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“But would you like to TM for them?” Tori asked.
I nodded vigorously and without hesitation. I could think of few things I wanted to do more than traverse the country with the number one slot on Rolling Stone’s “100 Rock Acts Who Changed the Game.” Plus, with prolific album sales comes prolific accommodations.
The days of me sleeping in the passenger seat of a four-seater Honda Civic with the neck of a guitar digging into my skull were ending. Even though touring was exhilarating, I was still living paycheck-to-paycheck, thanks to my student loans. Working for a band as big as the Imposters would change my life. I wouldn’t have to sublet my apartment during the tour! I could pay rent up front! I could stop worrying every time my bank sent me an email!
“I’d love to,” I said breathlessly. I checked my watch; the show was about to start.
“Great, I know you have to go but check your email when you have WI-FI tonight, okay? I’ll link you up with their A&R guy, and he can send over a contract.”
“Awesome, thank you!” I hung up the phone and hustled back into the dressing room, where Lola and the band were getting ready to go onstage.
“What’s with the phone call?” Lola asked, shoving an in-ear monitor into her eardrum.
“Um, I think my life just changed.”
Two weeks later, I was about to embark upon what I was pretty sure was the rest of my life.
To celebrate, my mom, my best friend Allison, and her mom Abbie arranged a going-away dinner for me. How they managed to find a life-size cut-out of every member of the Imposters was beyond me.
My mom, Mikki, lived in a ranch-style bungalow in Pasadena, though she’d tell anyone who asked she lived in L.A. She was a typical hippie mom: a devout fan of NPR, farmers’ markets, and reusable tote bags.
She decided to celebrate my departure by cracking open a bottle of natural wine and grilling veggie skewers. The four of us sat around a wooden picnic table she found at a yard sale. The air was heavy with the scent of blooming flowers. She’d strung fairy lights between the treetops.
“I wonder what they’ll be like,” my mom said. She was a petite woman in her late fifties, with a silver shag haircut and vibrant green eyes. Tonight, she wore a pair of track shorts and an old Imposter’s T-shirt that she’d cut the sleeves off. She struggled to light the grill.
“Hot. I think the answer is hot,” my best friend Allison replied.
We’d been best friends since elementary school, and our moms became best friends as well. While I was quiet and reserved, Allison was naturally outgoing. She wore her bleach-blonde hair in a blunt bob that framed her large, blue eyes. She was studying fashion.
Today, she wore a crop top that she’d crocheted herself and denim cut-off shorts. Allison walked over to my mom’s side and helped her light the grill. It sparked, and they high fived.
Allison’s mom, Abbie, hooted as she poured herself a glass of wine. Abbie was both mine and Allison’s elementary school art teacher. She never met a cardigan she didn’t like and swore byusing egg cartons as paint pallets. Her house was a riot of color and plants, and she staunchly refused to retire.
“Well, Al, we know they’re hot! We all have eyes!” Abbie gushed. It was not lost on me that my mom and Abbie became friends because they were, essentially, middle-aged Imposters fangirls. I’d been reminded of that fact more and more as they begged me to FaceTime them while I was on tour.
“They’re just people,” I reminded them for the umpteenth time as I poured myself a glass of wine.
My mom stared at me like I’d cussed her out. “How dare you!”
“Priya is a goddess!” Abbie asserted.
“And that guitar player, what’s his name? Vince?”
“Oh, Vince,” Abbie cooed as she mimed swooning.
Though admitting it would make my mom disown me, I was unimpressed by Vince, the Imposter’s guitarist- a sex-crazed shithead with a Stratocaster. My plan for him was to steer clear; the last thing I needed was to get involved with a walking STI wearing leather pants.
“Don’t get me started! He still looks so good!” my mom squealed.
I rolled my eyes.
“He’s just a person,” I reiterated.
“How is it that I’ve raised the most boring person in rock and roll?” my mom mused as she set the veggie skewers in front of us.
“I’m not boring! I’m being realistic. We all know you have a highly romanticized version of the music industry,” I shot back.
“I think you can romanticize this a bit. This is cool as hell!” Allison said.
