Shy Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter One (Frannie)

  Chapter Two (Frannie)

  Chapter Three (Jake)

  Chapter Four (Frannie)

  Chapter Five (Granville)

  Chapter Six (Frannie)

  Chapter Seven (Jake)

  Chapter Eight (Frannie)

  Chapter Nine (Jake)

  Chapter Ten (Frannie)

  Chapter Eleven (Granville)

  Chapter Twelve (Frannie)

  Chapter Thirteen (Granville)

  Chapter Fourteen (Frannie)

  Chapter Fifteen (Jake)

  Chapter Sixteen (Frannie)

  Chapter Seventeen (Granville)

  Chapter Eighteen (Frannie)

  Chapter Nineteen (Jake)

  Chapter Twenty (Frannie)

  Chapter Twenty-One (Jake)

  Chapter Twenty-Two (Frannie)

  Chapter Twenty-Three (Jake)

  Chapter Twenty-Four (Frannie)

  About Thomma Lyn Grindstaff

  SHY

  by Thomma Lyn Grindstaff

  Copyright

  Copyright 2015 Thomma Lyn Grindstaff

  Cover Design by Thomma Lyn Grindstaff

  Photo from iStock

  License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Author’s Note

  All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction, in whole or in part in any form. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, incidents, and places are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual places, events, or persons living or dead is wholly coincidental.

  Acknowledgments

  First of all, thanks to my readers. You're the reason I do what I do. Special thanks to Susan Helene Gottfried, Editor Laureate of the Universe. Thanks to my husband for always believing in me. And I’d like to thank my family and friends who have been supportive of my efforts throughout the years. I'd also like to acknowledge my kindred spirit and best writer buddy, Dorothy Brown BumBer, for her unfailing friendship, love, and support. I miss you, KS.

  Contact

  [email protected]

  Chapter One (Frannie)

  Mom no doubt thinks I'm at the rush party right now, and I haven't told her any differently. Actually, though, I'm alone in my favorite practice room in the John Alford Music Building, hanging out with one of my favorite people. Sound like a contradiction? It's not, really. I'm hanging out with Beethoven by virtue of playing the second movement of his gorgeous Sonata Number Eight, “Pathetique.” Beethoven has been and will always be one of my favorite people who ever walked the face of the earth. Even though he's dead, he still communicates with us through his incredible music which is, to my mind, much better than communicating with words.

  Especially with speech.

  I prefer music over speech any day. I can communicate all kinds of complex, nuanced emotions with music, whether I'm playing music composed by the great masters or the music I compose in secret, all by myself.

  Words? Not so much. You see, I'm terribly, terribly shy. And yes, the second terribly is justified. Just ask Mom.

  But let's back up a bit.

  (Beethoven won't mind.)

  I'm a freshman at the University of Tennessee, and I'm majoring in Piano Performance. I could have gone to a conservatory in Boston, but I chickened out. Mom wasn't too happy with me, but there are excellent professors at the University of Tennessee, so hopefully I haven't devastated my future too much, by her standards.

  Besides, Jake's in Tennessee. He's my best friend, and he was my boyfriend for a while in high school before we broke up. I didn't want to move hundreds of miles away to Boston, where Jake and I couldn't see each other. I just wasn't ready for that.

  Jake is one of the only people on earth I feel really comfortable with. Well, aside from Dad, who, like me, is terribly, terribly shy (just ask Mom). Jake's not shy. He talks only to who he wants to talk to, and nobody can tell him who to talk to or why. His independent spirit is one of the biggest reasons we're best friends. He doesn't apologize for being who he is, and he inspires me to think, just maybe I don't need to apologize for who I am, either.

  My phone trills out the first few bars of Mozart's Sinfonia Concertante—I love Mozart as much as I love Beethoven—and I stop playing and retrieve my phone from the top of the upright piano. It's Jake calling. I hoped it would be. Mom wouldn't call because she thinks I'm at the rush party, but when I show up at home tonight, she'll learn the truth.

  I'm not looking forward to that.

  Especially after she sought a letter recommending me for Alpha Delta Pi from her successful, popular cousin who pledged the sorority years ago. Alpha Delta Pi was the sorority Mom rushed when she was a college student, only they didn't take her. Another sorority wanted her, but she turned them down, and now she wants me to join Alpha Delta Pi to make up for her own disappointment.

  Biggest reason, though, is she thinks I need to be more social and learn to network. She figures a sorority is the best way for me to do that. I'm sure they're a great sorority, if you like that kind of thing. But I don't.

  Sigh.

  “Wildflower,” Jake says. It's his name for me. It's based on the wildflowers he sees on his mountain hikes. They simply bloom where they are and don't try to impress anybody. He says I remind him of those flowers. Beautiful and quiet, in my emotional wilderness, doing my thing regardless of whether anybody sees me or is impressed. He's called me Wildflower since we were in junior high school together. Before he and his family moved to Knoxville, they lived in upper East Tennessee. His dad wanted to relocate their garage to the Knoxville area to get more business. Jake loves to hike here in the region, but especially in the mountains near his home, whenever he can get back there. No matter how long he lives in Knoxville, Appalachian East Tennessee will probably always be home to Jake. I'm surprised he didn't move back there after his high school graduation last year, but Knoxville is a better base of operations for his bluegrass band.

