Being Me

There she was, on a stage lit up by thousands of brightly coloured beams of light. Beyond that was dark, but she could see the outlines of a massive sea of people prolongedly pausing in the blackness, waiting, waiting just to hear her sing.
Flashing a radiant smile, and clad in a midnight-black swan velvet dress, the great opera star approached the microphone.
Giving one final, desperate clear of her throat, Madeline Lark opened her mouth to launch forth the song buried so deep in her throat and heart.

"If my footsteps you will follow,
You will reach up, you will grow.
Imitate my doings,
That is all you need to know.
If you...

"Maddie! The pizza's here!"
Darn! Just when she had it perfect, too! It always ended like this.
"Okay, I'm coming!" Madeline shouted back in an annoyed tone. She pressed that dreaded "Off" button on the remote and watched, with a slight tinge of pain, as the world of Watermark and "If my footsteps you will follow" condensed into a narrow streak of white light, then to finally vanish, leaving only the dark, lifeless blank of the shut-off TV.
Walking in a heavy manner, bearing a thousand burdens, Madeline entered the all-too familiar door of the all-too familiar dining room. The same old wooden cuckoo clock going "tick-tock" on the wall. The same old red-and-white checkered tablecloth. The same old metal-frame chairs.
Boring old reality, she thought contemptuously. Why couldn't her life be more like the operas? They were always so exciting. Something's always happening in them. In operas, girls had exciting lives, gorgeous sensitive boyfriends, and all sorts of adventures of the most thrilling and heroic kind.
Or at least like Elena Shaw's. She's been in a dozen of these operas now, including Watermark. She got to travel all around the world, sing in dazzling diamond-decked concert halls, and met about a million famous people. Her life was so much better than Madeline's own. Which is probably why she always had such a beautiful smile.
She cast a contempt-filled look at the table. Dad had ordered pizza again. Just like men - can't be bothered to cook. But then, being a sound mixer for a big record company is pretty tiring stuff.
Poor Dad.
"I'll wash the dishes and clear the table," Madeline offered. She often did that. Sometimes Dad would be really tired out after a day of lugging heavy equipment and blocking his ears from blasting stereos, and that's when Madeline would do the cooking as well.
She took a closer look. Anchovy pizza again - Her favourite. Life was real stink. But sometimes it's OK.

"Honey, you've gotta stop doing that," Dad said in his muffled mouth-full-of-pizza voice.
"Doing what?" Madeline countered in a slightly annoyed tone. "My homework?"
Dad gave off a small chuckle. "You're hilarious, sweetheart. No, you have to stop pretending to be Elena Shaw all the time."
That ticked her off. "Why? I've got nothing better to do."
Dad took another forkful of anchovies and cheese. "Best to live in the real world, instead of some fantasy."
Madeline's anger flared up. She felt a red-hot wave wash across her body. How dare he say that? How dare he pass off this work of art, this immaculate masterpiece, this gorgeous Broadway show as just "some fantasy"...?
She opened her mouth to protest, but no sound came out.
Looking down, she felt her own face contort into the shape of disappointment. A strand of her rough, unbrushed dirt-brown hair hung in front of her eye. "The real world is boring," she heard her own mouth say.
Dad put down his fork so that it made a metallic clang on his plate. Then he looked Madeline in the eye. The way he always did whenever he had something very important to say.
"Maddie," he said, kindly, reasonably, lovingly. "I know you're a bit bored. But life is full of opportunities and things we can enjoy, and we only have to know how to look for them and use them." His face suddenly brightened. "Oh yes! I gave that tape you made to Mr. Hart! He wants to give you an audition!"
Her heart rose for a second, then sank back down. She couldn't do that. Mr. Hart was a record producer and she knew only too well what Uncle Sam thought of them...
"Tell him no," Madeline replied, struggling with her own feelings of temptation. "I'm...er...not ready."
"Oh. Of course. Is that Natalie Steele still bothering you?" Dad inquired, mouth full of pizza again.
"As usual." But it must be her own fault. She looked ugly and stupid. She was a bully magnet.
Turning her eyes away from her father, Madeline Lark - boring, bullied old Madeline Lark - resumed eating.

