Chapter 17
Day one of my lessons. Simón sits in front of me after work.
There are dark circles under his eyes, which the makeup department always makes sure to correct, but despite him wearing jeans and a perfectly tailored striped baby blue button-down, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, I can see how tired he is.
I took him to the biggest mall in the city: El Sambil, the one in Chacao, since it’s close to his hotel and it’s not a huge detour from the studio.
I brought him to the terrace, where he can choose to eat whatever he wants—Italian food, Middle Eastern food, sushi, ice cream—it’s all here, while the starry Caracas sky unfolds above us and the city is on full display as far as the eye can see.
Simón’s messy hair moves with the wind as he slumps against his chair.
He’s answering a text from Fernando, Caballo de Troya’s other singer.
Behind him, Caracas twinkles and blinks, alive.
Urban music booms around us, but not enough to drown our conversation.
The Ex-Perimento list lies between us on the table.
His handwriting stands out more than my computer-generated letters.
It’s messy and rushed, the way artists’ usually is, like if he takes two seconds to care about writing in a straight line, the muse will grow impatient and leave.
Simón puts his phone back on the table, screen facing down. “Sorry about that. Where were we?”
I play with a napkin. I’ve been ripping it apart and turning it into little balls. “You wanted to know about Ale.”
“Yes,” he says. “In order to make Alejandro fall in love with you again, I need more information.”
Love it. This feels like we’re doing something, taking action. Being productive. Like something might come out of it.
“What do you want to know?”
Simón shifts on his chair to sit up and rests his elbows on the table. “What do you like about him?”
That’s easy. “I like that he’s reliable.”
Simón’s eyes narrow. “Reliable.”
“Yes.” He’s on time, calls when he says he’s going to call, sticks to his routine like his abuela’s life depends on it. I tell Simón exactly this. “There are no surprises with him, I always know what to expect.”
“So he’s predictable,” Simón deadpans. “And boring.”
“No, he’s not boring,” I say, defensive. “He’s trustworthy.”
“A man can be trustworthy without being boring, Maria Antonieta.” I ignore the shiver that runs down my spine when he says my full name.
“What’s your middle name?” I blurt out. It seems unfair that he knows mine and I don’t know his.
Simón’s lips twitch upward in that way I notice they always do when he’s fighting a smile. “Andrés.”
“Well, Simón Andrés—” He stops fighting the smile and grins. It pleases me a little too much, being the one who provoked it. I look away, flushed. “A man can also be interesting without leading the life of a rock star.”
He huffs, putting a hand to his chest like I wounded him. “That felt personal.”
I shake my head. “It’s not. But it is another thing I like about him.”
“That he has a boring job?” Simón asks.
“That he has a normal job,” I correct. “I decided a long time ago I never wanted to date someone in the entertainment industry.”
“May I ask why?”
I shrug. “I grew up surrounded by that environment. I guess I’ve had my fill.
” It’s partially true. The other part I keep to myself—that I saw how it destroyed my mother’s relationships, both romantic and otherwise.
That I’m tired of having to share the people I love with strangers.
That when it comes to love, I need someone I can count on.
I want my children to have someone they can count on, someone who takes care of them. A parent, not an idol.
Simón nods slowly. “Did you ever consider following in your mother’s footsteps?”
I shrug again. For a while, yes. She wanted me to.
I was an extra in almost every telenovela she made.
I’d go with her to events, fall asleep on velvet chairs in crowded theaters when I couldn’t keep my eyes open anymore.
But I couldn’t be a part of the business I resented for taking her from me. I don’t tell Simón this.
“Journalism seemed more suited to me,” I tell him instead. “What about you? Did you ever consider a different career?”
“No.” He says it fast, automatic. “It has always been music or nothing for me. The closest I’ve come to considering a different career was becoming a music teacher. But only if everything else fails.”
Simón’s eyes get lost somewhere behind me, in the sea of tables, people, and different food stands, but I know he’s not thinking about any of that. If he’s anything like me, he’s thinking about failure. About the current situation, why we need each other. I know we both need this to succeed.
He seems to reach a similar decision. His expression changes; his eyes become more focused when they land back on me.
