I'm Glad I Did Read online

  My heart stopped. I felt completely out of control, which I was. After all, they were already talking about me in the third person, which they knew I hated, as if I were a criminal waiting to be sentenced.

  “And what is that in your hand, JJ?” Janny demanded.

  I took another deep breath, knowing the worst was yet to come. “It’s a contract for three months. It says Good Music owns the publishing rights to any songs that I write during that time, whether they get recorded or not.”

  “Think you’ll get a record, Irving?” Jeff asked.

  I turned to him, my gaze steely. “I don’t know,” I told him, annoyed that he was sticking his nose into this at all.

  “Let me take a look,” Janny ordered.

  I handed her the contract. As she flipped through it, nobody dared to breathe audibly. The clock on the wall boomed in synch with my heart. When my mother looked up, she shook her head.

  “This is a terrible contract. It’s very one-sided in the publisher’s favor. I would advise against this deal, Justice, for anyone, let alone my own daughter.”

  “Mom,” I said, trying to keep my voice from shaking, “I’m going to be honest with you. I don’t really care if the contract’s good or bad. I can learn so much there. It’s where I want to be this summer. Please just sign it. Please. It’s like Dad said—this way I can get it out of my system.”

  My mother didn’t answer. I could see the cogs turning in her brain. She was mentally reviewing arguments for and against. Then she and Jules turned to each other once more in silent consultation. My future hung in the air like the last cloud of Jules’s cigarette smoke.

  Suddenly Jeff stood up. “I have a solution,” he offered. “It’s only for three months, right? So let Irving do it. But if she doesn’t get one of her songs recorded by the time it’s over, she has to give up this crazy songwriting thing and never mention it again.”

  My eyes narrowed. I couldn’t figure out if he was trying to help me or hurt me. My brother has always had a weird instinctive ability to understand our parents in a way I never have. When he and I fought as kids—as in actual kicking and punching—he somehow knew they would never intervene. Even when he pinned me to the floor, and it was clear I couldn’t win, they insisted we work out our disagreements ourselves. Finally, when I was ten, I begged Janny to sign me up for Brazilian jujitsu classes (Juana actually told me about it) because it was all about ground fighting. She was happy to do it, even though I was the only girl in the class. But I was such a klutz that after all my classes I only mastered one move, the upward lift escape. By then Jeff had stopped attacking me physically and had moved on to verbal assault. And that, of course, made his suggestion right now scarier.

  “Hmm,” Janny mused, rolling Jeff’s proposition around in her meticulous mind.

  I had to hand it to Jeff: I could tell the thought of never having to hear me talk about songwriting again had made an impact on Janny. Her lips curved up in a little smile. “Would you agree to that, JJ?” she asked. “I might actually let you do this if you promised that it could be a way to put an end to your songwriting fixation.”

  I shot Jeff a dirty look and turned back to my mother. “Why are you all so sure I won’t get a record?”

  “Because you’re a Green,” Jules proclaimed in his courtroom voice. “You were born for the law.”

  That’s how simple it was for them. They honestly believed that music was a decision I had made, like wanting to learn Brazilian jujitsu. But it wasn’t. It was a part of me—like my laugh and big feet—like arguing was for them. I didn’t know if I had talent. I didn’t know if I would ever write a song worthy of being recorded. But I knew I had to have the chance to try.

  Bobby himself had told me I didn’t know what I was doing. A door had opened, and I had to walk through it. Maybe Jeff’s deal was fair. If I couldn’t get a song recorded this summer, maybe it would be a sign that I was on the wrong track. I didn’t know how I’d go on living after that, but I’d worry about the future when it became the present.

  “I’ll do it,” I said. “If a song of mine isn’t recorded by the time I start school, I’ll give up songwriting.”

  “Agreed,” Janny and Jules announced, almost in unison.

  Court adjourned, I thought with a mixture of terror and relief.

  “Good luck, Irving,” said Jeff with a wicked grin. “I’ll be rooting for you.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Two mornings later, at 9:50, I joined the crowd surging into the Brill Building. At this hour there was a more even mix of men and women; the secretaries were reporting for work. But there was another crucial difference. Today I really belonged. My dress, an olive-green linen Jonathan Logan shift with buttons on the shoulder, had been approved by Janny. Even if I was going to hell, my mother insisted that I go in style.