  “Hi, Jake.” I'm honored he uses a cell phone, just for me. Otherwise, he hates the things. Before I started college, he never had anything to do with any kind of cell phone, not even an old-style flip phone. But with me attending UT, it's easier for us to keep in touch if we both have cell phones, so when Kelsey, one of his bandmates, offered him his old flip phone, Jake didn't turn it down. But he will probably never own a smartphone. He told me he wouldn't fool with a smartphone for all the banjos and mandolins in Appalachia. He's a very private person and hates the idea of hyperconnectivity, of being accessible and on the grid 24/7.

  “You going home tonight?” he asks.

  “Yeah. Trying to put it off as long as I can.”

  “You can't put it off forever, you know.” He knows about the sorority rush party that I'm not attending, even though I'm supposed to be.

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “Just stand up to your mom,” Jake says. “It's your life. And call me afterward and tell me about how it went.”

  He would know about standing up to people. He has had to stand up to his dad any number of times about all kinds of things. His dad means well, but he's kind of a nut and sometimes kind of a control freak. He used to try to run Jake's life just like he runs Jake's mom's life, but Jake was able to tell him where to get off even before he graduated high school. He
doesn't let anyone walk all over him. Ever.

  I, on the other hand... I'm sometimes pretty bad about letting people get away with too much. But I'll keep Jake's advice in mind. He makes things so simple, distills complicated situations down to their actionable essence. And he's right. I tend to make things more complicated than they need to be.

  Jake's been out of high school for a year—he's a year older than me. And he never had any desire to go to college. Not that his dad wanted him to. No, his dad wanted him to follow in his footsteps and take over the family garage. They do all kinds of things there, from mechanical work to auto body repair. Jake is, like his dad, incredibly handy and mechanically inclined, but he also happens to be a musical genius. Specifically, a guitar, banjo, and mandolin genius. He can play anything with strings. And he has a wonderful, deep, sexy singing voice.

  He's the frontman for a bluegrass band called the Hickory Hollow Boys that tours around Knoxville, East Tennessee, Virginia, North Carolina, and Kentucky. They play in restaurants, churches, coffee houses, and on the college circuit and are very well-liked, but leading a bluegrass band on the college circuit isn't near enough to college for my mom's taste. In her world, you have to have a college degree to succeed, and if you aren't interested in going to college then you're a slacker, no matter whether you bust your ass in a thousand other ways at things you love and are better suited for.

  There's not much wiggle room in Mom's narrow world.

  “How are things with you?” I ask Jake.

  “Okay,” he says. “Getting ready for the show tomorrow. Good to have tonight off, though. Hey, Wildflower, I'll come get you after you talk to your mom and we'll hang out if she's too much of a pain for you to want to stay home.”

  “Thanks. I might take you up on that.” Jake knows great places near Knoxville to hang out, away from the crowds and traffic. When we hike together and we've just climbed a challenging hill and we're sitting next to each other, catching our breath and drinking in the beauty of the forest with our eyes, I feel closer to peace than I do anytime or anywhere else, except for maybe when I'm listening to compositions by the great masters. Or playing them. Or playing and writing my own stuff.

  Only Jake has heard my own compositions. But I'm nervous playing them, even around him. Sometimes I just get so pissed at myself. I don't know why I'm so shy and unsure of myself, but I've been that way all my life. Dad tells me it's okay, and he's the same way. Shyness hasn't ruined his life by any means. He's a successful computer guy. And he's an incredible classical guitar player. He's not a loser, by any definition of the word.

  But I can't help but think of all the ways I fall short compared to other people my age, regardless of my talent. Yes, I'm talented, but what good is being a Wildflower if I'm so shy I can't blossom anywhere but the wilderness?

  Jake says the blossoming is its own reward. Somehow, according to him, I've been an inspiration for him to follow his heart with regard to his bluegrass band. So I guess I'm good for something. Somehow, I need to figure out how to be good for myself, too.

  “Just let me know if that's what you want,” he says. “And be sure and call me and let me know how things went.”

  “I will,” I promise. “What are you getting up to tonight?”

  “Staying at the apartment with Kelsey and Ty. We're going to do some rehearsing for tomorrow. Our gig at Family Circle over in Bristol.”

  “Oh, yeah. You guys are going to blow everyone away, as always.”

  “Well, it means a lot to hear you say so.”

  I can feel his smile through the phone. It has to be that sweet smile of his, where he almost looks a little embarrassed at hearing someone else say he and his band are good. Jake and I both tend to be a little bit funny about accepting compliments, but we definitely enjoy the warm, fuzzy feeling that goes with them. According to Mom, I've always had something wrong with me. According to Jake's dad, he's always had something wrong with him. Shyness, rebelliousness, it doesn't matter when we're together. Our friendship makes us think maybe there isn't anything wrong with either one of us.

