A&b

by J. C. Lillis

  A&B

  by

  J.C. Lillis

  Published by J.C. Lillis

  Copyright © J.C. Lillis, 2016

  First Kindle edition: November 2016

  Follow the author on Twitter (@jclillis)

  and visit her website at www.jclillis.com

  Cover design by Mindy Dunn

  Cover illustration by Andrea Sabaliauskas

  Ebook Formatting by Guido Henkel

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real people, places, and events is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.

  For my mother, Barbara, who speaks through songs,

  and my daughter, Rose, who writes her own.

  PART ONE

  Chapter One

  When they sentence me to the Sudden Death Studio, I’m a tiny bit scared, but I do what I always do: smile and call it a great opportunity.

  I spring up from the Stools of Peril and stride to the glass double-booth upstage, rattling off reasons why this twist doesn’t suck. Sudden Deathers get an early shot at glory. If I crush it now, it’s an easy ticket to Top 10. Keep smiling, I tell myself. It’s all good. That’s what my wrist tattoo says and you only ink permanent words on your person if you plan to live by them. Unless your tattoos are ironic, of course, in which case our road to friendship might be a bumpy one.

  Who are you, anyway?

  I sneak a look at the studio audience as the Sudden Death door slides open for me. The stage lights are so bright I can’t see your features, can’t tell who exactly I have to win over. Maybe you’re already a fan of sunshiny synthpop and big tall girls who dress like weirdo superheroes, and I won’t have to work too hard. Or maybe you’re picking me apart already, wondering if my cherry-red shag is a wig (it is) and if my blue-and-yellow sequined trapeze dress started out as a four-dollar bedsheet from Savers (it did).

  Whoever you are, it’s my job to make you happy. And I swear, on my stack of vintage Tera Rivera concert programs, that I will do my very best.

  I settle on the cold metal bench in my half of the booth and cross my legs in the cramped space, which is awkward when you’re six feet tall and wearing size-11 combat boots you spray-painted red in your bedroom. I can feel you guys watching. Wondering when the girl and I will size each other up through the clear partition. Because if you’ve watched this show before, you know the most diabolical thing about the Sudden Death Studio: It’s not that everyone can see you. It’s that you can see each other.

  Do it now, I coach myself. Big smile. Goofy wave.

  I deliver both of these to my fellow Sudden Deather. She responds with a cooler version of what I did: a twiddle of fingers, a grin with a glimmer of cute crooked teeth.

  Man, she’s pretty.

  Her name is Ava Alvarez and she is a skinny-ish person with thick lovely eyebrows and tortoiseshell glasses and a perfect pandemonium of curls three shades browner than her skin. She’s wearing dark-wash jeans, a royal blue tank top, those trendy Vassal boots that cost our whole month’s rent, and a fringed gray scarf printed with pigs. I saw her in the rehearsal room before the taping started and she was leaning against the wall with her blue guitar, speed-weaving lacy arpeggios like yeah, I’m brilliant, no biggie.

  Now if I were Ma, I’d already be cutting carrots into a thick stew of envy. Envy is the family tragic flaw and Ma tried her darnedest to pass it down, but fortunately I’ve followed the Gospel of Tera since I was nine years old. “Women, we’ve got to love our fellow artists,” she said in her third Rolling Stone cover story, the one that’s framed above my bed. “We’ve got to lift each other up.”

  I stare at Ava Alvarez and mentally lift her up, which I guess does something strange to my face because her eyebrows hike and she chuckles at me. Like I’m a kid who was just funny by accident.

  But it doesn’t matter.

  It’s Sudden Death.

  It’s time.

  Jaz Prentiss—America’s cool older sister for eight seasons—takes center stage in paisley cigarette pants and a vintage Prince concert tee. I stare with reverence at the back of her glitterbombed afro and whisper the sacred lines with her: Give it up for our Sudden Deathers! While we announce the other finalists, they’ll have ninety minutes to compose an original song—and compete for that last slot in our Top 16! The doors at the back of the booth psssssshhhh open and the Pop University stage managers wheel in two metal tables with all our needs: instruments, notation paper, two spiral pads, twin mugs of needle-sharp pencils.