The bus engine made a monotonous, droning noise as it sped along the road of the gray, smoke-filled city. Just another day of my boring life, thought Madeline. She had been bullied again today. Natalie Steele and her rowdy bunch of friends had poured a chocolate milkshake all over her clean white blouse. Then they had attempted to stop her cleaning it off.
Why did they do this to her? Dad said that it was because they were insecure and had to hurt someone else to make up for that. Just muster up your self-esteem and they'll go away.
But self-esteem was bad, wasn't it? Uncle Sam always said that. It was pride and arrogance of the worst kind. And Uncle Sam was so smart, he had to be right.
So Madeline never bothered with self-esteem. Uncle Sam's advise was for the best. After all, he was the only person she knew to love opera as much as she does.
All of a sudden, she had a new awareness. Her ears detected a gorgeous, fluid sound.
What could it be? Turning her head, she saw that it was the bus radio. It was playing a song called "Being Me", sung by Laura Goldsmith.

"In the mirror of life,
My own face I can't see,
What I do see is somebody else."

The melody was one of the most haunting and beautiful she's ever heard. The notes seemed to reach deep into her heart and draw out tears from where they stayed buried. The words seemed to be appealing just to her.
No! Mustering all her restraining power, she stopped up her ears to the song mentally. What would Uncle Sam say, if he found out that she's been enjoying this kind of music? It wasn't art. That means it's bad. And Uncle Sam's so smart he must be right.
But...
No! Madeline chided herself. Don't argue with Uncle Sam's ideas. He shouted at anyone who did so.

The red mahogany door creaked open to reveal the short and rather chubby figure of Uncle Sam. When he saw Madeline, his eyes lit up instantly.
"How's my little girl?" He crooned affectionately and swept Madeline off her feet and into a big bear hug.
Practically choked, Madeline couldn't say a thing.
"Come right in and have some tea," he invited. "I'm just working on my composition. You can listen to it," he said in that eager tone he always used when talking about his compositions.
"Of course," Madeline replied, even though her voice was not so eager. Uncle Sam composed music that, well, didn't sound like music.
"How's your Dad?" Uncle Sam asked, in that disliking, contemptuous voice he used whenever talking about Madeline's Dad.
"Oh, he's good," she replied. "But he's been a bit tired lately."
"Not surprising when you consider who he works for," he retorted, with a tone of even greater snobbery. "Record producers. So...Well, let's go upstairs and listen to my music."

Sprawled with arms and legs all over the soft, leather-covered, crimson art-deco sofa in Uncle Sam's studio, resting her head on the armrest, Madeline nibbled on a chocolate chip cookie as she listened to her uncle's sampler making all sorts of weird noises which passed for music. Those dissonant, disturbing and harsh tones were not pleasant, but she kept listening. After all, Uncle Sam was smart. He had to be. You need to be a really smart person to be able to enjoy this music, according to Uncle Sam.
And she wasn't one.
"How is it?" Uncle Sam asked, with a huge grin on his glowing face.
"Good," muttered Madeline in a barely audible voice. She didn't like it, but it must be good. The fact that she couldn't appreciate it was proof.
"Heard any good music lately?" He changed the subject.
"Oh yes!" Now it was Madeline's turn to have a glowing face. "I bought the CD of Song For Sarah, you know, the Elena Shaw opera. And The Grungemen have released that new single called The State of the World. Dad's giving me a Mozart CD for my birthday."
Uncle Sam listened, every now and then nodding with a smile of approval. Madeline stood up for to speak clearer.
"Oh yes, I heard this really cool song on the radio today. It's that Laura Goldsmith song, Being Me..."
She instantly cut herself off, realizing what she'd said. How dumb of her! In this flurry of happiness, she'd gotten carried away.
Uncle Sam's formerly cheerful face turned instantly to a snowstorm. "WHAT? You were listening to popular music?"
"Yes," Madeline confessed, her hands folded and lowering her head in guilt.
The snowstorm quietened a little. "Maddie, you know that popular culture is a swamp of mediocrity and stupidity. I will not have my little girl polluted by it. Besides, these songs encourage self-esteem."
Of course, thought Madeline. He's right. He had to be, because he's so clever and so nice to me. She didn't agree with that much, but that doesn't mean it isn't true.
Still with a grimace on his face, but with his anger gone, he said: "Maddie, is it true what your Dad told me, Henry Hart wants you to audition for him?"
She blushed with the shame of it.
"Don't do it. You know what record producers are like. They will break you and hurt you. They will steal your soul if you let them. Well, don't you let them."
"Don't worry, I won't," Madeline assured. "Can I stay here and do my homework?"
"Of course. You can stay as long as you want."
Brrrrrring! Brrrrrring!
Uncle Sam picked up the phone. "Hello, Samuel Lark here...Oh, hi Leon. Maddie! It's your Dad!"
Darn! Just when she had gotten out that awful math homework.
"Yes, Dad?" She practically yelled into the phone.
"Hi, honey. Hey, you know, Mr. Hart is here with me. He listened to your tape again and he really wants an audition with you. What do you say?"
Turning around, Madeline beheld her uncle's face. It would turn into a snowstorm again, if she said yes.
She would be hurting him.
Besides, record producers were awful people. It had to be true.
"Err, no. I don't think I'm ready. Thanks for calling, Dad. I'll be home by 8."
"Okay, sweetheart. Take care now." Click.

