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“There’s a guitar that a regular at the shop has been hunting for, and I found it for him, but it’s in Northern California. I was going to make the trip for him—there’s other gear to check out as well—but now the seller wants me to be there tomorrow or he’ll sell it to another buyer.” Hal owns a boutique guitar shop where he sells all the usual products plus guitar parts for the more enthusiastic players. He loves scavenging rarities for his clients. Selling the rare finds at a premium is one of his favorite things too, of course.
“Why are you so frustrated about it? Isn’t Sebastian manning the store for you most days anyway? Go and see the gear.”
Hal scowls. “Sebastian is gone for the summer.”
“Ah.” He doesn’t add, “He always is. Remember? You really need to get out of the house and your head more often,” but I hear it in his tone all the same.
“How about you babysit the shop for me?” Hal suggests.
“What? You know I have no idea how to do anything involved with that. Money, receipts, talking to customers. People in general—” I drop by Guardian of Rock now and then to chat with Hal in the back, but I’ve been avoiding the front of the shop like I’m going to catch something worse than the plague. Anyone who’s interested in playing guitar knows my dad, which means by default they know me.
Hal seems to read my thoughts. “Don’t think too much about it. Wear your glasses. Your own mother does double takes when she sees you in them.”
True. I usually wear contacts. My glasses only come out about once a quarter when I get an allergy attack or such. I want to help Hal, but the prospect of being out there for all to see,all daywith no chance of avoiding talking, sets my anxiety simmering at the base of my skull.
“Do this one tiny favor for your one and only cousin?” Hal tries his best pleading face with me. “I will open the store with you and leave you a list of all the important details. And I’ll stay available for calls, of course. Please? There is a security system in place. You could even ask Jonas to come with you.” He means our chief security, Jonas Cromwell.
“Heck no,” I grouch. “Jonas is good at what he does, but he’s a pro killjoy.”
“So you’ll do it? It’ll be good for you. And! A-a-and…” The clown that he is, my cousin raises both eyebrows in the most obnoxious wait-for-it expression and waits for me to take the bait.
I humor him. “And?”
Hal grins. “As an added bonus, I won’t call you a princess in the high tower again.”
“What an offer.” I shove him away. “Fine. But you’ll owe me one.”
Hal squeezes me in a rib-cracking hug. “I will be back before closing, I promise.”
He isn’t the only one who thinks I need to get out more. My parents do too. They fear I’m unable to handle the world at all anymore. It’s not true. I still create and write songs for other people, and I still go shopping, sometimes. Doing Hal this favor will give me more leverage in proving my parents wrong, not that I’m desperate to get them off my case. Okay, maybe I am. A little bit.
“All right, I’ll do it.” I agree even though I know I will regret it.
In fact, I already do.
Track 2
There’s a Girl
Jace
There aren’t many things that make me uneasy, but today’s schedule has one of them. It’s been two weeks since my band released our latest single, and we’re about to sit down with our manager to go over the numbers—streaming stats, show bookings, and such. I stretch my shoulders as I get out of my car and chase away the chills trickling down my spine. It’ll be fine. In five years of the band’s existence, we haven’t botched a new release. Even at our worst, we had a few interview and festival requests.
Everyone gathers at our recording label building, in one of the conference rooms with a round table, a bunch of cushy, rolling chairs, and a small lunch. My bandmates tuck into chicken salad sandwiches and chips. They’re glowing with excitement, talking about the album we’re working on. I do my best to not spin on my chair.
“I’ve never been as pumped about an album as I am about the one we’re working on now,” says Link, our singer.
Jelly, the drummer, nods. “It’s been so fun.”
“It feels like we’re in top form,” Tristan adds. He’s on the bass, and he’s almost never this agreeable. His favorite hobby is being contrary, and now my stomach’s full of lead.
The three of them turn to me, expecting a similar comment. What’s keeping me from sharing my bandmates’ enthusiasm? A simple question that’s been my constant companion for many years—will our inspiration and hard work be enough to push Project Viper off their domineering spot? I would even settle for splitting it. But the only times we rocked the same arenas and played for audiences as large as Project Viper’s were when we toured with them as their opening act. Standing in their shadow is how we gained the majority of our followers, which always made me feel like we amount to nothing on our own.
“Let’s see the numbers already,” I say and stuff half a sandwich into my mouth.
“As you wish.” Our manager, Brendt Reuben, casts his laptop view onto the screen on the wall. “You’ve been working real hard this year, and—”
None of the numbers reflect it. I scan the statistics report again and swallow a curse. The royalties look almost as pathetic as when we first started. It’s a good thing we’re on a contract. Otherwise, we’d all re-embrace the starving artist lifestyle.
