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James: Yep. Not a one.
Isaiah: James, there are going to be over twenty shows. And you’re over there crushing it as a big shot professor and conductor at the academy, aren’t you?
James: I so am. Which means that they have to let me go wherever I want, because they need me.
Isaiah: That’s not how that works, that… Dude, the way that your brain works, I swear…
James: What? Because I’m important and I know it?
Isaiah: You are important, that’s true, but…
James: Oh relax, I’m not important in the grand scheme of things, I am well aware. Just, you know, important to music, art and in general, in the cultural development of humanity.
Isaiah: Wow. Humble much?
James: I know. I am.
Isaiah: Right. On that note, I gotta go crash. The adrenaline has left me an empty shell.
James: As it has us all. Good night, bro.
Isaiah: Good night, lil bro.
James: It’s not night here and I’m not little.
Isaiah: But you are my lil bro.
James:Foutre le camp, hein?
Isaiah: Nice language.
James: Pardon my French.
four
I chuckle but I don’t give James the satisfaction of sending LOL or any other reaction. I turn my phone off and head inside. Hopefully the crowds will clear soon and we can get to our cars and then home. Well, to my hotel, and then I can fly home to Malibu tomorrow.
But even chatting with my brother for these few minutes has somewhat lifted the heaviness from my chest. It feels lighter, normal. Er. Normaler. It hasn’t felt normal since the dayshebroke it.
“Good show,” one of the hair-dressers smiles down at me as she’s rushing by.
“Thanks, Sookie.”
I flop on the couch, and lean my head back on Jude’s lap.
…
In the car, on the way to my hotel, bundled in layers of coats and blankets to keep the adrenaline crash cold away, I check mom’s chat in case she has sent me anything.
The city sparkles past my car’s window as my driver speeds down Fifth Avenue. The sky is trying to turn pink with dawn, but it can’t decide between sleeting or snowing or just blowing down a dry, vicious, New York Christmas Eve frost. I take a photo of Bergdorf Goodman’s holiday window display to send to my mom. I have no social media apps on my phone—or anywhere else, for that matter—but I smile as I remember how I used to post on twitter when I was a teen and tag her so that she would see them.
Never again. Mom is so much more famous than I will ever be, and I don’t say that lightly. I may be attracting crowds of rabid fans, but mom is an actual, important musician. She’s like James, except that she has been a Julliard professor for twenty something years already. I remember thinking,‘note to self, don’t tag mom on twitter or it will go viral within seconds’. Last night, before the show, Skye told me that he tweeted about my show on my account, and it got a few thousand retweets, which he was pretty happy about. So, just to burst his bubble, I told him to post ‘Happy Holidays, mom’ and tag her.
It had 3 million likes and 1 million retweets a few minutes later. His jaw fell open, I saw it. It was so funny, but I knew this would happen.
The woman is a legend. And I’m a fraud.
And even the internet knows it.
