Текст книги "Being Audrey Hepburn"

Автор книги: Mitchell Kriegman

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Текущая страница: 12 (всего у книги 24 страниц)

30

“Why does everything I do for you involve lots of repetitive physical work?” I asked Jess as we pushed her steamer trunk up the five flights of stairs to her new digs in Chinatown.

The scent of decomposing fruit, roasted chestnuts, and fresh fish intermingled with stale frying oil, the heated exhaust of industrial fans, and the cigarette smoke of the Asian men working in the market downstairs: Chinatown was one of those parts of New York that you could pick out blindfolded by the pungent smells alone. All those odors floated up through Jess’s new neighborhood.

Jess had packed her mom’s station wagon with all her worldly possessions—three battered trunks filled with her own designs, as well as fabrics and salvaged clothes that represented years of flea market and church store scavenging. She also had two sewing machines, including a serger that she bought at a yard sale, three dress forms, and a cool antique sewing box filled with the tattered marble composition books she used as journals.

It was Jess’s big move. In return for my moving skills, she promised to help me get my Purple Beast out of the Hudson Street parking lot. I needed to borrow some money to do it. I hadn’t been back for three days, and I was sure my beast missed me, although the parking guys were probably wondering by now if someone had left a body in the trunk.

I actually liked lugging stuff around with Jess for a while. It seemed so normal after the last few days of high drama. The situation at home with Ryan and Mom was intense. The Hole wasn’t the same without Jess, and it was awkward around Jake. I felt like he was avoiding me, not that I could blame him.

Hauling dress forms and sewing machines up five flights of stairs was good distraction therapy, and Jess’s apartment was awesome.

Okay, it didn’t look awesome; in fact, it looked downright crappy. The building, 507 East Broadway, was home to a former sweatshop, after all. Jess said that, only a few years ago, there used to be sixty-three people per floor in the buildings around here. From the window in the stairwell, you could spy a sweatshop that was still in operation, where women were bent over sewing machines making cheap polyester clothes on the sixth floor of the building across the street. Even in Jess’s converted space, you could see the lines on the floor where the walls that divided the room into tiny sections used to be.

But as grim as it was, the raw space was awesome because of what it represented—the city, a place of her own, freedom. Jess would make it ubercool. With lots of raw brick walls, no windows except one in the bathroom, and a big skylight—it was the perfect interior design challenge for Jess’s imagination. Jess said that it was fitting that her first apartment was a sweatshop; it suited her sense of industry.

The last thing we carried up the stairs was Jess’s futon mattress, which we threw against the back wall beneath the skylight.

“Graduating high school meant nothing, you going to college first meant nothing, your first girlfriend meant nothing, but the first apartment in the city all your own—that’s a big deal between friends,” I said as I flopped down on the mattress.

Jess dropped down beside me.

“Jessica Giovanna Pagliazzi, you have my official admiration, envy, and undying resentment.”

“Yeah, pretty crazy, huh?” Jess said, leaning back against the wall.

“Someday I hope I’ll do it, too,” I said.

“So does your mom know yet?”

“That I’m dressing up in Nan’s Chanels and crashing galas at the Met?”

“No, that you’re not going to college.”

“Oh, that.” I took a deep breath. “She’s snooping around. She knows something is going on. I’ve got to get out of there before it blows up. Ryan is way too weird. He’s always baiting Mom, and she might have to homeschool him if they don’t take him off suspension. But why she hasn’t shut him down is even stranger.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to go to school after all? I mean, you could change your mind, right?”

“I guess. I don’t know. I can’t bear to live at home,” I said. “I wish I had more options.”

“Have you seen Jake?”

“I saw him at work. I can tell he’s moved on, and I don’t even know what to say to him. I’ve got to get out of there.”

“You know, you can actually get out any time,” Jess said.

“Yeah, sure.” I couldn’t help staring at her like she was nuts.

“You could get a place of your own if you really wanted to.”

“I couldn’t even afford a deposit, but it’s a nice thought,” I said.

