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“Sure I do!” She rummaged around in her purse and came up with a dog-eared composition book. “This one’s called ‘Jesus Tweets.’” She fetched her guitar and sang a little.
Do not be anxious,
About tomorrow.
For tomorrow,
Will be anxious for itself.
Sufficient for the day
Is its own trouble.
Please retweet me.
And follow me back.
I follow you, Jesus.
And I retweet you.
I just want you to know,
I’ve got enough.
Sufficient for this day,
Are the troubles that I own,
No need to retweet me.
Just thought you should know.
A sly look passed between Nicolet and her manager as Graciella sang, the light of avarice on both parts, and a darker light of jealousy from Nicolet.
“I think we might like to buy your songs,” the manager said.
“Really? Oh, my God!”
“We would do what’s called a simple purchase agreement. See, that way you don’t have to hire a lawyer and an accountant and a manager who will just take everything you have.”
It occurred to me that Nicolet had all those things, of course—lawyers, accountants, and a manager—but Graciella’s starlit eyes blinded her to the obvious fact that she was about to be ripped off.
“I think I can see where this is going,” I muttered.
“Let me see if this coffee shop has a printer I can use, and we’ll draw the contract up right now,” the manager said. He thumped the table for emphasis and squeezed out a big, insincere smile.
“This is going to be great,” Nicolet said, barely concealing her contempt for Graciella’s naiveté. “We’ll be a team. Like Lennon and McCartney. You write the s
ongs, I’ll sing them.”
Messenger was looking at me speculatively.
“What?” I snapped.
“What shall we do next? Learn more of Graciella’s fate, or return for now to Pete and Trent?”
It took me aback. Messenger was running the show, I was just along for the ride. Right? Was he judging my readiness?
