-Star (Bassist from Aligned Shadows)”
“A tour? You’re going on tour?” Aunt Andrea asks, her eyes narrowing.
“No, I’m auditioning for a band who is going on tour,” I say. “Well, technically I already auditioned. It was a video thing, but it looks like they liked me. Can you believe it?”
“No.”
“No?” I echo. “I guess it is a little unexpected, but the lead singer went to college in a new city and—”
“I understand the flighty behavior of musicians just fine. The ‘no’ is because I’m short-staffed at the shop already—you know this. I cannot have you gallivanting around doing God knows what with some band,” she says, shaking her head. “And that sounds highly unprofessional. Who tours without a lead singer?”
“It’s just an audition,” I say. The excitement evaporates, like the steam rising from my coffee. “I might not even—”
“Let me spare you some pain.” She cuts me off, venom rising in her voice. My shoulders shrink forward, as if making myself smaller will take the bite out of her words.
That’s never worked.
“You did fine in the video, sure. But do you really think you have the right kind of presence for the stage?”
Aunt Andrea isn’t looking at me anymore. No, her eyes slide past me to the open concept living room, where gold records are framed. The Ole Reliables—modern folk stars who left this world too soon but would never leave the hearts of the people who listened to even just one song —are proudly displayed. There are pictures of my parents and my uncle, the only member I got to know among the records. It’s a collection of candid photos and magazine covers that he helped curate. Uncle Orson passed when I was in middle school, and though he was always encouraging about my music, I understand what she’s saying without words.
You’ll never be as good as them.
She’s probably right. But, good or not, I can’t keep my fingers from tapping out the rhythm of a new song on the kitchen table.Something with an upbeat tempo, undertones of summer, of hope—a fresh start. “Are you listening to me?” she snaps, and my hands freeze. Whatever she’s been saying since “no,” I’ve mostly tuned out.
“I’ll make sure to get my shifts covered—If they pick me, and they might not. They probably won’t,” I say quietly, taking a small sip of coffee. “But they might, and so I’ll be as prepared as possible.” What if this actually happens? I can’t keep a smile from spreading across my face.
“You’ll pack your things,” Aunt Andrea says, bringing me back down from the clouds as soon as I entered them.
“Uh, what?” I choke on my drink.
I must have heard her wrong. I know things at the shop have been stressful lately—mostly because I’ve been the one working doubles—but she wouldn’t really kick me out over this, would she? It’s not like it’s the first time she’s threatened this very thing, but it’s always been in the heat of an argument.
It’s always been a bluff.
“Oh, come on!” I reach around her to reply to the email, but her grip on my computer is strong.
“I’ve been doing you a real favor letting you stay here past 18, you know that? It’s been years. You’re an adult, Marina. Me keeping you on at the shop? It’s only because no one else will hire you. I’ve been doing you a kindness, and if this is how you repay it? Pack.”
I wait for Aunt Andrea to look back up at me, but she doesn’t. “Go on,” she says, waving me off.
Maybe I was wrong. Maybe today is the day this old armchair is getting dragged to the curb.
Getting kicked out isn’t the same as being fired—fortunately and unfortunately. So, hours after shoving my life into boxes, I arrive to open The Rockstar’s Girlfriend, cringing at the flickering neon sign.
It’s a strange ode to The Ole Reliables. I used to think it was enchanting with its pink leopard print walls and loud merchandise, but my Grams has always called it a cash grab. The older I’ve gotten, the more I’ve realized she was right. Well, she’s right about most things, this included.
Nothing about the store’s décor or merchandise reflects the folk-punk style of their music, but that hasn’t stopped Aunt Andrea from capitalizing with random memorabilia for sale and on display in this disjointed boutique. I’m kicking myself for even showing up for my shift today, but if Aunt Andrea really isn’t bluffing, I’ll need the money. Knowing her, she’ll text as soon as the Wi-Fi goes out, and Jenna isn’t home to fix it…
I run my fingers along the heart-shaped guitar pick display behind the counter. They belonged to my Uncle Orson, and in all the years I’ve worked here, I’ve silently dared myself to stealjust one.
Today, the temptation is even stronger, but I resist, tapping my pen on the counter. Lyrics try to take form in my head—an original song.
The bigger question is: which one? It’s not as if I don’t have journals filled with them, but the urge to write something new is so strong.
I straighten when the bell announces a customer. My favorites are always fans of the band, always eager to share their stories of tailgating and tour stops. It can be a lot to process, but unlike the haze of social media, meeting old fans in person always feels like a family reunion.
Instead, it’s Jenna, my cousin and self-made nemesis. There were times I wished she could have been my closest friend—likea sister, bonded together through blood and loss. Instead, she’s, well…
