piano.
After a few minutes of noodling, she had an idea for a verse, but it wasn’t very catchy. She played out some chords, but none of what she was coming up with was terribly inspired. Dahlia stood and looked inside the piano bench because she remembered she’d put a few lead sheets in there from the times she’d made passes at songs over the last year. At least one of them must have potential. But as she leafed through them, she was more and more disappointed when she realized that her memory of them was a lot better than the actual songs. One had an unwieldy bridge that sounded as if it were from a different song than the refrain, and another one had an uninspired melody that was as dull as dirt.
As the sun came up, she reworked a ballad idea she’d started a few months earlier, called “Don’t Make Me Laugh,” but halfway through it she decided that the tune was only fair and not worth the work. Besides, the thunk on her front porch signaled the L.A. Times delivery and that was a good excuse to stop working. She left the piano bench and went to the door.
It was still dark outside. The black sky was filled with morning stars, and she wanted to wish on one, remembering how she and Sunny always used to wish on stars together. She remembered that her own wish always had something to do with becoming famous and Sunny’s wish was always about being “wildly in love” with someone who felt the same way about her. Dahlia told her that was dumb, that she should wish for being both famous and loved, pointing out that there were plenty of stars and plenty ofnights to wish on them, so why always wish for a man? But that was all Sunny wanted.
Shivering from the cold morning air, Dahlia came inside and sat on the living room floor with the paper spread out in front of her. Page by page she riffled past all the bad news and stopped to look longingly at the ads from Saks Fifth Avenue in Beverly Hills for clothes she couldn’t afford, then on to the Calendar Section to see the show-business news, even though it never failed to depress her.
On page two her eye caught an item that said Jane Myron and Roger Mark were writing the score for a Disney animated feature. Now, how did they get that? She remembered meeting the young songwriting team at a party, where Jane Myron said to her, “I love your songs. ‘My Kids Are My Life’ is one of my favorite lyrics ever.” Dahlia put the newspaper into the trash can. She couldn’t waste any more time. She had to go back to the piano and sit there until she thought of something to write. “Don’t Make Me Laugh” had sort of a nice verse, but it wasn’t drop-dead good, just pleasant, and nobody was paying big bucks for pleasant. Maybe she’d crawl back into bed next to Seth and think about what she would say to Sunny when she got to San Diego.
five
D ahlia remembered the way Sunny used to love to get dressed to go on a date. Sometimes it seemed that her cousin’s primping and preparation, her love affair with her own skin as she slowly worked the moisturizing cream into her face and throat and down each arm, was such a production it was almost as if she were doing it in a show on TV where she was demonstrating the products.
The care she took in the application of each step of her makeup was exquisite, and Dahlia loved to watch and imitate the faces she made while drawing and painting and dabbing and brushing and tweezing. First she smiled that big forced smile to create the apple cheeks on which she feathered the pink color with a big bushy brush; then she stretched her eyelids for the liner that she put on with a very sharp pencil; then she made that stretched-down face to allow for themascara on the lower lids that she put on with a brush on a wand; and then she pulled her lips very taut for the lipstick she put on with a stiff retractable brush. And she would talk while she was doing it, truly as if she were on television giving a makeup lesson.
“You need
After a few minutes of noodling, she had an idea for a verse, but it wasn’t very catchy. She played out some chords, but none of what she was coming up with was terribly inspired. Dahlia stood and looked inside the piano bench because she remembered she’d put a few lead sheets in there from the times she’d made passes at songs over the last year. At least one of them must have potential. But as she leafed through them, she was more and more disappointed when she realized that her memory of them was a lot better than the actual songs. One had an unwieldy bridge that sounded as if it were from a different song than the refrain, and another one had an uninspired melody that was as dull as dirt.
As the sun came up, she reworked a ballad idea she’d started a few months earlier, called “Don’t Make Me Laugh,” but halfway through it she decided that the tune was only fair and not worth the work. Besides, the thunk on her front porch signaled the L.A. Times delivery and that was a good excuse to stop working. She left the piano bench and went to the door.
It was still dark outside. The black sky was filled with morning stars, and she wanted to wish on one, remembering how she and Sunny always used to wish on stars together. She remembered that her own wish always had something to do with becoming famous and Sunny’s wish was always about being “wildly in love” with someone who felt the same way about her. Dahlia told her that was dumb, that she should wish for being both famous and loved, pointing out that there were plenty of stars and plenty ofnights to wish on them, so why always wish for a man? But that was all Sunny wanted.
Shivering from the cold morning air, Dahlia came inside and sat on the living room floor with the paper spread out in front of her. Page by page she riffled past all the bad news and stopped to look longingly at the ads from Saks Fifth Avenue in Beverly Hills for clothes she couldn’t afford, then on to the Calendar Section to see the show-business news, even though it never failed to depress her.
On page two her eye caught an item that said Jane Myron and Roger Mark were writing the score for a Disney animated feature. Now, how did they get that? She remembered meeting the young songwriting team at a party, where Jane Myron said to her, “I love your songs. ‘My Kids Are My Life’ is one of my favorite lyrics ever.” Dahlia put the newspaper into the trash can. She couldn’t waste any more time. She had to go back to the piano and sit there until she thought of something to write. “Don’t Make Me Laugh” had sort of a nice verse, but it wasn’t drop-dead good, just pleasant, and nobody was paying big bucks for pleasant. Maybe she’d crawl back into bed next to Seth and think about what she would say to Sunny when she got to San Diego.
five
D ahlia remembered the way Sunny used to love to get dressed to go on a date. Sometimes it seemed that her cousin’s primping and preparation, her love affair with her own skin as she slowly worked the moisturizing cream into her face and throat and down each arm, was such a production it was almost as if she were doing it in a show on TV where she was demonstrating the products.
The care she took in the application of each step of her makeup was exquisite, and Dahlia loved to watch and imitate the faces she made while drawing and painting and dabbing and brushing and tweezing. First she smiled that big forced smile to create the apple cheeks on which she feathered the pink color with a big bushy brush; then she stretched her eyelids for the liner that she put on with a very sharp pencil; then she made that stretched-down face to allow for themascara on the lower lids that she put on with a brush on a wand; and then she pulled her lips very taut for the lipstick she put on with a stiff retractable brush. And she would talk while she was doing it, truly as if she were on television giving a makeup lesson.
“You need
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