“So, we’ve established Alejandro is predictable,” he says. I want to fight, but he doesn’t give me the room. “Here’s the first thing you’re going to do, if you want to get him back: You’re going to leave him alone.”
—
The rest of the week is hell. Turns out Alejandro is much better at leaving me alone than I am at leaving him alone. I’ve fallen into the habit of checking where he is every night through social media, which is a new level of low. But today is different, because I have a legitimate reason.
“Stop texting him.”
I jump at Simón’s accusation, hiding my phone behind my back. “I wasn’t!”
It’s a lie. I was. But I have a good excuse: It’s his birthday. Twenty-nine. He used to talk about it like he was Schmidt from New Girl. Unironically. I have to text him on his birthday.
Simón is frowning down at his iPad as he scrolls but stops to raise an eyebrow at me.
His liquid brown eyes scan my face, searching for cracks.
He doesn’t believe me, I know. It doesn’t mean I’ll admit to breaking the rules.
I hold Simón’s gaze and feel my chin tilt up.
His eyes catch the small movement. A corner of his lips twitch in response.
He swallows, his throat bobbing up and down. Why am I looking at his throat?
Stop it.
Simón parts his lips, as if to say something, but the door to our rehearsal room shoots open, making us jump, and a small army of kids ages eight to twelve walks in. Saved by the tiny singers.
The room we were given for coaching sessions is smaller than we’d anticipated, seating only ten children at a time.
We’ve scheduled two sessions today and two tomorrow.
We managed to organize ten chairs in two rows of five.
Simón had an electric piano brought in, which is sitting in the center of the room, right under an A/C vent.
In the back, there are chairs piled up as high as the ceiling, which isn’t that high to begin with.
The room has no windows, making it feel closed off and isolated.
The acoustics are terrible, the sound bouncing harshly off the bare walls.
The chill in the air seeps into my bones, as if the room has never felt the warmth of sunlight. It also smells like fresh paint.
“A singer’s nightmare,” Simón called it.
I try to focus on that instead of the lingering feeling of Simón’s eyes moving over my features as if committing them to memory.
I point at empty chairs, counting heads as more kids fill the room.
I’ve made sure there’s a water bottle under each seat as well as a notebook and a pencil.
The disparity in age within this particular group is worrisome.
Simón suggested dividing his group by age for coaching sessions, but Mileidy shut it down so fast you’d think he suggested taking the kids clubbing.
“We don’t need them becoming friends,” she’d said. The result? A sweaty, green-faced ten-year-old girl who can’t keep still sitting next to a very cool blue-haired twelve-year-old boy who hasn’t stopped riffing since he sat down.
I join Simón in the middle of the room, in front of the electric piano, to meet the first batch of contestants.
The lighting here is so terrible that even the latest iPhone wouldn’t get a decent picture.
The plastic chairs would probably break under enough pressure.
And I think the A/C drips, judging by the spot of peeling paint beneath the unit.
“Good morning, everybody, cómo van?” Simón says with a loud clap.
And then Valeria, aka the girl with the green face, lurches forward and throws up all over my shoes.
There’s a moment of silence before hell explodes.
Half the kids are screaming while the other half are laughing.
The pungent smell of bile hits me immediately while I stand there trying not to get sick myself.
Or think of my shoes. Or the fact that my favorite white jeans are now speckled with a random child’s vomit.
The little girl’s face changes from green to burning red, from illness to shame and heartbreak.
I take a few steps forward, reaching out for her, but words die on my lips when she takes off running, slamming the door on the way out.
I push my sneakers off, jump over the puddle of vomit, and take off after her.
Behind me, Simón’s voice rises over the screaming children, trying to calm them down.
Cold seeps through my socks, freezing my feet. I move down a narrow, poorly lit corridor that once might’ve filled me with childlike joy, but the girl is nowhere to be seen. Damn, she’s fast.
Okay. If I were a ten-year-old girl who’d vomited in front of a famous singer and my competition, where would I hide?
This particular ten-year-old is built different.
If I were her, I would have marched right back the minute I saw the fluorescent lights above me flickering on and off every ten seconds.
This floor was taken right out of one of the Final Destination movies.
That thought isn’t exactly comforting.
“Valeria?” I call.