  I was waiting for the elevator when I spotted him: Mr. Green Eyes. Once again he was engrossed in a sheaf of papers, waiting for the elevator. I snaked forward so that we pushed our way through the door together, shoulder to shoulder.

  “Writer or publisher?” I asked, smiling my warmest smile.

  He looked up for an instant with total disinterest. “Both,” he answered, and dropped his eyes back to his paperwork.

  I wanted to disappear into the background, but I’d wedged myself next to him, so I had to put up with being ignored until he got off at seven.

  As it turned out, this little fiasco was pretty much an omen of things to come.

  WHEN I WALKED IN to Good Music, the girl at the switchboard motioned me through the door into the big room. Rona was on the phone at her desk, but the second she saw me, she waved me over.

  “I’ll be sure to have Bobby get back to you,” she purred sweetly into the mouthpiece. Then she slammed it down on the hook and snapped, “Sure I will, after I put my eyes out. What makes a writer think I’ll get him in to see Bobby if he comes on to me? Ugh! I need a shower.”

  “It must be awful,” I sympathized.

  Rona sighed. “Yeah, but I get it in a crazy way. I’m Bobby’s guard dog, and everyone wants to pet me. Writers will sell out their grandmothers to have their songs listened to by someone like Bobby, so why wouldn’t they pretend to like his secretary?” She laughed at herself. “But enough about me. Let me show you the filing system. Pick up those lead sheets and follow me.”

  There were stacks of paper all over her desk. I stood still, bewildered.

  “You don’t know what a lead sheet is, do you?”

  I shook my head.

  She picked up a pile of music paper and stuck it in my arms. “Come with me, listen and learn. A lead sheet is a piece of music paper with the basic melody, chords and lyrics to a song written on it. The writers make out one for every song they write, and we make two copies and file one with the original. Then we send one to the copyright office in Washington. When I say ‘we,’ I mean ‘you,’ JJ. This is going to be your first responsibility, copying and filing lead sheets. Got it?”

  “Got it,” I answered, juggling the papers in one arm and saluting with the other with a smile.

  “Very cute,” Rona responded, but she smiled back.

  She led me into a small room with a big copying machine and a load of file cabinets. After a few demonstrations, I was able to make a copy by myself.

  Rona watched and nodded like a proud mama. “You are smart,” she said, finally relaxing. “I knew it the minute I saw you. I really wanted another girl in the office. We are so outnumbered. There’s Marilyn at the switchboard and me and two female writers, but there are at least a dozen guys, not even counting Bobby. It’s such a pain when you get your period unexpectedly, and there are so few people to hit up for a tampon.”

  “I always have one on me,” I volunteered.

  She laughed. “I knew you would. You carry a handkerchief, for God’s sake. You’re the type who is prepared for everything in the classiest way possible. I had my fingers crossed that something would happen to change Bobby’s mind
about you. And then when Bernie called, my prayers were answered—”

  “What?” I interrupted. I paused in mid-copy, nearly dropping the lead sheets in my hands. “Did Bernie Rubin speak to Bobby about me?”

  Rona shot me a puzzled glance and hit the copy button for me. “Of course. Didn’t you tell him to?”

  “No, I absolutely did not.” I answered, trying not to explode or cry even though I wanted to do both. “I never even told him I was coming up here to apply for this job. I haven’t spoken to my uncle in years.”

  Rona shrugged. “Well, who did you tell? ’Cause Bernie knew everything. He told Bobby that he made you feel like an untalented idiot and he personally knew you were neither.”

  I blinked a few times. “How do you know he said that?”

  “It just so happened that I didn’t completely disconnect when he was talking to Bobby.” She flashed a sly grin. “There’s something wrong with my disconnect button sometimes.”

  I was hardly listening. “I don’t know how he could have known,” I said out loud. “I didn’t tell anyone but my … oh, wait a minute. I did.” It was all coming back to me. Especially the words untalented idiot. “The elevator guy, Nick. I told him.”