“Well, you could stay here,” Jess offered. “I mean, you’ll have to pay rent after a while—when you get a job. Hell, there are plenty of restaurants and diners in Manhattan with lots better tips than the Hole.”

“Really? I wish I could…” I leaned back against the wall. “I don’t know. I just feel so adrift about everything.”

I was going ask Jess if she thought she’d come home much. But before I could say anything, she leaned toward me, and, honestly, why I didn’t see it coming is beyond me.

My eyes caught hers as she paused for a second a fraction away from my lips. It wasn’t indecision; I could tell she wanted to give me the chance to know what was about to happen. I felt her warm breath brush my cheek and then slowly our lips touched. Her breath took mine away. I closed my eyes as I felt her fingertips on my face, in my hair, pulling me nearer, and I thought about how many times we were close enough to do this but never did. It was something that had occurred to me dozens of times, but we never talked about.

When Jess came out in the tenth grade, I was the last one to know. She never confided in me, so when I found out from all of our friends, I walked right up to her in study hall and told her that it was totally cool with me that she was gay, but if she ever didn’t tell me something important like that, we were through.

“I was afraid,” Jess said at the time, “that if I told you, we wouldn’t be friends anymore.”

That’s what I was thinking while we kissed—not surprised that we were kissing but wondering why we had never kissed before. How long we kissed I couldn’t tell you, but when it was over, I just sat there for the longest time, breathless.

“Kissing is such a strange thing,” I felt compelled to say for some reason. “I don’t know about you, but I tend to avoid people’s spit, I mean…”

“It’s okay,” Jess said. “I just wanted to do that. We’re cool.”

“But I don’t…”

“You don’t have to. It’s all right,” Jess said.

“Was that something you thought about for a while or just did?”

“Thought about lots of times and don’t know why, just did, now.”

“Oh,” I said, and just sat there. “A lot of times?”

“Yeah,” she said, and we both laughed.

“Wow, so that’s what it’s like.”

“Kinda.” Jess stood up, breaking the moment. “Well, I guess, we better get your car.” She put her hand out to help me off the futon.

“Yeah, we should,” I said, feeling disoriented as she helped me up and somehow disappointed that we weren’t going to talk about it more.

“Right, and I better get to class,” Jess said. “Let’s get the Beast out of hock, and you can drop me off at FIT on your way home.”

“Yeah, sure.”

Jess opened the closet and grabbed a Chanel jacket that she had reworked to make the waist more shapely. Then she plucked out a pair of jeans on a hanger.

“I scored some True Religions that were on loan to the school for a photo shoot that I have to return first thing Monday. I’m pretty sure they’re your size. You’ll be quite the fashionable shoppette,” she said, smiling. “I threw in some shoes I’ve been working on, too.”

I grabbed our backpacks as Jess locked up, wishing we were still on her mattress sitting together, talking. We walked down the stairs, and she stopped like there was something she forgot.

“Hey listen,” Jess said. “I mean it. If you need a place in the city and want to keep your stuff here, like the dresses, I can still work on them. And if you do, you don’t have to…”

“No. Sure. I get it. I’m fine,” I said, not knowing what I really felt, wondering if I ever would.

“Good. And hey, you know, I’m getting my own line together, and I need your help. I’m going to do this thing, a show, my term project at FIT. It’s going to be pretty fierce, but I can’t do it without you.”

“Sure.”

“Maybe you can get some of your fancy friends to come?”

Yeah, I thought, me and my fancy friends.

31

I stared at the text on my phone for most of my morning shift at the Hole.

“Whr shd Mocha pick u up ?! :)”

Tabitha, the Princess of Pop, beckoned. I had never felt more like Cinderella than that day at the Hole—the bad side of being Cinderella—the part where she’s on her hands and knees in the fireplace, cleaning out the cinders and ashes that were her namesake. Buela was in a terrible mood. I had missed two shifts, and it felt like she was punishing me. I spent an hour and a half of the morning refilling all the caked-up ketchup and mustard bottles.