  “And now…the assignment!”

  Jaz drags it out, mugging for the eighteen other hopefuls on the Stools of Peril and strolling slowwwwly to the empty Safety Chairs. My shaky fingers pet Rosalinda, the best keyboard a future pop superstar could have. You and me, girl, I tell her. This is what we worked for. Eight thousand hours of practice. Ma telling us not to dream too big or hope too hard. All the dead open-mic nights and near-miss auditions, all the Sunday nights in the bowling-alley party room, playing for anyone who’d listen.

  We’re here. We made it. We’ve got this.

  Jaz rips the envelope and unfolds our fate. “Ladies, your assignment isssssss…”

  Summer anthem. Empowerment anthem. Some kind of anthem. Please please please.

  “…a breakup song, and you must use the phrase ‘the saddest night.’”

  Yikes. I blow out a breath. Sad songs are not my strong suit. All the songs that saved my life make you feel like driving with the top down or dancing in your room with your best friend. Even Tera’s sad songs—all those minor-key downers from Thirteen Black Umbrellas—stay locked in a lonely playlist I bust out every six months or so, when I need a good cry. I cry for five minutes max and flush the tissues when I’m done.

  But hey, this is good. A challenge. A curveball.

  A booby trap.

  That’s Ma talking. Quiet, Ma.

  “Good luck, girls!” Jaz snaps with both hands. Twin countdown clocks in the booth light up red. “Your time starts…now!”

  Ava nods to me. I nod to her. Then I bring down a mental wall between us.

  I switch on Rosalinda, and my heart hums to life.

  ***

  When I’m writing a song, it’s the only time I know why I’m here on earth. I forget I’m Barbara Krumholtz: acknowledged dorkwad, flunker of Chem II and Algebra I, daughter of a dead comedian and a woman who scowls at puppies. I am Barrie K, First Lieutenant in Tera Rivera’s Army of Awesome. I will march into your mind and locate your landmines. I will write the song that defuses your sadness, brings back your joy. I battle the crappiness of the world for your heart, and if I triumph, we both win. I give you love and you give me love in an unbroken circle of happiness. We fill the empty spaces in each other—from a distance, so neither of us ever gets hurt.

  Breakup song. Okay. I paid close attention to breakups at Coolidge High. One time in chorus I saw Kaity give Chanelle a Breakup Survival Kit…yes. There’s my concept. I’ll flip the assignment, play to my strengths—an upbeat you’re-better-off-without-’em. Major key for sure; I don’t care how unfashionable it is these days. I fiddle with chords on Rosalinda to get a mood going and soon my reliable friend emerges: C–G–Am–F. Verses can wait. I’ll tackle my specialty first. A singalong fist-pumping chorus, the kind you hear once at the pizza place or mall and hum all the way home.

  I keep my head down and work while Jaz summons the o
ther finalists for their victory songs. Rethink. Rewrite. Repeat. Five versions of the chorus get crunched up before I hit on one that works. I decide I can’t use the word “narrative” in a pop song and redo the whole second verse. When it’s done, when I’ve sweated a gallon and bled from my brain and tweaked the melody twelve times until it feels like a lost Tera classic, I lift my eyes and glance around.

  Two minutes on the clock. Fourteen finalists on the Safety Chairs, not including the current performer: alt-country Johnny from Denver, who is a sweet person with unlikely-heartthrob potential due to his ukulele and cute potato-shaped head.

  Across from me, Ava Alvarez sits perfectly still, a single sheet of paper turned over in front of her.

  Maybe we’ll both make it. My boot heel tap-tap-taps the floor. Maybe we’ll be friends. I have casual buddies from chorus but I haven’t had a true-blue let’s-share-secrets-and-curly-fries friend since Chelsie.

  The countdown clock buzzes. I scrub everything from my mind. Chelsie. Ava. The fact that this is my fourth and final chance to make the voting rounds of Pop University.

  “The moment of truth,” says Jaz, “right after these words!”

