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“We have a tough time doing that,” May added and reached for a notebook.
He snapped back to reality, and the warmth of Harper’s memory evaporated.
What was he supposed to do?
“You want me to write the notes because it’s hard for you?” he asked, working to keep his voice even.
The teens stared at the floor. The crackle of excitement seeped out of the room as an emotion took hold—an emotion he knew well.
Shame.
May tugged at one of her ringlets. “We’re kind of crap when it comes to getting out our ideas.”
“What May means is that we’re a bunch of dumbasses,” DeeDee explained.
He could not allow them to see themselves this way. But he needed more information.
“Have you always had trouble getting your ideas out?” he asked gently.
The teens nodded.
“We met in remedial English Lit class last year when we were seniors in high school,” Kai explained. “We bonded over being in the foster care system and pretty much sucking at school.”
“School was never our thing,” May continued. “We graduated by the skin of our teeth, got in a little trouble with the law, and ended up getting referred to New Beats.”
Jesus, had he not had his sister to help him get through school, he could have had the same outcome.
DeeDee brushed her pink braids behind her shoulders. “We’re trying to make it as a band, but it’s hard when the notes in our heads don’t translate to the page. It’s even trickier to go back and remember a melody after we’ve changed it a bunch. That’s why we like your wife’s Bonbon Barbie channel on LookyLoo. She breaks down reading music into manageable pieces.”
“Our dream is to be a trio like Heartthrob Warfare,” Kai added.
May twisted one of her ringlets. “But we might not make it.”
He was so much like these kids.
He held the girl’s gaze. “Why do you say that?”
“Everyone at New Beats is great, and we’ve learned a ton since we started coming here. But how can we say we’re professional musicians if we can barely read music?”
The kids looked at him like he had all the answers.
They wanted his guidance.
He couldn’t lie to them, and more than that, he understood the shame and fear.
One by one, he made eye contact with each teen. “Would you call me a professional musician?”
The kids laughed.
“Of course, you’re Landon Paige,” DeeDee answered. “You write lyrics and melodies people have loved for years and years. Your concerts sell out. You’re known across the globe.”
He stared at the young musicians, and he stood at a crossroads.
He remembered Mitzi’s words.
A calmness washed over him.
He had two choices.