I spied Jake on the other side of the diner. He purposely turned the other way and wouldn’t meet my eye. I tried to talk to him twice in the freezer when I ran into him, but he only nodded. I couldn’t help remembering his unexpected kisses. Before, he would have helped me with the ketchup bottles, but not this time. We seemed worlds apart.

Then there was the new girl, Crystal. She was totally put together in that Jersey way, with heavy makeup, cosmetically perfect teeth, plucked eyebrows, spray-bronzed skin, thick accent, and a great bod. I grew up respecting girls like Crystal because, contrary to popular belief, they aren’t necessarily promiscuous, no matter how they dress, and they are smart and tough.

Crystal took all of Jess’s shifts and was scoping everybody out. High on her list was Jake. She was already hip to the fact that there was something between us—just because he wouldn’t look at me. My phone buzzed again.

“Can’t wait 2 see you darling ;) what time is Mocha comin ?”

My shift ended at 1:30 P.M. How could I turn down a Fifth Avenue shopping spree with the fabulous Tabitha Eden? I already had the modified couture combo in the garment bag that Jess had given me. It’s not like I would ever get to wear that anywhere else.

“2:30 ?” I texted back.

For years I’d surfed the endless pictures of Paris and Nicky, Kim and Kourtney, the Olsen twins, and everyone else dressed in their latest as they balanced an avalanche of shopping bags from Jeffrey’s, Chanel, Lanvin, Alice and Olivia, and others on Rodeo Drive, Fifth Avenue, or Oxford Street. The ritual of the celeb shopping trip was as much about what you wore as what you bought. This could be my only chance to see what it was like.

Buela had her eye on me, so I had to look busy. I kept moving, covering my tables, cleaning, and finding little projects like restacking the to-go containers behind the counter. My phone buzzed.

“Soooo where ?” Tabitha texted.

Since Jess’s East Broadway address was too downscale and I hadn’t yet found that friendly Manhattan doorman I might talk into fronting for me, my first thought was a hotel lobby, something on the Upper East Side. If I could find an address near a hotel, I could step out as Mocha arrived.

I watched the last few moments tick by on the diner clock. At 1:30 P.M. sharp, I punched out my time card and grabbed the garment bag from the locker. Buela gave me the evil eye for being quick to leave, but I kept going.

*   *   *

The Mark Hotel on Seventy-seventh and Madison was described on its Web site as “situated in the heart of Manhattan’s most elegant neighborhood.” I figured that would do and texted Tabitha.

“16 E 77 ST.”

That address was just a few doors down from the Mark according to Google Maps. I reached the hotel a half hour early and slipped through the lobby, ducking into the bar restroom, where I changed in one of the bathroom stalls.

Unzipping the garment bag, I discovered that Jess had left me a surprise. She had transformed a pair of Nan’s Ferragamo flats from the 60s, overdyeing them in a deep, lush red and adding a small heel to match. The shoes were stunning and perfect for what I was wearing.

After a touch-up in the mirror, I emerged with my remixed Chanel and True Religions, ready for an afternoon of rampant consumerism, even if it would be only window-shopping for me. I figured there was plenty of time to be on the street and grab Mocha before he began ringing doorbells. I walked over to the Concierge to check my garment bag with my old clothes but as I took my ticket, I saw Mocha through the massive picture windows walking up to the townhouse door early.

I ran quickly to the car, hoping he’d follow. “Mocha, darling! Over here!” I yelled. But he had already pushed the buzzer. He turned, confused. If someone was home, they would be coming down, and soon it would be difficult to explain.

“My apologies, Miss Dulac,” Mocha said and hustled back to the limo to open the door.

“It’s my Nan. I don’t want to wake her,” I said. “She doesn’t quite handle the stairs the way she used to.” As I entered the limo, I almost fainted when I slid inside.

Tabitha, sitting comfortably in the back corner, had watched the whole thing.