"Sarah,
Your heart is beautiful
And full of pain.
Put the darkness behind you
And live again..."

It was a song of hope and redemption. Elena Shaw's character was pleading with her daughter to not let the pains in her life overcome her will to live. It was so beautiful.
Again, Madeline shuddered to think that someone could ever be as talented as Elena was.
She knew that she never could. The familiar grey cloud of gloominess re-enveloped her heart.
"Honey?"
Oh, darn! Not again. Always. Whenever she was losing herself in a world of beauty and music, Dad's voice had to jerk her out of that world and into the awful real world.
It wasn't fair.
"Mr. Hart asked me again if you would audition for him."
"Can't he ever learn?" She snapped, face like a firestorm. "I don't want to do it."
"Why not? I think you're ready."
"Oh yes," she heard her own voice say. "Not ready to be a pop singer. The pop music industry is a swamp of shallowness and mediocrity. It's not for me."
Dad sighed and looked away from me for a moment. "To think that you used to sing along with the radio all the time. Mr. Hart is very nice. He says that your voice is beautiful and you can be really famous. Don't you want that?"
Her face grew even redder, redder than Jupiter, redder than a Red Giant star. "Oh yes, but I don't want to be in a business where stars are marketed just for their image and not the music. I think of music as an art."
With that fire-and-brimstone speech, the anger went out of her somehow. Only the feeling of general depression remained.
"Okay, okay. I'll tell him you don't want to do it. But I just want you to stop being so upset all the time, sweetheart."
That made her feel a little guilty. She made her Dad upset. She made Uncle Sam upset. She made the whole world upset.
"Sorry, Dad," she apologized. "Can I go to Uncle Sam's place?"
"Sure, but be home for dinner."

Madeline rang the ancient brass doorbell of Uncle Sam's door, a bell which she had probably rang every second day of her life.
"Come in," his voice called.
She turned the door handle. It was unlocked.
"Hey, Maddie!" Uncle Sam's voice sounded out from the parlor. "It's a good thing you didn't come a bit earlier. I was just talking to my producer and he doesn't like teenagers."
Why didn't he, Madeline thought. Not all of us are taggers, waggers and gang members. Some of us sit around agonizing over the state of the world like you grown-ups do.
Then she thought of something. Something that actually cheered her up a bit.
"Uncle Sam," she asked, "do you know anyone who can...you know, maybe...get me into opera?"
"No, sorry," he answered. "I know heaps of people, but they're all arthouse breed like me."
The little spark of light in her heart was extinguished.

Pressing the "Play" button, Madeline flopped backward on her bed as the familiar wailing guitar riffs and trademark dragged, anguished bass line of The Grungemen flooded her room and her ears.
The Grungemen were really cool. Their lyrics were simple and honest and their view of life accurate. Madeline could identify with everything they sang, because they were so true.

"When I come home, the day is done,
And black clouds block out the setting sun,
I turn on the TV and watch the news,
And there's just nothing but doom and gloom."

Reveling in the angst, the pain and pessimism, all of which characterized her own life, Madeline allowed her own mind to sink lower so that she could revel further. She felt like she could just listen to these painfully honest words, and enjoy the aching in her heart, forever.
And she wanted to do that.

"There's nothing left in life for me,
I'm rotting away right as I live,
My dreams are broken, they were never real,
No-one even bothers a little bit...