  We end our call and I go back to playing the piano. This time, I play music by Chopin, another of my favorite people to ever walk the earth, and another one who just happens to be dead. I play Chopin's Prelude in E minor, a sad, gorgeous piece that makes me feel so distraught and wrung out by how Mom will react to me tossing aside the sorority opportunity that I have to stop and play something to make me feel more peaceful, more on top of things. I choose another piece I'm preparing for competition later this year, Chopin's Étude Opus 10, Number 3. It calms me every time I play it.

  As I play, I hear a rich, tenor voice reverberating from the hall. For a moment, I keep playing, enchanted by how the voice is singing along so masterfully with the Chopin Étude I'm playing. Then my hands jerk from the piano as though they have minds of their own when I realize there's somebody out there listening to me.

  How I'm able to play for judges in competitions and recitals, I don't know. I get nervous when I play for friends and even for family. But somehow, in competitions and recitals, I can psych myself up to the point that I can usually pull a good—and sometimes excellent—performance out of my metaphorical hat. But oh, the torments I endure before recitals and competitions. Icy hands, for which I have to go to the bathroom again and again and run warm water over them. Running to the bathroom to pee, at least a million times. My nerves create all kinds of annoying bodily situations. But I persevere, and usually I do well.

  Usually.

  But playing for friends and family, enjoying my music in a different context from what's necessary to pursue a career goal? Freaks me out every time. I can play for friends and family to a point, but so often, I feel stiff and nervous and on the spot, and sadly, I tend to mess up quite a bit, making it look like I don't have nearly as much skill on the piano as I actually do. It's damnably frustrating.

  I would like nothing more in life than to be like Nikesha Sloane. Like Chopin and Beethoven, she's another of my favorite people to ever walk the earth, but unlike those two old masters, she's alive. She's a young master. Older than me, but still very young. Twenty-six. I've read all about her online. She's an incredible pianist and singer-songwriter who hit it big a couple of years ago. She already has two albums out with a major label, and she wows me. She's like a beautiful elfen maiden who not only plays and sings the most incredible, gorgeous, luminous, powerful, affecting music I've ever heard from a modern day person, but she also becomes the music. Her music is so powerful to listen to that it's as if it already exists in some other realm, and she somehow has the ability to connect with it, bring it into the mundane realm, and make it real and audible for us mere mortals.

  But I'm not Nikesha. Kind of cool that her last name, Sloane, is my middle name, though. I'm Francesca Sloane Forsythe, but nobody ever calls me Francesca or Sloane. I'm Frannie. And while Frannie might be talented at music, smart overall, and maybe attractive by some people's measure, Frannie is always and forever, above all and over all...

  SHY.

  And SHY screws everything else up.

  Mom said, before my high school graduation, “You've got brains, talent, and beauty. If you had a better personality, you'd be perfect.”

  Perhaps she meant well, but I don't think she has yet realized how much that hurt me.

  At any rate, it's time to go home and face the music. No, not something quite so pleasant as music. It's time to face my perennially disappointed mom.

  I finish up the Chopin Étude and stand up. I really don't want to leave this practice room. It feels safe and comforting here, with just me and the upright piano. The piano is nothing special. It's kind of old and has probably been in this room for decades, but it's my friend. I made friends with it more readily than I've made friends with anybody I've met at college so far.

  But I have to go.

  Taking a deep breath, I open the practice room door and head out, just about bumping into a guy I've seen here in th
e halls fairly regularly. I don't know his name. He's pretty tall, though not as tall as Jake. He has a tightly muscled, wiry build, where Jake is rangier. I don't know if this guy is a student here or not. I'm guessing he is, though he looks a bit older than me. He's very friendly with my piano professor, Dr. Rosetti.

  He smiles at me. “Wow, I heard you in there. You're an amazing pianist.” He has a rather cultured way of speaking, a Southern accent like most of us here in Knoxville, but different somehow, more crisp and articulated. He has brown hair that's wavy and kind of messy, and eyes that are a fascinating shade of greenish brown, hazel I guess the word would be. He's handsome, in a more conventional way than Jake, but there's something about him that, like Jake, suggests something of a rebellious streak all the same. He's smiled at me in the hall before, but this is the first time he's spoken to me.

  I mumble something I hope sounds like Thanks.

  His gaze softens as he peers at me more closely. “You're one of Ron's students, aren't you?”

  By Ron, he must mean Dr. Rosetti. I nod.

  “You play Chopin beautifully,” he says. “I'm very impressed. It's not everyone who can play Chopin with your combination of feeling, interpretation, and technical excellence.”

  Wow. I don't know what to say. This guy expresses himself well. And he doesn't have a shy bone in his body. Lucky him.

  He holds out his hand to me. “I'm Granville Watts. And you're...”

  Oh, he's incredibly handsome. In his way, every bit as handsome as Jake. But oh, how different the two of them are in their attitudes, personalities, and expressions. I can tell that already. I clear my throat and accept his hand. He grips mine gently and gives it an emphatic but warm shake.

  “I'm Frannie Forsythe,” I say. I feel like I need to clear my throat again, but I keep myself from it. When I'm nervous, it feels like my throat is less a throat than a river of phlegm. I don't know why that happens. It happens to Dad, too, though, so I'm in good company.