“You’re here!” I said, barely able to disguise my confusion.

“Will she be okay?” she asked.

“Who?” I asked, sitting, hoping we could leave immediately.

“Your Nan,” she replied.

“Oh, Nan! Yes, of course … we have a nurse … yes … ole Betty, must be as old as Nan. She’ll be fine … but this is her day off. Anyway, it’s all fine.” I wasn’t sure I even knew what I was saying anymore.

Tabitha wore a blush cashmere cardigan over matching silk shorts and white Louboutins, all highlighted by the glittering rose cuff on her wrist—Tiffany’s latest metal “discovery”—RUBEDO. We’re talking seventy-five-hundred smackers for that kind of bling. I know how much it cost because they advertise it like crazy on the Tiffany’s Web site. In her arms, she was holding a white slipper of a dog that perfectly matched her shoes that I recognized from her publicity shots: Galileo, a Pomeranian.

As we drove away, I stole a glance back at the townhouse entrance, where a very annoyed elderly man opened his door to no one at all.

“Is there a problem?” she asked.

“Oh, no, everything’s fine,” I said and wondered if I had blown it. Tabitha seemed subdued. I realized I sounded heartless about Nan, even though everything was utterly fabricated.

“I hope you don’t mind,” Tabitha said quietly. “We need to go somewhere first.”

Galileo barked.

That didn’t sound good.

32

Tabitha was silent. There was definitely a bad vibe in the limo, which made my mind race and my stomach ache. I was the most weak-willed poseur ever. I started to panic. Was Tabitha experiencing one of her mood swings?

“You know, darling,” I said, summoning my inner Audrey, “if you need to go somewhere and it’s not convenient, we could shop later.”

“I’d rather not,” she said. Her tone of voice reminded me of the time in the bathroom when she demanded to know who I was, severe and regal despite her dress being up around her ears. It occurred to me that she was most arrogant when she had something to hide.

“I have to go to the studio first.”

“The recording studio?” I asked.

“Yes, I’ve been avoiding it,” she answered. “But I need to tell you something.” I folded my hands in my lap and tried to remain composed and calm. “I need someone there with me, and I wasn’t sure you’d come along if I told you first.”

I tried to think of some way to respond. There was a long pause before she spoke again.

“You might as well know the night you showed up, I had taken a shitload of pills. I was trying to kill myself,” she continued. “That would have been a great TMZ story, right?” She seemed as if she might fall apart. The image of her beaded purse on the bathroom floor flashed through my mind. I remembered fishing for lip gloss and finding all those bottles of pills.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know…”

“It should have worked. I did some blow, too, but it made me throw up.”

I became keenly aware of Mocha in the front seat. The glass partition was closed, but couldn’t he be listening? How much did he know?

“Then you showed up out of nowhere,” she said. “I had the pills. I would have taken more, but you were there and you helped me. No one else would have.”

I felt bad for her, and at the same time I felt like a total liar.

“I know who you really are,” she said, and I froze, suspended, unable to breathe, waiting for what might come next. “You’re an angel. Someone somewhere wanted me to survive, and I know with you here now, I will.”

I let out an audible sigh, exhaling sharply despite my desire to be unobtrusive.

“I don’t understand,” I said, trying to take the focus off me. “Why did you feel you needed to do such a thing to yourself? You have everything,” I added quietly, “to live for.” Tabitha rolled her eyes, annoyed, like it was the dumbest thing to say.

“Because I hate every single thing about my life,” she said, her eyes tearing up, trying to hold it back. She turned and stared out the window again. “You probably can’t understand because you don’t live your life pretending to be someone you’re not.”

My brain felt like a piece of paper that someone had ripped in half. If anybody in this car was a phony, we all know who would get the prize. The contradictions were too great. Galileo licked the tears off Tabitha’s face.

“I feel like such a fake,” she said.

“Your fans don’t seem to feel that way,” I remarked. Including me, I wanted to add.