  ***

  Commercial break. The booth doors psssshh open. We step onstage and I flood with nerves and sunshine; I am happy, so happy, and also I might throw up. Stage Manager Em stands us a foot apart while the crew bustles back and forth: testing mics, setting up our instruments on twin platforms. My toes jitter in my boots. I smooth my dress and do shoulder-rolls. When I glance to my left, Ava Alvarez is watching me, her chin tipped up and her mouth hitched to one side.

  “Hi,” I say.

  “You’re the FARG,” she says.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Fun Awkward Relatable Girl.” Her sparkly letter-A hairpin bores a sharp beam of light in my eye. “They’ll slap labels on us as soon as we play. Might as well beat ’em to it.”

  She’s got cool intense confidence, the kind that makes me feel like a big red balloon zigzagging a room and farting all its air out. “So what’s your label?” I ask her.

  “I’m going with PIG.”

  My face makes a question mark.

  “Passionate Illustrator of Gloom.” She taps her blue guitar. “Sadness is my specialty.”

  I smile. “Too bad about the acronym.”

  “Why? I’m obsessed with pigs. They’re smart. Determined. Ever try to separate a four-hundred-pound hog from a corncob?”

  “I have not.” I feel my smile turn weird. If you want to know what that looks like, just Google WEIRD SMILE and you’ll see a cat with human teeth making the same exact face. I crack my knuckles, a bad habit I thought I’d quit for good.

  “Nervous, huh,” says Ava.

  “Aren’t you?”

  “Nah, there’s no point. Who are your influences?”

  “I—I mean, Tera.” I’m blushing. “Tera. Always. And Robyn, P!nk, Beyoncé, Linda Perry, Holly Knight, Allee Willis, Cyndi Lauper, Kelly Clarkson, sometimes Sia but not her super-sad stuff…” When I’m anxious, my mouth runneth over. “How about you?”

  She shrugs. “Everyone. And no one.”

  That was a way better answer.

  “I need to tell you something, FARG.”

  “Okay.”

  Ava tugs my arm. I duck so she can whisper in my ear. She smells faintly of lemon-sage hotel shampoo.

  “I can tell you’re desperate to win. I am too, but I’m hiding it better. Your desperation’s amping up your Awkward, and it’s crushing your Fun and Relatable.”

  “Okay.”

  “I recommend three deep breaths and a less deranged smile.”

  “Thanks…?”

  “Just trying to help you.”

  I give her a careful, non-deranged smile. “Why would you do that, if you’re desperate to win?”

  “Because winning means shit if it’s not a fair fight.”

  Stage Manager Steve rushes up. “Sixty seconds, Ava! On the platform, go go go!”

  “It’ll be fair,” I tell her. “Trust me.”

  I hold out my hand. She grips it so hard her ring bites my palm, but I keep myself steady and return her gaze. I won’t get thrown off. I am strong and invincible. She’s an interesting person, my sister in music, and I wish her all the best.

  “Let’s do this,” says Ava.

  And then she does.

  She springs up on her platform and steps into the spotlight while Jaz introduces her. She slings on her blue guitar, arranges her lyric sheet. The second she starts fingerpicking a tragic minor chord, the whole room holds its breath.

  Danny, on the saddest night, two worlds in firelight split their seams, scattered dreams in the wild grass

  How did you pass me?

  I’m a motorcycle, not a carousel, a riptide trapped in your souvenir shell

  A living ghost in your machine, I whisper ask me, ask me, ask me…

  Her song shouldn’t work. She crams too many words in, rushing them together like a sad auctioneer, and I count maybe two hooks instead of the six or seven you need to keep folks from changing stations. But Ava Alvarez has It. Her voice sounds famous already: familiar but distinctive, raspy but sweet. Her words are too weird for my mind to grasp; they aim for the heart instead, slamming my chest and jolting my saddest memories back to life. And the guitar. Wow. The way she makes a waterfall of notes with just her fingers, no guitar pick. I’ve never seen anyone play like that, especially not someone my age.

  BIG WHOOP, CLASSICAL TRAINING. The words zing into my head. FUCKING RICH GIRLS, RIGHT?

