I give him a thumbs-up, then open my jaw wide, and one falls out. I roll my eyes at him, and he gives me a weary look.
He tinkers with them for a moment, his fingers soft and careful against my skin. But whenever I open my mouth, they fall out.
“Next,” he says, and we go through the same thing two more times.
The third of the four pairs he got from Dr. Reed feels much better than any of the others. Patty presses play, and I start singing as I make exaggerated movements with my mouth. It isn’t till I start jumping around that they get loose, but that, I can understand.
I sit next to him at the desk. “These’ll work for now,” I say.
“That’s all I’m asking,” he says. “Now let’s listen to the mix and get you more used to it.”
He presses play, and the music swarms me.
“It’s awful,” I say, wincing.
“That’s helpful.”
I kick his leg with my stockinged foot. The low hum of the engine vibrates through the seat, a quiet rhythm that charges the space between us.
“Itishelpful. Your job is to give me a mix I can work with.”
“And your job is to give me feedback I can actually use.”
“No, my job is to give my fans a great show.”
“How are you gonna do that if you don’t tell me how to improve the mix?” His eyes flash with challenge.
“Oh, I don’t know, maybe you could ask some clarifying questions? Play around with levels and see if they’re better?”
He closes his eyes in what looks like pain, but the set of his mouth tells me it’s for show.
“Is this really how the next ninety minutes are gonna go, Queenie?”
“Sugar, this is how the next six months are gonna go.”
He stands, but I grab his wrist and pull him back down with a laugh. “Oh, sit down, you big baby.”
He snorts. “Big baby? Are we on the playground? I must have missed the recess bell.”
“Ooh, that gives me an idea,” I say, scrambling to grab a pen and my notepad.
One look at you and I’m the girl in the back of the classroom.
I tap my pen on the notebook, thinking. Still thinking.
“Try ‘back of class,’” Patty says, his voice low, just loud enough to snap me from my reverie.
My eyes shoot up. “Beg your pardon?”
“You’re stuck, probably because ‘classroom’ is a clunky word. ‘Class’ is smoother.”
“It’s not clunky, it’s stylistic. Also, ‘room’ is a lot easier to rhyme with than ‘class.’”
His eyebrows flatten. “Really? What are you rhyming with ‘room’?”
I look away, irritated. “Broom. Doom. Gloom.”
“You forgot ‘flume.’”
