“That I'm doomed to be a failure in life unless I change my personality, became more outgoing and more of a people person. The same old stuff she always says. And I just can't change that about myself, you know? I hope, over time, I'll become less shy, less afraid of people, and more able to overcome shyness to do the things I want to do, but I can't imagine fundamentally changing who I am.”

“You don't have to,” he says. “You're wonderful exactly the way you are.”

“That's what Dad always says.”

“Well, your dad's right. I just don't understand why your mother thinks you getting drunk at sorority parties and acting like a vapid idiot is going to get you anywhere in life. I think you're on the right track as it is. You practice all the time, you're off to a great start at UT, you told me your professor is impressed with your talent. Keep doing what you're doing, Wildflower, and you'll do very well for yourself. A lot of people are going to appreciate you, even if your mom can't.”

I sob audibly and hiccup into the phone.

“Hey...” I could swear he'd almost called me
babe
, like he used to when we were dating, but he doesn't. “Why don't I come get you?”

“Yes,” I say softly into the phone. Right now, there's no place I'd rather be than with Jake.

Wildflower slowly walks to my truck as if somebody had let all the air out of her. She opens the door, pulls herself in, then slumps in the seat. This makes me so fucking mad. I don't know what the hell Mrs. Forsythe's problem is, making her daughter feel so rotten about herself all the time. It just makes me sick.

But I don't like to act angry around Wildflower. Anger scares her. Honestly, anger sometimes scares me. It reminds me of my dad. He gets angry a lot. Has a real problem with it. Everything makes him mad. Things out in the world. Political stuff. Driving on the road. Shopping in a store and having to wait in a cashier's line. You name it, it pretty much makes him mad. His anger frightens Mom, and she walks on eggshells to keep the peace around the house. I used to walk on eggshells, too, but I moved out of their house when I was a junior in high school. I just couldn't stand it anymore. So I know what it's like to have a tough time at home.

“Hey,” I say. “Wildflower.” It's my name for her. Ever since we became friends, she's reminded me of a wildflower, and not just an ordinary one, either. A rare and uncommonly beautiful one, blooming way up high on a mountain, hidden from the crazy world and from eyes that just couldn't begin to appreciate her, anyway. She hides herself, yeah, with her shyness, but it's the same kind of thing. Because she's beautiful, on all levels. Her hair, her eyes, her face, her sweetness, her incredible musical talent. She's like a rare flower that blooms all on its own, without needing anybody to watch her. And no matter what the weather, sun or snow or pounding rain, she blooms, she blooms, she fucking blooms.

She doesn't say anything but scoots closer to me on the bench seat. I put my arm around her, rub her shoulder. I'm glad I have an old truck. I got it from my uncle back in Stoney Creek, a community in Appalachian East Tennessee where I'm from. New cars have bucket seats, so who needs a new car? I want to do more than put my arm around Wildflower. I want to pull her into my lap, kiss her sweet face, smooth her hair.

But I can't. I'm not good enough for her, and her mom made sure I know that. She told me to give Wildflower a chance to grow and follow her dream. That's why I suggested to Wildflower we not date for a while, so she could find her feet at Boston Conservatory when she won that amazing scholarship. But then she turned it down and didn't go. I don't feel right about yoking her back to me, though. What if I turn out like my dad, ornery, angry, and always frightening her? I don't want any woman feeling about me the way Mom feels about Dad. Yeah, she loves him, but she's afraid of him. Nervous all the time. He can be hard on all of us. And sometimes I see those things in myself, and it scares me to death.