She blinked rapidly, like she was having trouble assimilating what I was saying.
“You should know I have no experience as a producer. Imean, I was there for all the Concrete Temple records, obviously, and I had opinions. But I was nevertheproducer.”
The blinking continued.
“Look, Anna, you’re crazy talented. I truly believe you can make a career of this if you want to. I would be thrilled to help however I can. I admit I’m not exactly riding high on my own career right now.” Hell, maybe I should joinherband. “I know people, though. I can get your demo in front of them, and your songs will do the rest. Maybe it’s too soon. Maybe you want to finish high school first. Youshouldfinish high school, whatever happens.” Maybe I should have led with that. “But I don’t see why you can’t do both. It’s not like a record deal is going to drop in your lap tomorrow.”
“Honestly, I’m a little overwhelmed,” she said. “I’m excited, but I never thought about my life going like this. I’ve been thinking of music as a hobby.”
I thought about Tristan and his boundless sense of self-worth. I thought of Gretchen and her dancers and their theory about “girl” songs.
Had I stumbled into becoming a music-industry feminist? Was I the next Jack Antonoff? I chuckled. I could think of worse things.
“Let’s focus on what’s in front of us, why don’t we?” I suggested. “We don’t have to make any big decisions right now. Let’s just work on the new song. We’d be doing that anyway.” She had a song on the go about being the only person in a concert audience not filming the show, and it was awesome. It was a breezy, observational song on the surface, but underneath that, she was saying something about how we choose to experience—or not experience—the world. Like I said, she was a huge talent.
“Yeah, OK.” She started strumming but suddenly stopped. “Teddy?”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you.”
“No problem,” I said, though I was pumped that she was open to the idea of working toward a demo. Like, disproportionately excited. Damn. Camp had made me soft.
I was conditioned to pop a semi every time there was a knock on my door, which was awkward because although most of the time the visitor was Sourplum, occasionally it was Jack.
So when a knock came around three in the afternoon on the Saturday of the third week of camp, I untucked my T-shirt and arranged it so it covered the front of my shorts, just in case.
It was Gretchen, but she wasn’t wearing her usual spy getup. Which meant either she had dropped her devotion to the covert nature of our liaisons, or she wasn’t here for that. I was voting for option A, so I wordlessly stepped back to let her in.
“I can’t stay.”
Well, that was disappointing.
“But I got you something.” She handed me a plastic thing I couldn’t identify. It was a small white cylinder with a pump-like mechanism.
“Is this a bicycle pump for a Barbie doll? Or, no, a sex toy for Ken? I mean, he doesn’t have genitals, right? So maybe he needs some help?”
She threw her head back and cackled. It was a full-on witchy cackle. She was doing well on her crone-ification mission.
“It’s supposed to extract the venom out of mosquito bites.” She shrugged. “I went to town with Maiv this morning, and itwas in a display near the counter at the drugstore, so I impulse-purchased it.”
“That’s…” Really nice. I was tickled she had thought of me. It felt like a long time since someone besides Auden had. “Thanks.” I had to clear my throat. Damn, Iwasgoing soft: getting emotional over a mosquito venom pump.
But I was also going hard.
Life with Sourplum was confusing.
I decided to lean into the hard side of things. I was more comfortable there. I waggled my eyebrows. “You sure you can’t come in?”
She had “come in” every night this past week, late. I hadn’t been sure how weekends were going to work, but I was open to an afternoon delight.
Hell, I would do it anytime, anywhere with Gretchen. I wasn’t sure if it was this whole last hurrah/no romance thing making it feel like the stakes were low, or if we just had chemistry, but damn. The woman made me come so hard I sometimes feared I was going to damage myself. And the awesome part was, it seemed to go both ways. She was multiorgasmic, but not, like, in a performative, porny way. It was really something.
“I can’t. I’m meeting the dance girls for an extra rehearsal.”
“How’s it going?”
“Great, except for Tristan. I’m going to fire him today, actually.”