  “Well, mystery solved,” Rona said, turning toward the filing cabinets. She sounded like she couldn’t have cared less, not that I blamed her. “Bernie Rubin wants to know everything that’s happening in the biz. He even pays the elevator operators when they give him valuable info. I bet Nick made twenty bucks for spilling the beans.”

  I swallowed hard. “Rona,” I said, hoarsely, “you don’t understand. I really wanted to get this on my own.”

  She glanced over her shoulder and arched an eyebrow. “And I really wanted to go to college. But I have to work here until I save enough money. You can’t always get what you want.”

  “That sounds like a song title,” I grumbled.

  She laughed again. “Nah, too negative. Bobby likes positive songs. He told me he wants you listening to Top Forty radio all the time. It’s okay to bring in a transistor radio if you don’t play it too loud. Now,” she announced, her voice all business again, “it’s time to learn the filing system.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  I was starving by my lunch break at one, but I had more important things to attend to.

  I leaned on the elevator button, pretending it was Nick’s throat, and prayed I’d get his car. There were only two elevators, so the odds were fifty-fifty. But sure enough, like everything else that day, it didn’t work out for me. The other operator was a dapper Puerto Rican guy named Antonio, who I later found out was a ridiculously successful bookie. I pretended I’d forgotten something, waved it closed and pressed the button again.

  Half a minute later, Nick opened the door. The elevator was jammed with people headed out for lunch, but I slid in anyway. Nick flashed a friendly smile at me and I nodded back, my lips tight. When everyone poured out into the lobby, I stayed put.

  “I’m going back up,” I told him, shooting daggers at him with my eyes. “And I’m in a hurry.”

  He didn’t seem to notice. “Your private express,” he said cheerily, closing the door and waiting for a floor number. “Where to, kiddo?”

  “Tell me something,” I demanded. “What made you think it was okay to tell Bernie Rubin all the private, confidential, secret, personal stuff I told you yesterday after my meeting with Bobby?”

  His smile remained intact. He didn’t even blink. “Well, first of all, you didn’t tell me not to tell him,” he responded smoothly. “Number two, I knew he could help you. And number three, I felt bad for you.” He lowered his voice and placed a gloved hand on the elevator crank. “Was I wrong about any of those things?”

  This was not going exactly as I had planned. I thought he’d be apologizing all over the place for betraying a confidence. “No, but I wanted to get the job without any help,” I countered. I was starting to feel like a broken record, appropriate considering my location.

  “Trust me, kiddo, that wasn’t going to happen. Now, where are you headed?”

  I took a silent breath and leaned against the elevator wall, staring down at my shoes. “To my uncle’s office.”

  “Ninth floor, next stop.” He turned and faced the door. “It’s 909, and for the future, if you give me classified information, just let me know, and I’ll lock my lips and throw away the key.”

  “Sorry I was such a grump,” I told him. “Please accept my apology.”

  “Absolutely, kiddo,” he said gently. “Now we both know the rules.”

  At floor nine, he opened the door with an encouraging nod.

  Steeling my nerves, I proceeded to stomp down the hall to my Uncle Bernie’s office. My rage returned; only this time, it was directed at the right person. I couldn’t wait to tell Bernie to stay out of my life. Of course, not in those exact words. As I stood outside the big wooden door, I tried to think of another way to say it. Firm but not rude, bold but not brash, smart but not smart-alecky.

  I stood there, ready to knock. The fact of the matter was I had no idea what I was going to say. I had never actually called out an adult before. I’d never had any reason to.

  LIKE MY MOM, LAST time I had seen Uncle Bernie was when he had crashed Jeff’s bar mitzvah. The celebration was at the Plaza Hotel. Janny hadn’t invited him—her only brother, our only uncle—but she had invited every single other relative (some Jeff and I hadn’t even known existed). One of them must have leaked it. So Bernie strolled in and kissed Janny hello as if he had been at the top of the guest list. I’ll never forget the look of distaste in her eyes.

