You and your girlfriends – brightest, most popular, most witty, most personality – most potential – most of everything. Didn’t get much better, being you. Other girls were envious, boys were forever trying to get your number or pass you notes – even your teachers breathed a sigh of relief when you walked into class.
There was just no end to you.
So when talk of the senior Talent Show got around – you and your girlfriends had the brilliant idea of starting a singing group.
Total natural: charm, looks, moves – all the ingredients – and maybe, just maybe, one of those talent scouts you heard so much about would see you. Visions of Art Linkletter or Arthur Godfrey’s Talent Scouts were sprinting through your head.
All crazy exciting, except for one thing – you couldn’t sing a note that was on key – you were tone deaf. You tried – too sharp – too flat; notes they hadn’t invented yet – and too loud.
You were awful.
But rather than give up, you all arrived at the brilliant idea of you just mouthing the words – everything else worked perfectly – and the three others would blend so well together nobody would notice. On top of that, some of the guys in your homeroom had a band, The Pyramids – they already played one of the Sports Night dances. The bass player had a crush on you anyway, so it was a done deal.
You had the plan – two numbers – you’d start off with Lollipop, the Chordettes song and you’d finish with Just The Way Your Are by The Marlettes. You picked a name – decided The Rhondelles had a nice right to it. Dreams were coming true.
So for the next month you practiced – well . . .you moved in unison, struck poses and mimicked while the record played. Even your mom was impressed.
Icing on the cake were the matching outfits you bought at Buffum’s.
This was going to be the piece de resistance of your entire Junior High experience – you’d remember this moment well into your 30s – it would be an entire chapter of your memoirs – you were already filling up pages in your diary.
The day of the show you were bouncing off the walls – your stomach was doing back flips.
They put you on last so you could be the dynamite ending.
The auditorium was packed – the entire Student Body was there and every seat was taken. You peeked out from behind the curtain and spotted someone who didn’t look familiar – she was sitting in the front row and she was taking notes – it had to be the talent scout for Art Linkletter. You almost fainted.
By the time it was your turn the audience was stomping and yelling – the adrenaline rush could power a freight train and light most of Culver City.
Lollipop seemed like it was over in less than 30 seconds. You got a standing ovation. You were beyond excited.
During Just The Way You Are, something happened – a switch went off in your brain – you got carried away – you opened your mouth and you sang for real.
And what sounded like a pack of deranged Huskies filled the air.
The band stopped – the audience froze – the talent show came to a screeching, grinding halt.
Your girlfriends turned in unison and looked like you spontaneously combusted on stage. All you could hear was the sound of jaws dropping to the floor.
In short, you bombed – you didn’t just bomb, you caused widespread dismay.
You had no choice but to do your best impression of a deer caught in the headlights, turn and run out of the auditorium and not stop until you got home.
You hid in your bedroom – you assumed the fetal position and stayed that way until it was dark. The phone rang, you didn’t answer it – you knew it wasn’t going to be good news. You decided the best thing to do was chronicle the event in your diary – offering proof for the ages that you completely screwed up and that you were possessed by something that wasn’t human.
And so you wrote the saga, in gruesome detail – all while KFWB quietly bolstered your sagging spirits.
Maybe voice lessons would help. Maybe play horn.
