Page 88 of Shapes of Love
I lose myself in the familiar rhythm of my hands on the piano. This song is a confession, a story about beingforced to be someone you’re not. For me, it’s the pressure of society, forcing me into the role of Sassy, the perfect lovestruck girl. But I’m not her, and every chord feels like a liberation.
For Shirley, it might be about choosing themself and living a life that makes them happy.
For Mia, this song might be about not giving up a part of herself for a relationship, about not dulling her light so that someone else can shine brighter.
That’s the beauty of music; it means something different to everyone. It’s the real kaleidoscope, reflecting back whatever you need it to.
“I’m just a kaleidoscope, babe, mold me into shape, are you satisfied yet?” I sing until my fingers ache and my throat feels raw. I don’t realize I’ve stopped playing until screams fill the auditorium. The crowd roars so loud their cheers rumble in my chest, and I’m barely aware of leaving the stage and changing back into my dress before being brought back to my seat.
Mia’s hug is the first thing that grounds me, if only because she holds me so tight, she crushes my ribs. “Holy shit, Sasha. You were incredible.”
I flop onto my seat as categories are announced, reaching for my phone. Did my fans like the song? Did they understand what I was trying to say? Are they still watching?
Record of the Year is announced, and we don’t win. I turn to Shirley and squeeze their hand. It was a long shot, but if we had won, we could have accepted the award together.
“Next, the nominees for Best New Artist—”
Mia and Shirley each grip one of my hands. Their heartbeats ripple through my skin. Every breath feels heavy, filled with hopes and fears colliding. This is it. If I win, I’ll get to speak and—
A different name is announced.
Oh.
The realization dawns on me like a bucket of cold water has been poured down my back. Winning Best New Artist was my safest bet. My only chance to speak onstage.
Maybe this is for the best, I tell myself. Sassy would have won best artist. Not me.
It would have been a lie.
More categories are announced, but they go by in a blur. I clap and smile when the cameras are on me, but I’m in a daze. I might not get to win at all, which is fine. I still have the draft as my Plan B. I’ll post it on my socials and explain.
It’s just… For the first time, I want to be seen. I want to be heard.
“Can you hide this spoon in the pocket of your dress?” Mia points at one of the silver spoons on our table. It’s round and long with an impressive arch. “I think we should add it to our collection, but the cameras are on us, and my dress doesn’t have pockets.”
That earns her a chuckle from me. “Of course.”
She’s trying to distract me. And it’s working. We might go home empty-handed, but at least we’ll have this spoon to remember the night by. That’s enough, to know we got to live this together.
“Quick, quick. The cameras are panning away,” she says. I sneak the spoon into my pocket just as a voice fills the air.
“And the Grammy for Song of the Year goes to…”
Oh, shit.
I need to get my defeat face ready. Sad but not too sad—
“—‘Summer Blues’!”
I applaud. Good for them. Good for them—
Eh?
Wait.
Wait.
WAIT.
