The Lonely Hearts Club Read online

  “I’m afraid I’ve become the sort of person I hate most,” I say.

  “Do I even want to know?” my father asks.

  “A person who would sell out her music,” I explain. “Don’t get me wrong—you’re right. It feels good to do things on my own, to make my own money, make my own decisions. But I guess I’m just questioning how I got here. I’m not sure I feel good about selling that song to Amber.”

  “Was that the first song you ever wrote?” my father asks.

  “No,” I say. “Of course it wasn’t. You know that.”

  “And will it be your last?”

  “No,” I say. “It won’t.”

  “Then I don’t see what the problem is,” he says. “And I don’t see why selling a song makes you a sellout. It wasn’t the first song you ever wrote, and it won’t be the last. Anyway, the song was about Jesse, a man who was a tiny blip on the radar of your life. Who really cares about it?”

  “I guess,” I say.

  “And if selling that song enables you to do what you want to do—create more music—then it was the greatest thing in the world. Most people don’t get to do that.”

  “You’re right,” I say. “I guess I just envisioned all of it going down so differently. I saw myself as a performer, not a person who writes things for other performers.”

  “And you still may be,” he says. “Your path isn’t yet written. You’re still on it. But you made a really smart choice.”

  “What if the song becomes a runaway hit and it would have been my runaway hit? What if that was my chance and I sold it?” I ask.

  “Even if it becomes the biggest hit in the world, there’s no telling if it would have been the biggest hit in the world for you. But by selling it, you’ve guaranteed it was a success for you. It gave you the freedom to pursue your dream.”

  “Thanks, Dad,” I say.

  “I’m proud of you,” he says. “I don’t think that you’re a sellout at all.”

  “Why isn’t anyone asking me what I think?” my mother asks. She puts down her hot-glue gun and regards both my father and me.

  “Mom,” I ask, “do you think I’m a sellout because I sold that song to Amber?”

  “No, honey,” she says. “I think you’re the most brilliant musician in the world. I beam proudly any time I watch you play. No matter who’s in the lineup, you’re always the best out of everyone. If it takes the world a little more time to figure that out, well, then you’ve made a really smart decision that ensures you can financially support yourself until it’s time for you to enter the big time. Brilliant. You’re just brilliant.”

  “Thanks, Mom,” I say, and as much as I hate to admit it, I can feel myself blushing. She reaches out and gives me a big hug.

  “My greatest hope for you,” my father says, “is that you can finally be comfortable in your own skin.”

  “I’m trying to get there.”

  Tears well up in my eyes and I start to cry. Finally. And this time, I don’t stop myself like I usually do. I don’t think about how crying makes me weak. I don’t think about how crying is manipulative. I don’t think about it at all. I just let go. I let myself cry and I let my mom and my dad hug me tight. Because no matter who you are, sometimes you just need a hug from your parents.

  After the tears, I feel so much better. It’s like I can breathe again, only I didn’t know I was holding my breath. I feel lighter, calmer, happier, like I don’t have anything to cry about at all. I can’t believe how cathartic that cry was. I don’t know why I never allowed myself to do that. Why I thought it would be weak to give myself a little release every now and then. My mother passes me a tissue and I blow my nose and wipe my eyes. I splash some water onto my face, and I realize that even a tough girl can cry. And what’s more—I can already feel the lyrics to a new song forming in my head.

  51 - See You Again

  Blog comment from SantaFeSummers:

  John, I know I messed up. I know it. I’m sorry.

  Blog comment from royaltennenbaum:

  We met on the line for Shake Shack. You were with a gaggle of girls. I was there with a gaggle of guys. But I saw you see me. Didn’t you?

  Response from goodgollymissmolly:

  Were you the one in the bright yellow sports jacket?

  Response from royaltennenbaum:

  Yes, and you were the one in the polka-dot dress. Meet me at Shake Shack again tonight?