  Uh-oh.

  Here I must pause to introduce someone else, because that wasn’t me. That was Evil Barrie, the tiny jealous jerk who lives in the basement of my brain and spits rusty nails and green poison.

  I was worried she might show up.

  I slam the door on her and lock it tight.

  Ava’s song ends to a rush of applause and she bows to the crowd—not a full bow, a grateful dip of the head. Her spotlight fades and she sits down on her platform, her insides probably sizzling with job-well-done pride, and I know how that feels, and I am happy for her.

  LIKE HELL, Evil Barrie yells though the door.

  I ignore this. Refresh my smile.

  HER VOICE IS BETTER THAN YOURS, roars Evil B. AND HER SONG IS TEN TIMES MORE ORIGINAL.

  I won’t listen. I refuse. Don’t question every note: She’s got her own thing. You do you.

  “Barrie K from Carney, Maryland,” says Jaz. “Time to face the judges!”

  I swallow hard. A spotlight blares on the platform next to Ava’s. I step up with a friendly wave, hoping the sweat on my palms isn’t catching the light. It’s all good, I tell myself, but all I feel is the heat of the lights and your eyes eyes eyes all over me. My stomach does an octave-drop. The wig tape I bought at that discount beauty shop feels itchy and melty. I’ve performed for you so many times in my head that I forget we’re not friends yet, that you’re strangers waiting for me to do something worthy of your love.

  “You okay, baby?” says my favorite voice on the planet. “You look a little green.”

  I glance up. For the first time all night, I let myself see HER.

  Tera Rivera is here, fifteen feet away, radiating light at the head of the judges’ table. Her hair is a scribble of hot pink this season. She’s forty-two now but you’d never know it; she’s still the most beautiful person on earth, a synthpop superhero with happyface tattoos on her thick biceps and a bright magenta halter that sets off her golden-brown skin.

  “Barrie K.” Tera gives me the smile I’ve dreamed of forever. “Show us your stuff.”

  She sees me. She knows my name. All the things I want to say tangle up in my throat. I was you five Halloweens in a row. You changed my life, taught me to write, helped me stand straight and love every inch of my body.

  “Ready when you are,” she says.

  I mirror her smile. And I
do what I do in my tiny bedroom when I face her pictures on the wall: I hold my head high and look in her eyes. I sing like it’s just her and me, and I’m telling her everything I want her to know. My voice is naturally bell-clear and strong (the kind Tera calls “too cabaret”), and I’ve worked hard to give it different colors, subtle shadings like hers. By the prechorus, me and Rosalinda have you guys toe-tapping. Head-bobbing. Just a little, but enough.

  Then I bust out my chorus.

  So this is your breakup survival kit

  I’ll put you back together so your pieces fit

  Girl I’m gonna patch you up and you’ll be okay

  I’ll drive you from the saddest night to the brightest day…

  I give it every single thing I have, headbanging so hard my wig tape loosens on one side. The front row starts clapping along, and then it spreads; half the audience joins in by the time I hit the key change, and when I’m done the synchronized claps break into a storm of applause.

  I did it.

  A grin spreads across my face. I want to fist-pump a little but that would be bad; I conducted an analysis of the Pop University forums last year, and blatant displays of confidence read as arrogance 93% of the time in female contestants. I keep my smile in the happy-but-modest realm. Inside, though? Fireworks. Confetti showers. This is the best moment of my life.

  Writing catchy pop songs is a super-minor superpower, but it’s mine.

  I glance at Ava. Good job, she mouths. I hope we both make it—they did that once before, in Season 5. I rock on my heels while Tera murmurs with the other judges: her mega-producer ex, C King, and country-pop star Luke Dalton. I sneak a hand up and pat my wig to make sure it’s safe.

  “Ooh, you naughty girls,” Tera says. I stand up straight and fold my hands. “Damn, you’re making our job hard tonight.”

  “Yes indeed.” C King chuckles and his five hundred braids vibrate. “So good. So different.”

  “It’s like foxes and chickens, and the coop’s already full,” says Luke Dalton, who probably has rum in his soda cup.