Page 42 of If This Gets Out
I hang up. The energy leaves my body, and I can’t even move. I chew my lip and try to stop the tears from brimming, but I can’t help it.
All these lies, and I don’t even know why I’m saying them.
I glance around. The room is dark, and still.
I’m totally alone.
NINE
RUBEN
I’m halfway through a workout in our hotel gym in Antwerp when Mom calls me.
In a weird way, I’m almost expecting it when she does. Growing up, working on myself acted almost like a summoning spell for her. She’d just materialize from the shadows in a poof, whatever I was doing, with what she liked to call constructive feedback. Endless,relentlessconstructive feedback.
You’re not enunciating, I can’t tell what you’re saying, it’s just “muh muh meh meh muh.”
I don’t know how you expect to get this move when you can barely even land a box step on the beat. Why are you always in such a rush to get ahead of yourself before you’ve mastered the basics?
Where’s the emotion? You look like you’re watching paint dry. I don’tcareif no one’s watching, you need to practice the way you plan to deliver it.
She says I can’t take feedback, but Ican.I take everything our team gives me to heart, and I’m constantly overhearing glowing, whispered exchanges about how well I implement critique. How Ineverneed to be told twice. Of course I don’t.I learned early that needing to be told twice came with consequences, and it’s not a lesson I’m likely to unlearn now. The thing about Mom is, though, she doesn’t judge the finished product, she judges the process. She doesn’t seem to believe in “learning.”
For example, if you want to increase your upper range—which I worked on just this morning before heading down here to blow off steam—you get there gradually, by pushing your voice past your comfort zone. I’m only following my vocal coach’s instructions, andshe’salways assured me that doing it right involves aiming and missing, with cracked notes and flat notes and a ton of other embarrassing sounds, until you’re hitting it, consistently and with ease. But growing up, I was shamed for this very process. How could I sound so bad, my mom would ask, when she was payingso muchon thebest training? Why wasn’t I listening to my teachers? Why wasn’t I doing itright?
So, I learned to practice increasing my range only when my parents were out and there was no one to hear me mess it up. It helped, doing it in private. At least, at first. It meant I was the only one left who knew just how terrible I could sound. But that meant the only voice that directed cutting jabs at me, cringed when I messed up, and told me I would never get it right the first time, was the voice that lived inside my head.
The only voice I can’t ever escape from.
Of course, I know logically Mom isn’t calling me from across the Atlantic to tell me I was singing like a starving goat this morning, but my cheeks start burning automatically anyway. Once you’ve learned shame, it settles into your skin like a tattoo. You can cover it up but you can’t scrub off the sense of inadequacy.
TheIn This Housealbum, which I was working out to,abruptly cuts off as I pick up. “Hey,” I say. “You’re up late.” It’s after midnight over there.
When she speaks, I’m hit by the familiar, tangled mess of fondness and fear. The genuine love for my own mother, mixed up with the trepidation of not knowing where this will go. I’m really not in the mood for more conflict at the moment, and I would’ve ignored the call, but the only thing that irritates Mom more than being spoken back to is being ignored. “Hey, baby. It’s good to hear your voice. I went out for dinner with the girls after work and it ran late, so I thought I’d try and catch you before I went to bed.”
I don’t relax yet. “It’s good you called now, actually. We’re heading to an interview in about half an hour.”
“Oh, having an easy morning, then?” she asks in a bright voice. But I’m fluent in double meanings. Translation: I’m hoping to catch you slacking off so I can lecture you about commitment and wasted opportunities.
“Nope, I’m in the gym. I spent all morning practicing,” I say, and walk myself right into another trap.
“Oh, good, are you working on that E in ‘Unrequitedly’?”
I start. I’ve never had an issue with “Unrequitedly.” “Oh, um, no.” I laugh, but it comes out strained. “Should I?”
Thank god the gym is empty, save Keegan who accompanied me down and is standing guard at the door, idly lifting a dumbbell while stealing glances at himself in the mirror. I have a feeling this is about to turn into the kind of conversation Ireallydon’t want to have in public.
“It’s been a bit inconsistent, yes. I was showing Joan in the office a video yesterday and it was a little embarrassing. I thought you were past an E at this point?”
Wait, what video was she talking about? When thehellhad I messed up on the E? My parts are too easytomess up, aren’t they?
Aren’t they?
“I, um… I am. I’ve never had anyone comment on it.”
“I’mcommenting on it.” Her laugh has an edge. Forced-breezy with a bite. “Do I not count?”
My mind’s racing ahead trying to plan out possible responses, and her possible comebacks to my hypothetical responses, trying to map out a de-escalation. I must take too long to reply, though, because the false cheeriness is gone when she presses on. “You always get sodefensivewhenever someone tries to give you feedback, Ruben. Is this the attitude you give your coaches when they supply notes? Do you think you’ve made it or something? ‘Ruben can’t do anything wrong, because he’s on aninternational tour.’ Because believe me, this is only thestartof you having to prove yourself, don’t think they won’t drop you in a—”