  Response from goodgollymissmolly:

  7 P.M.

  52 - We Gotta Get Out of This Place

  “You didn’t have to move out, you know,” Chloe says, as she looks around my new digs. Since the whole place is sort of tiny, it doesn’t take that long to give her the grand tour. You just sort of stand at the front door and point: bed, couch, kitchen, bathroom.

  “Yes, I did,” I say. “But thank you for letting me stay with you. Even after you came back from California. I appreciate it so much.”

  The truth is, I loved staying with Chloe. Even when she got back from California and things were cramped, to say the least, it was great having my best friend around. To get to know the minutia of her every day. Sure, we call, text, and e-mail all day long, but there’s something about living with someone, sharing a space, that lets you get to know them even more intimately.

  “You could have stayed,” Chloe says.

  “No, I needed to move out,” I say. “It was time for me to stand on my own feet. My dad was right.”

  “Admitting your father was right?” Chloe asks. “It’s like you’re growing up right before my very eyes!”

  “Oh, stop it,” I say. But I secretly like being teased by Chloe. Having our relationship strained, even though only for a few weeks, was hard. I don’t want that to ever happen again. Ever.

  “I wasn’t kicking you out,” she says.

  “You were just avoiding me,” I say, with a sly little smile on my lips. It’s okay to tease her back, isn’t it? If I have to deal with watching her date my big brother, the least I can do is tease her mercilessly every now and then.

  “But I didn’t kick you out,” she says. “I want that on the record.”

  “Noted,” I say.

  “Good,” she says. “And you can come back anytime you want, you know. You can keep that set of keys. Just in case.”

  I had that set of keys before I moved in—it was the emergency set she kept at my place—but I don’t say that. I get what she’s trying to say to me. And it’s good to have the option. Good to know Chloe’s always got my back, no matter what.

  “I don’t want to be around when my brother comes over,” I think but don’t say. Or rather, don’t mean to say but blurt out. I see the expression on Chloe’s face, so I say more gently, “How are things going with you two?”

  Chloe smiles uncontrollably, and I have my answer. I can see it on her face. She’s happy. She’s really happy with Andrew.

  It’s a look I’ve seen before—it’s how she was with Billy. That relationship may have ended in tragedy, but falling in love is always a good thing. And Chloe is, without question, in love. I’m happy Chloe is able to fall in love again. I didn’t know if she ever could. If she ever would.

  “Things are okay, I guess,” Chloe says, trying for nonchalant, but her bright eyes and smile betray her. “It’s whatever, you know.”

  “Yeah, whatever,” I say.

  “These records are very cool,” Chloe says, looking at the collection my mother created on the wall. “That was a great idea to hang them on the wall like this.”

  “It was my mother’s idea,” I say.

  “I had a feeling,” she says. “You’re not the type to damage a record.”

  “They’re more than just records,” I say. “They’re history.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see Chloe roll her eyes.

  “What?” I say. “Music is important.”

  “It is,” Chloe says. “That’s why you should be making more of it.”

  53 – Sing
r />   “That sounded good, Jo,” Amber says, and I see my engineer nod his head in agreement.

  “Let’s play it back!” Chloe says, and I can see the engineer fighting a frown. He does not want to play it back. Chloe has asked for a playback on just about every track I’ve recorded today. She’s excited to be in the studio, but we’ve been here for three hours straight already, and it’s definitely time for a break.

  “I think maybe we’ll record that one,” I say to my engineer. And then to Chloe, “And we can give all the tracks a listen later over dinner.”

  “Speaking of food,” the engineer says, “ready for a lunch break? We’ve got a great Thai place around the corner.”

  I smile in agreement, careful not to let my expression betray me, but I can’t help feel a stab of sadness. Thai food reminds me of Max. I keep my vibe upbeat as we all place our orders, but all I can think about is Max. But then again, everything reminds me of Max. Having pepperoni pizza with red wine, going to a rooftop at a downtown club, hearing Daft Punk’s new single on the radio.

  “How can we turn that frown upside down?” Amber asks me, touching her index finger to my nose.

  “I wasn’t frowning.”

