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After leaving two more messages just like that one, I reach the conclusion he’s blocked me. I know because I test the theory using Google Voice and his numberrings.
To think, I’d probably still have a job if I just let him hit at the office Christmas party. He was drunk off spiked eggnog; he probably would’ve given new meaning to the term minute man.
My job at the newspaper is my main source of income. What am I going to do?! It’s not like decent paying jobs around the city are eager to hire some Black girl with zero professional experience, a music degree, and a nose ring.
“Fuck,” I sigh. Then I pull up the calendar on my app to check my upcoming piano schedule. I have four clients booked for lessons this month. Not the most lucrative, but it’ll keep the cash flowing in.
And then there’s the other job. The less than appropriate one.
I was supposed to log on tonight anyway. I could put in an extra couple hours. Offer some exclusive deals. Maybe a bonus two-for-one pack. I’m mulling over the idea the whole time on the subway ride home.
Rent is due next week, and I refuse to ask for help. Not that I have many options. Granny Opal would hang up on me. Grady would tell me to work for it. Jael would try to recruit me into her line of work. And Imani’s as broke as I am, meaning I could never take from her.
I dial up my clients. It’s a short list, but a few have outstanding balances.
“Hello, Mr. Lee,” I say brightly, putting on the fake happy voice I use to appear pleasant when interacting with clients. “Hi, it’s Lyra. I was calling because I noticed you haven’t paid your latest invoice. I can resend it if you’d like—hello?Hello?!Motherfucker!”
The asshole hung up on me. Three other clients do the same.
I become familiar with the dial tone by the time the subway pulls to my stop. Two go so far as to block me. Which also means I’ve probably lost them as clients.
I almost miss getting off at my stop because I bury my face in my hands and have a mini meltdown on the subway (something everyone riding ignores since mental breaks are depressingly common on public transpo).
At the last second, I get off, squeezing through the closing subway car doors.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
It’s not supposed to be like this. Then again, when has my life ever gone as I’d hoped it would?
Nobody gives a fuck about the piano. Even my clients, most school-aged, don’t care if they learn. It’s their parents forcing them to learn how to play forcachet.
When I majored in music at Easton U, I’d been so hopeful.
Stupidly so.
The idea was I’d be some brilliant talent discovered months into post-graduation. I’d play some concert as a newcomer on the scene and an agent scouting for talent would be amazed enough to offer me representation on the spot. As a professional concert pianist (how fancy does that sound), I’d be living the life—making moneyandpursuing my dream.
That’s right. Obituaries arenotmy passion.
Granny Opal used to say if it’s too good to be true, then it definitely is.
I found that out the hard way, when I graduated Easton U and found myself typing up paragraphs about somebody who died by choking on a chicken bone.
Not the most prestigious occupation.
Nobody grows up wanting to write about death… and do the other things I do.
A sigh blows from my lungs as I drag my feet.
How the hell am I going to explain this to Taviar and Jael?!
Thankfully, Taviar’s pretty lax about the rent. He’s the high-earner of the three of us—some sort of online seller that operates a digital shop. The finer details he keeps ambiguous.
As I turn the key in the door and enter our place, I’m reminded just how little I know about what he does.
Boxes fill up the wide, open spaced apartment. It’s reminiscent of a warehouse in its construction. Chipped brick walls and exposed metal piping. Lightbulbs that go uncovered, bright and fluorescent, yet still a permanent shadow hovers along the edges of the room.
Our living room is basically his shipping center. More often than not, it’s full of stacks and stacks of boxes. Boxes he does not want Jael and I to ever touch. His biggest stipulation for us living here, in an apartment where only his name’s on the lease.
