Invisible
Ruthanna looked at AnnieLee. “What’s this?”
“A song I started last night,” AnnieLee said groggily, sitting up and blinking as the world came into focus.
“We went to bed at two!”
“I like to write late,” AnnieLee said. She ran her fingers through her tangled hair. “Though it makes getting up at eight unpleasant.”
“So does drinking too much wine.” Ruthanna shook the paper at her. “You got any more lines?”
AnnieLee cleared her throat and sang the next two, which she hadn’t written down yet. Her voice was still jagged, and she yawned midway through.
But then I grew up pretty and I grew up wild
Didn’t look no more like a hungry child
She looked up at Ruthanna. “I got stuck on the next bit,” she said, “the part where the girl’s old enough to realize that being noticed by a man can be worse than being ignored by him.” She paused. “So, yeah, it’s kind of a tragic song, too.”
The sadness of Sophia’s story had moved AnnieLee, and in the middle of the night, she’d allowed fragments of her own story to come back to her. But they were memories so unspeakable that the only way to survive was to deny them—at least in daylight, when such things seemed a little easier.
“It’s good so far,” Ruthanna said. “Maybe we can work this up.”
AnnieLee threw off her covers and plucked the paper from Ruthanna’s fingers. “I think I need to burn it,” she said.
Ruthanna sniffed. “You’re a baffling little thing,” she said, heading for the door. “Anyway, meet me downstairs in half an hour. We’re going down to the studio to see what else you’ve got.”
“Don’t call me little,” AnnieLee called after her.
And you’re the baffling one, she almost added. Last night Ruthanna had revealed an unimaginable grief, and now here she was, ready to work.
AnnieLee stumbled into the bathroom and turned on the shower, as hot as it would go. She guessed she was a little like that, too.
After a quick breakfast of scrambled eggs and an English muffin, AnnieLee descended to the studio, where the band was already gathered. Everyone was full of congratulations for AnnieLee; they’d all heard her song on WATC.
“Maybe just a little too often,” Stan admitted. “No offense. But that thing’s an earworm.”
“That’s a good thing, though, isn’t it?” AnnieLee laughed, but then she grew serious. “I couldn’t have done any of it without you,” she said. She glanced over at Ethan, who was tuning his guitar. Their eyes met and held until AnnieLee flushed and looked away. “Thank you for playing with me, you guys,” AnnieLee said, suddenly too moved to look at any of them. “I can’t tell you how grateful and honored I am. And I’m so happy to be here working with you again.”
Ruthanna’s voice came through the control room speakers. “Can we get started now? Or do we need to hold hands and have a dang gratitude circle? Maybe light a candle and write some thank-you notes?”
AnnieLee flushed again, but she wasn’t quite done yet. “I’m grateful to you, too, Ruthanna,” she called, and she thought she heard Ruthanna give a kind of harrumph of acknowledgment. “Okay,” AnnieLee said. “Now I’m ready to work.”
“So you better give us the tune, then,” Ethan said. “What are we learning today?”
Elrodd offered up a drumroll and Donna tossed off a goofy little walking bass line—they were all eager to get started. But AnnieLee didn’t answer because she didn’t actually know. Instead, she brought out a canvas tote bag and turned it upside down. Sheets of notebook paper, bar coasters, napkins, and Post-its went fluttering down to the floor, all of them covered with AnnieLee’s neat, tiny handwriting.
“What the hell is that?” Ruthanna demanded.
“Songs,” AnnieLee said simply. “Y’all want to help me pick some out?”
This was not how things were done, Ruthanna informed them as she came barreling out of the control room. This was disorganized and indecisive, not to mention downright messy, and in case AnnieLee hadn’t noticed, there wasn’t a speck of dust in the whole 9,312 square feet of Ruthanna’s house, and if AnnieLee didn’t clean up those papers right quick she’d find out she wasn’t too grown-up to have her skinny little fanny tanned.
AnnieLee let Ruthanna’s tirade wash over her. She wanted the musicians to find lines that spoke to them. She’d usually jotted down the chords along with the lyrics, so even a glance at a scrap of paper could give them a sense of what the song might become.