  “You were doing that thing with your face,” Chloe chimes in.

  “I don’t do a thing with my face,” I say.

  “Are you unhappy with the tracks?” Amber asks. “We can do them over after lunch if you’re not happy. I thought they were great, but if you’re not feeling good about them, let’s do them again.”

  “That’s not what the face is,” Chloe says. “I know that face.”

  “Can everyone please stop talking about my face?”

  “You’re still thinking about Max,” Chloe says.

  “No, I’m not,” I say, but then I instantly wonder why I’m trying to hide my heartache from my friends. After I finally cried, I felt so much better. Maybe if I confess my feelings about Max, I’ll feel better, too? “Okay, I am thinking about Max. In fact, he’s all I think about. I can’t stop thinking about him, wishing we’d get back together.”

  “Then why don’t you call him?” Amber asks, as if this simple solution will solve all of my problems.

  “I’ve already called him a million times,” I say.

  “And texted,” Chloe says. “And e-mailed, and blogged. Anything I’m leaving out? Did you try Instagram yet? We can post a picture of that frowny face you keep making.”

  “I didn’t tweet,” I say. “Maybe I should send a tweet?”

  “You definitely should not tweet,” Amber says. “Maybe you could accidentally-on-purpose bump into him somehow?”

  “I tried talking in person,” I say. “That didn’t go so well. Is there some form of communication I’m not thinking of?”

  “Smoke signals,” Chloe says.

  “An old-fashioned letter?” Amber suggests.

  “That’s actually a good idea,” Chloe says. “Letter writing is so romantic.”

  As Chloe and Amber wax philosophical about the lost art of letter writing, it dawns on me. There is another method of communication. It’s just a matter of getting access to it.

  “I just thought something,” I say. “I’ve gotta go.”

  “What about lunch?” Chloe asks.

  But I’m already out the door.

  54 - Coming Clean

  “I’m pleasantly surprised that you called,” Kel says. “I didn’t think I’d ever hear from you again.”

  He’s in the hair and makeup chair, with a little tissue tucked into his collar, getting ready for the 12 P.M. live broadcast of Saturday, New York. Nothing like a dainty little tissue tucked into the collar to make a man a whole lot less formidable and scary. A man with a prim tissue tucked into his shirt can’t hurt you. He’s not a lion; he’s a lamb.

  This is just what I needed. Just the thing to give me the strength to do what I need to do.

  “Thanks for making this happen,” I say. It’s exciting to be at the News 4 offices. The newsroom is a tornado of energy and excitement. I can feel it pulsing through my body. I’m ready. Ready to apologize to Max on air, ready to admit everything to the world (or at least the viewers watching News Channel 4). Ready to admit that I am a total, utter, and complete fraud—I’m going to tell everyone that I really do believe in love and that I’m in love with Max. Kel couldn’t get me on the air fast enough.

  “Do you want a touch-up?” Kel’s makeup artist asks me.

  “I think I’m okay the way I am,” I say. I look into the mirror to take a peek at my appearance, and I decide that I don’t want to change a thing.

  “How about some hair?” she asks.

  “Nope,” I say, finding my hand subconsciously brushing the hair off my shoulder. “I’m going to go on like this. Just be myself. Kel, is that okay with you?”

  “No problem at all,” Kel says, as his makeup artist goes back to applying a thick layer of foundation to his head, neck, and face. Then his hairdresser gets in on the action, forcing his hair into a helmet with an enormous bottle of hair spray.

  “Are you ready?” Kel’s station manager asks me.

  “Yes,” I say. “Let’s rock.”

  “We’re here with Jo Waldman,” Kel begins, “founder of the recently defunct Lonely Hearts Club movement.”

  “Thanks, Kel,” I say. I’m hoping my words sound even, that my voice doesn’t tell the world how I really feel inside: scared, terrified really, and a little bit overenergized. I’m going for steady, smart, strong, except I’m sure I sound anything but. “I just want to thank everyone who was a part of this thing. The people who believed in it, the people who contributed to it, the people to whom it really meant something.