"Honey?" Her Dad shouted, sounding unusually happy. Even for him.
She was annoyed. Her paradise of pain was being interrupted by the disgusting optimism of Dad's voice. This was not right.
"What?" Her voice struggled over the guitar riffs, heavy bass, and angst-ridden voices.
"Get cleaned up! We have a very special guest coming!"
Madeline was terrified. Who could it be? Maybe it was Miss Cleary, her English teacher, come to tell Dad about that awful 85% on her test.
Get a grip on yourself, she chided. You're losing it. It's probably not that bad.
Running to the bathroom, Madeline grabbed her brush - which hasn't been used in like a year - and desperately attempted to run it through her tangled, stuck-together hair. Her hair pulled her skin, several brush teeth broke, and once or twice she yelled with pain, but after about an hour of agony her hair looked somewhat presentable. Then she carried out the ritual of face-washing.
Soon, she looked better than she had for a long time. Her formerly knotted hair was now flowing and shining (somewhat). Her face was cleaner too. It didn't have so much dirt on it.
"Who is coming, anyway?" She shouted.
"He's here now," Dad replied. "Come out and see!"
Madeline ran out of the bathroom, feeling somewhat better. Maybe it was because she was looking nicer.
She stepped into her parlor.
Dad was sitting on one of the parlor chairs. With him was a man slightly shorter than himself. He wore jeans and a T-shirt, plain but tidy. He had a brown mop of hair and a kind look on his face.
"Hi, who are you?" Madeline said in almost a whisper.
Dad was grinning from ear to ear. "Maddie, say hello to Mr. Hart."
She did not proceed to do so, but instead fell to the floor.

"Looks like she wasn't expecting me," she heard Mr. Hart say as she opened her eyes and nervously, slowly, shyly stood up.
A record producer came to her house? How could this be? They would never do such a thing. All they did was talk on the phone all day and send agents to do their dirty work.
But this one was not like that. At least, he didn't look it.
Dad laughed. "I don't think any famous person has ever condescended to talk to her before."
Mr. Hart laughed heartily in return. "I guess not." Then, he turned his kindly gaze to Madeline. "Hello, Maddie. Your father told me all about you."
"Um, hi," Madeline muttered. Her entire body was shivering, like she'd just climbed out of the swimming pool on a winter's day. She looked down at the ground.
"I asked you three times if you would do an audition for me. You refused every time."
She couldn't reply. Her mind was frozen stiff.
"I've always loved all children and young people," Mr. Hart continued. "Well, with a few exceptions."
She heard Dad laugh again, but couldn't bring herself to do so.
"For a long time, I've dreamed of fostering a child star with a beautiful voice who will be able to inspire millions of people. My philosophy is: Never do anything that will not inspire people."
She almost couldn't believe those words. They were coming out of a record producer? This could not be. All record producers were greedy, insensitive money-mongers. She had to be dreaming.
But----The living room, her Dad, Mr. Hart----were all too real to seem like a dream.
This was reality.
Madeline's heart melted like an iced-over brook in springtime. Tears trickled down her face. She tried to hold them back, but could not.

"I'll sing for you," she heard her own voice say. "But Uncle Sam wouldn't like this."
"Don't worry about what Uncle Sam says! You have to follow your own dreams." Mr. Hart handed her a sheet of paper. "Do you know this song?"
Taking the sheet, she glanced at it. The song was called "Being Me". Words by Peter Hamilton. Music by Henry Hart.
What? He wrote it? He wrote this gorgeous, haunting song?
That's it. She was singing it.

"In the mirror of life,
My own face I can't see,
What I do see is somebody else...

This song was about her! All this time, she'd been attempting to be Elena Shaw.
Of course, Madeline realized, she couldn't be Elena. Just like Elena could never be her. She was Madeline Lark, and that was who she was. All this time, she'd been hiding it, and thus buried her true potential.

"Trying to be someone new,
My own heart can't be free,
So I must find myself 'neath the pain..."

It hit her, like lightning from heaven. In that one moment of time, she knew her destiny.

"Then I saw in the light,
Everything I can be.
They can only come true
If I'm being...Just being me!"

The little drizzle of tears fell again. These were tears, not of pain, but of the bittersweet knowledge that she had so much talent that she haven't used for so long out of her insecurity. But, Madeline determined with a feeling of renewed strength, that it would be different from now on.
Mr. Hart was clapping. "Beautiful!" He praised. "What a lovely voice!" Flashing a smile, he almost whispered: "Would you like to make an album for me?"
Again, Madeline's mind was frozen in disbelief. Peering over her shoulder, she saw her Dad's face shining with pride.
"It's your decision, sweetheart," he said with a big smile of his own.
She took only a split second to make it.
"Wow, COOL!" Shouted Madeline, throwing her arms upward. She wanted the whole big wonderful world to share her happiness.