Tabitha shook her head and practically snorted in disgust. “I was counting on Mother to put a stop to this, but now I have to go back into the studio to record another album. They won’t let me stop, even though I told them I wouldn’t tour. I totally freaked out on stage last time.”

“What do you want to do?” I asked.

Tabitha made a sad laugh. “I wanted to go to veterinarian school and work in an animal shelter.” I worried she might burst into tears again. “I like animals.” No way.

I squeezed her hand. “So why didn’t you?”

“Are you kidding? They weren’t about to let me become an unglamorous vet in this family. They’d have to get Donna Karan to design my veterinarian scrubs.”

She was so grim that I wasn’t sure if she was kidding. “Tabitha Eden: celebrity veterinarian,” I said. Tabitha laughed. “Well, why can’t you do what you want now?”

“You’d be surprised what I can’t do. Too many people decide what I get to do. I feel awful. Ever since I can remember, I’ve always felt awful. I know one second I’m fine, smiling, and then I can barely say hello. Like I’m not even a person, and everyone in the room knows. One minute, I can see myself in the mirror, and the next, the mirror shatters and I’m gone, and there’s no way to get myself back. And I think, maybe everyone is that way, but I know they’re not. You’re the only one I know who doesn’t seem to be weirded out around me.”

I tried to think of what I could say, but we heard Mocha over the intercom. “Excuse me, Miss Eden, we’re here.”

Tabitha nodded and turned to face me.

“Lisbeth, you’re my angel. You appeared out of nowhere to rescue me. You have to help me.” Her eyes said everything—sadness, desperation, and the tiniest hope that I could change her life. Boy, did she have the wrong girl.

“I’ll do whatever I can,” I answered.

33

Max, Tabitha’s guitarist, stood outside the studio entrance smoking a cigarette, bored as usual.

“Are they pissed?” Tabitha asked, wiping away the last of her tears as we made our way inside.

“Why? Because you’ve kept them waiting two and a half hours? Nah, they have their toys to play with.”

As we entered together, Galileo leapt from Tabitha’s arms and ran ahead. The receptionist, bookish in black-rimmed glasses with multicolored tattoos on her arms and neck, introduced herself as Brit.

“Hello, Miss Eden, you’re in studio A today,” she said. “Can I get you a Pellegrino, cappuccino, lemonade, or…?”

“I’ll take a lemonade with tequila,” Tabitha answered without stopping as she pushed open the studio door. I guess when life gave Tabitha lemons, she couldn’t help grabbing the tequila and salt.

Upon entering studio A, we were met by a massive wall of sound—bright, bubbly pop with a driving shake-your-body bottom beat. I knew the patented Tabitha Eden signature sound, and it felt like entering a club. I wanted to dance, but the music stopped abruptly as Tabitha entered.

“The Princess of Pop has arrived!” said a guy, younger than me, as we walked in. He seemed like an intern but wasn’t acting like one. He had dark curly hair and the kind of beard a guy grows when he can’t grow one. He seemed to be a mix of Latino and Jewish. His warm welcome put me instantly at ease. Galileo barked at him.

“Hey Bennie, this is my friend Lisbeth,” Tabitha said. “Bennie and his partner, Dr. K, are the geniuses behind every hit song I’ve ever made. The best producers money can buy. Hard to believe for a twerp, right?”

“You’re too kind, Tabby,” Bennie said, mildly amused. “Nice to meet you, Lisbeth. Welcome to the madness.”

Brit entered with Tabitha’s drink and placed it on the table in front of her. She grabbed it and took a long draw.

“Kind of early for the tequila gargle?” Bennie chided.

“It’s for my voice,” she said and gave him a defensive scowl. “Don’t give me shit just because you’re too young to buy alcohol legally.” She noticed me watching and became a little self-conscious.

“You don’t want to let her drink alone, do you?” Bennie asked. “Hey, Brit, get my girlfriend Lisbeth a drink, too.”

“No thanks,” I said, grabbing a bottle of water off the bar for myself. “I’m good.”