  “And I also want to apologize to those people, too. Because the truth is, I’m a fraud. Kel was right when he outed me the night of the Lonely Hearts Club Ball. I’m a liar. And I deceived all of you.

  “I am madly, completely, head over heels in love with someone. His name is Max and he’s the person who helped me design the Lonely Hearts Club site in the first place. We met the night after my first post, when my computer crashed from all the traffic, and from the second he walked through my door, I knew. I just knew. I fought it at first, because I’d sworn off love, and encouraged the rest of you to do the same thing, but the truth is, I love him.

  “I do believe in love. So, there you have it. There it is. What else can I say? I believe in love.

  “But I also believe in hating love, in raging, in telling the world exactly how you feel. Sometimes you need to experience that. Maybe it’s a good thing to get all of the negativity out—to scream it at the top of your lungs. Because you’ve got to get rid of it. You can’t let it fester, can’t let it stay with you. You cannot keep it inside. Because you don’t need it. What you need is to move on.

  “Love is important. And not just romantic love. All types of love. The love you have for your family, the love you give to your friends, and the love and attention you give to making your dreams come true. It’s all important. It all needs to be nurtured.

  “I’m sorry to anyone who I hurt throughout this whole crazy ride. I truly am—I hope you can all see that. And to the one person I hurt the most, I want you to know: I love you. I love you so much. If you give me another chance, I promise you, things will be different this time.”

  Kel smiles back at me and nods his head. “Well done, Jo,” he says.

  “How did I do?” I ask.

  “We’ll find out after our next segment. I’ll give you some time to get yourself ready and then you’ll find out for yourself,” he says, as the window shades open to reveal an entire plaza filled with people. “That’s the power of live TV.”

  55 - We Can Work It Out

  Tweet from @allymargolis:

  Hey, lonely hearts, check out Jo Waldman on Saturday, New York talking about the Lonely Hearts Club Ball. Turns out, she’s in love! #notsolonelyhearts

  Tweet from @allsnotfairinloveandmusic:

  Hey, @madmax,
if you’re not watching @NewsChannel4 right now, you need to tune in.

  Tweet from @londoncalling:

  Did you see Jo Waldman pour her heart out on Saturday, New York? Watch it here:

  http://tinyurl.com/mlovbyu

  How I wish I were @madmax at this very moment. #notsolonelyhearts

  E-mail from [email protected] to [email protected]:

  You need to get your ass to the Channel 4 studios ASAP. Seriously, dude. I know you’re spending the day at the Ziegfeld for that Star Wars marathon. Let me help you out—Vader is Luke’s dad.

  You’re only 6 blocks away. Run, do not walk. You’ve got 10 minutes.

  56 - Let’s Stay Together

  Twenty minutes later, I walk out of the studio and it’s a sea of people. The entire plaza is filled with fans of Kel’s show, and it seems they’ve all just watched it on enormous screens that are strategically placed around the Channel 4 building. A camera’s followed me out—Kel said he wanted me to go out in the crowd, gauge their reactions, and when I stop to take it all in, absorb how many people are there, people who just witnessed my grand confession, the cameraman doesn’t realize I’ve stopped and walks right into the back of my head.

  “Sorry, Jo,” he says, as he dislodges his camera from my mess of hair. “This will work better if you actually walk out there.”

  “There are just so many people,” I say.

  “This is a fraction of the people who were on your site,” he says. “The Plaza only holds about a thousand people. Didn’t you have over a million on your site? You can do this.”

  I take a deep breath and walk right out. There are gates set up, so that I have to approach the crowd if I want to interact. They can’t all rush in and grab me. I walk into the tiny circle of space they’ve created and the cameraman motions for me to talk.

  “Hi,” I say, unsure of what to say next. “I’m Jo Waldman. Thanks for watching me on News 4.”

  “Say something more, Waldman,” I hear in my ear. Kel’s on the earpiece they gave me on my way out. “Do something.”