  The ballroom was packed with boring, cheek-pinching grown-ups as well as Jeff’s friends, who looked at me as if I was some sort of microbe. With nothing better to do, I sat down at the piano when the band took a break. I was just noodling around, not really playing a song, when I heard a gravelly voice behind me.

  “Hey, Justice, baby, I didn’t know you played piano. I’m your Uncle Bernie.”

  For an old guy, Uncle Bernie wasn’t bad-looking. His dark hair was slicked back, and he had a Florida tan that set off his really white teeth. He wore a shiny gray suit with a white flower in the buttonhole of his lapel. He was picking his teeth with a gold toothpick, which I found both disgusting and weirdly hypnotic.

  Without waiting for an invitation, he slid onto the seat next to me, almost nudging me off. “You taking lessons?”

  I shook my head, embarrassed, “No, I play by ear. I don’t read very well, but I like to write songs.”

  “Do you?” His eyes lit up. “Let me hear something.”

  It was the first time anyone had ever asked me to play something I’d written. My entire family was always yelling at me to keep it down—“it” meaning any note, no matter how soft, I struck on the piano at home. Maybe that’s why I didn’t hesitate. I played him what now seems like a really babyish song. Still, I was only ten, and I thought it was great. It was called “When You Smile” or something dumb like that. But he sat very still with a serious face, as if he were completely riveted.

  When I was finished, he nodded.

  “I’m in the music business,” he told me. His voice had changed; he spoke quickly and evenly now, as if talking to a grown-up. “I publish songs and manage recording artists. I’ve done it for a very long time. Do you want to know what I think of your song?”

  “I do,” I answered, trying to keep my own voice from shaking. The piano bench turned to pins and needles. This was a first. An opinion about one of my songs. I held my breath.

  “I think you should keep on writing. One day, when you’ve finished college, if you’re still writing songs, I’d like you to come and play them for me. I think you have talent.”

  Before I had a chance to ask him anything else, the band members began to take the stage. He stepped off, and I lost him in the crowd. He must have left right after that, because I couldn’t find him anywhere, even though I spent the rest of the night searching.
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br />   On the way home in the taxi, I asked Janny about him. She clammed up, muttering that it was rude to attend an event you weren’t invited to, and Bernie was not someone she wanted me asking about or associating with. Jeff nudged me with his elbow, warning me to shut up.

  That night, after our parents had gone to bed, I asked my brother what he knew.

  “Uncle Bernie is Kosher Nostra,” he whispered behind his closed bedroom door. “That’s what they call the Jewish mob. He’s got some kind of bad gambling habit, so he’s always selling his recording companies to pay off the bookies, but he never sells his publishing companies ’cause he loves songs.”

  None of that made much sense to me. Why would Janny care if her brother gambled? Jules played poker with his friends. “Did you know he was at your bar mitzvah?” I asked.

  Jeff grinned. “Yeah, he gave me an envelope stuffed with money. When Mom counted it, it was one thousand eight hundred dollars.”

  I frowned. “That’s a weird number. Why not thirteen hundred for your bar mitzvah?”

  “Dad told me when you give money gifts, they should be in multiples of eighteen, ’cause that’s a lucky number in Jewish numerology. Most people give fifty-four or a hundred and eight, but Mom says Bernie likes to give big gifts just to show off.”

  And that was all I was able to find out about my Uncle Bernie.

  NOW I STOOD OUTSIDE of Uncle Bernie’s office door, nervously biting my cheek, furious at him for helping me get the job I wanted—which I never would have gotten without him. Nothing made sense. I didn’t know if I was angry or grateful. Maybe I was both. I felt too mixed up to think straight.

  Still at a loss as to how I was going to handle this, I stepped inside.

  The secretary’s desk was empty. She must have gone to lunch, so I made my way down a hall lined with gold records to Uncle Bernie’s office.

  The door was open. He was seated at a desk even bigger than Bobby’s, almost as if he were waiting for me. He looked exactly the way he did at the bar mitzvah, tan and slick. The only difference was that his suit was navy with pinstripes. He was leaning back in a big leather chair, with his shiny patent shoes propped up on his desk, a huge grin on his face.