“Cool, then come on. While Tabitha warms up, I’ll introduce you to da crew,” Bennie said, crossing his arms in a mock rapper’s pose. I couldn’t help laughing.

Designed like a small amphitheater, the studio had a massive soundboard in the middle with automated sliders, buttons, and blinking LEDs, and at the bottom was a big glass room for musicians and singers. As we descended the levels to the main area, I noticed the framed gold and platinum CDs on the wall, four of them Tabitha’s.

“This is where we make the hits,” Bennie chuckled. “Straight-up hits and nothing but hits.” He walked me right up to the enclosed glass room. Inside, there was a piano, guitars, and microphones. Three backup singers sat around music stands in the corner. There was a big black girl; a skinny white girl with lots of tats, angel bites, and other piercings; and a short Latina with her hair beaded and braided. They were laughing and singing, but we couldn’t hear them.

“Those girls inside the fishbowl are our secret weapon—the backup babes, especially Oleta; she’s our gospel diva,” Bennie said. “They make us all look good. They give us white folks soul.” Bennie tapped the window, and the three girls waved back. Oleta threw him a kiss.

The main room was strewn with lots of coffee cups and Chinese food containers. It was pretty clear that everyone had been working for quite some time while waiting for the Princess of Pop. There were laptops plugged into the main board and mini keyboards everywhere. Every few minutes, we would hear a bouncy beat or a mean riff being played, but everything was on a computer or prerecorded in some way. As far as I could tell, no one was playing an actual instrument. I guessed Max was only there for emergencies.

Tuning and adjusting the sliders and knobs on the enormous soundboard in the middle of the room was this superserious guy, tall and thin, wearing red Converse sneakers, light-gray jeans, a gray shirt, and a pencil-thin black tie.

“Come on, guys, let’s finalize your kicks and synths so I can run the premix,” he demanded. “I’ve got another session after this.” The three engineers working with him scuttled about.

“And this is my partner, Dr. K,” Bennie said. “He’s not as nice as I am. Or as talented or as handsome.”

“I can see that,” I said and giggled. Dr. K rolled his eyes and managed a tepid smile.

“Come on, Bennie,” he said. “Let’s do this.”

“Thanks for the tour,” I said. “I don’t want to get in the way. I’ll find my way back up to the couches and chairs at the top.” He did a funny bow as I left.

Tabitha was walking down as I made my way up. I stopped and gave her a hug, but she was already in her tough-ass mode and didn’t seem to need it. She joined Dr. K at the big soundboard. He gave her a set of headphones and seemed to be teaching her the song that they had already written and produced the tracks for.

“It won’t work,” I overheard her say. And then a few moments later, “That’s not what I want to do.”

They seemed to be arguing over the song. Dr. K would try to convince her, and although there was a give-and-take, from my vantage point, she seemed to always get her way. Bennie occasionally joined in to mediate and keep everyone cool.

Up top near the entrance, I sat down next to Max, who appeared to be nodding off. Right behind us was a craft-services table on the back wall, loaded down with fresh fruit, sandwiches, cookies, a full bar, and enough sweets to stock Dylan’s Candy Bar for a week. Seriously, there was more food than at my house and almost as much alcohol.

“Okay, this is what I’ll do,” I heard Tabitha say as they seemed finally to have reached an agreement. Tabitha stood up, and Bennie escorted her to a booth inside the glass room separate from the backup girls. As the mics were turned on, I could hear Tabitha say hi to the girls. They were all very accommodating and sweet, treating her as if she was part of their sorority.

On Dr. K’s cue, Tabitha sidled up to the microphone, the way I’ve seen her do in a dozen music videos, and started to sing. But her voice was thin, even slightly off-key. Not the full-throttle vocals that I’ve listened to. I mean, I knew kids in my high school choir and had seen many others on YouTube who could sing better. Dr. K stopped her and asked her to try it again.