"And now last - But certainly not least - Let's welcome platinum album child sensation, Madeline Lark!" Boomed the announcer's voice over the sound system.
Applause of a thousand thunders.
"Dad, do I look okay?" Madeline asked, a little nervous.
"You look gorgeous. Go on, honey. They're waiting for you," Dad whispered, giving her a gentle nudge in the shoulder.
So she went.
There she was, on a stage lit up by thousands of brightly coloured beams of light. Beyond that was dark, but she could see the outlines of a massive sea of people prolongedly pausing in the blackness, waiting, waiting just to hear her sing.
Flashing a radiant smile, and clad in a lovely red silk dress made by a fashion designer in Italy, she approached the microphone.
Giving one final, desperate clear of her throat, Madeline Lark proceeded to say:
"Good evening! It's so lovely to be here..."
Her voice was drowned out and her face flushed red as another thunder-roll of applause swept the hall.
"The song I'm going to sing now is one of my favourites. It was written by Henry Hart - who is a super cool guy by the way! - and lyricist Peter Hamilton. It was originally recorded by Laura Goldsmith in 1986, and it's called 'Being Me'."
Using the time given her by another clapping session, Madeline cleared her throat one final time and launched forth the song that lived deep inside her heart.

"In the mirror of life,
My own face I can't see,
What I do see is somebody else.
Trying to be someone new,
My own heart can't be free,
So I must find myself 'neath the pain.
Darkness clouded my heart
Trouble tore me apart
And I thought that life wasn't so kind.
Then I saw in the light,
Everything I can be.
They can only come true
If I'm being...Just being me!"

Her heart sang along with her mouth. The light shone as bright as her soul. And she was full of joy - the pure sweet joy of being herself.
The orchestra played a last fading diminuendo. The audience cheered almost wildly and gave off another round of thunderous applause. The vibration of the clapping hands was almost enough to shake the foundations of the hall itself.
"Thank you, thank you very much!" Shouted Madeline, bowing down once, twice, thrice.
The audience, feeling like it needed to further express its love for her, continued to applaud and cheer. Madeline had to take a fourth bow in order to satisfy their feelings.
After that, it was Dad telling her how great she was and how proud he was of her, regardless of what Uncle Sam said, for the fifth time in a day. Then there was that huge bunch of fans coming into the greenroom with copies of her albums, Aspiration and Song of the Heart, asking for autographs. These ranged in age from adorable little kids to old, frail, white-haired grannies. Just the usual post-concert stuff.
Then, amid the cheerful and mostly kindly fans, she caught a familiar face. It was Natalie Steele.
Regarding her with suspicion for a second, Madeline noticed that her expression was somewhat different.
"Madeline, I came to apologize," said Natalie, face downcast, no longer her usual haughty self. "No, it's not because you're famous and rich and all that stuff. I'm really sorry about what I used to do."
"That's okay. It doesn't bother me anymore," Madeline replied, sincerity oozing from every word. "I'm just glad that you're sorry about it and I hope that you won't do it anymore."
"I never will again. Your music has taught me to believe in myself," Natalie replied gratefully. "I must thank you."
"No problem-o. It's a lesson that we all must learn," said Madeline. "I forgive you."
"Thank you," and with these words, Natalie was gone.
Staring after her, Madeline felt a sense of overwhelming closure. The war between her and Natalie was over at last.
"Hi, Madeline," she heard a strangely familiar voice say.
Turning around, her eyes grew wider and wider. It was....Elena Shaw herself! In the flesh. And her usual beautiful black velvet dress.
Madeline's eyes kept growing wider and wider on their own accord.
"Madeline, you sang so good," Elena said, smiling that kind, compassionate smile which has won her accolades all over the world.
"Thank you," Madeline barely breathed out. "I'd like you to know - I have all your CD's."
"It feels so good to be appreciated," said Elena. "I have both your CD's too, you know. Well, it was lovely meeting you. I have to go now but - Good luck!"
That strange mixture of elation and bittersweetness welled up inside her again.
"It was so cool meeting you too, Miss Shaw. I've always loved your music and - Well, thank you again. Bye."

THE END