I peeled the label off my water bottle bit by bit as Dr. K asked her to try again and again, my image of Tabitha Eden, the big-voiced power singer who hit the money notes with phrasing and emotion, crumbling before my eyes.

“So you’ve never actually had the pleasure of hearing Tabitha sing?” Max asked behind me. He wasn’t asleep after all and must have seen how taken aback I was. I didn’t know what to say.

“It’s not really any worse than the others … Katy or Kesha,” he said. “Or Fergie, for that matter. Ever watched those YouTube vids of Britney with her onstage mic turned on? I was her lead guitarist on that tour.”

“So how does it … get better?” I asked, glad that we were outside Tabitha’s earshot.

“Auto-Tune—it’s like plastic surgery for music, and Bennie usually has some magic synths he comes up with that make it better. But even the good singers would never be able to dance in concert without Auto-Tune.”

Tabitha glanced back at me, and I smiled as if everything was great.

“But then if everyone does it, why does she feel so bad about it?” I asked him.

“She shouldn’t. Auto-Tune is like an effect that enables her to sing. She just hates the biz. I mean, they drive her hard, but I think they’re worried if she stops she’ll go off the deep end. And then she’s a brand, everyone’s making so much money, why stop?”

“Hold on, Tabitha,” said Bennie. “I’ve got a new synth I want you to try.” Bennie patched his laptop into the main console, and Dr. K pushed a few buttons. Tabitha nodded and began to sing, but this time it had an even richer texture and was much closer to the voice that I knew from her recordings.

Dr. K brought in the backup singers on the following take. Seemingly out of nowhere, Oleta burst into a rising gospel countermelody and the music came alive with soul, giving the song a feeling it didn’t have otherwise. She provided the emotional force that drove the melody, and she knew just exactly how to rock it with her voice, even cracking on the beat. The room was awash in sound—bubbly, infectious, maddeningly danceable, and suddenly soulful. Even Max couldn’t help tapping his feet. Then it stopped and started all over again.

Dr. K seemed like the crazy perfectionist, and Bennie, the wild creative genius. He had a new idea every second. It was as if they were all playing chess with riffs, beats, and synths—no real instruments, no real voices beside the backup. In the end, the song would have Tabitha’s name all over it. People like me would assume it was all her.

As Tabitha removed her headset and came back into the main room, Brit, the receptionist, left Tabitha another tequila.

“Hey guys, don’t you have enough from me?” she asked after a long swallow.

“We need another double,” Dr. K said. Tabitha gave him her saddest pout. “Come on, Tabby, we want a hit, baby. Whatcha gotta do today that’s more important?” Bennie pleaded. Tabitha threw back the rest of her tequila lemonade.

“Lisbeth and I are supposed to go shopping,” she said, as if it was the most serious thing in the world. Bennie laughed. “She’s spending the money before we’ve even made it!”

“Oh, cut it out, you little twerp. If you had any balls, you would come with us and I’d buy you some real clothes, instead of that Old Navy shit you wear. But we’d have to spend some of your vast royalty income, and we all know you’re too cheap for that.”

“Owned,” Dr. K said and laughed for the first time all day.

“Okay, okay, I know when I’ve met my match. We’ll double it with Alieya,” Bennie said and the short Latina backup girl waved. Tabitha seemed to have no problem having someone else ghost perform her vocals. “But I’ll make a deal with you. If Lisbeth is here next time, I will shop with you,” Bennie added, giving a smile that I knew was just for me.

“So, can we go?” she asked, on the verge of annoyance. Bennie and the Doc traded glances.

“Sure,” Bennie said, “get out of here.”

“Ka-ching,” Max said. “Another shiny pop performance, a supercool song, and surefire hit.” That seemed perfectly true as far as I was concerned.

“I’ll be sure to let the boss know,” Doc said, returning to his soundboard.

“Yeah? Well be sure to let him know this, too…” Tabitha said, holding her middle finger up. Everyone nodded knowingly.

As Tabitha prepared to leave, Bennie bounded up the stairs and handed me his card.