by Emma Savant
“There’s a copy for your father to review as well,” he said. “If that’s all right with you.”
“Yeah, of course,” I said. I handed the copy to Dad and began reading the contract.
It was fairly standard. He would represent me for two years, at which point we’d re-evaluate. He agreed to be available to me, direct my bookings, give me advice, and promote my best interests. In exchange, I agreed to actively pursue my career, not enter into agreements with other entities, and let him manage my professional commitments. For his work, I would pay him twenty percent of my earnings.
The contract went on for pages and pages, and I read every word. Our food arrived, and I kept reading. Dad, of course, skimmed, and then picked at his food and waited impatiently and for me to be done.
“It looks good,” I said. “There’s a section where it says you get to decide my road manager if I go on tour. I want veto power on that. I’ll basically end up living with whoever it is and I need to be sure we can work together.”
Mr. Rumpel nodded. “Fair enough,” he said. He held out a hand and I gave him the contract. He found the section I’d mentioned and held his hand over it. I watched the letters on the page rearrange themselves. He handed it back to me for approval.
Artist shall have authority to approve or reject the appointment of a road manager. If the candidate is rejected, Manager shall make a new appointment, to be approved or rejected by Artist.
“Perfect,” I said. “Thanks. Dad, you have anything to add?”
“Looks good to me,” he said. “That twenty percent—it’s standard, is it?”
I felt heat begin to creep up my neck. We both knew how much a manager could expect to charge. Why quibble over details?
“Twenty is the rate I charge all my clients,” Mr. Rumpel said.
“It’s standard,” I said, shooting Dad a sharp look.
He shrugged, as if to say Can’t fault me for trying. “It looks good to me, then,” he said.
“Excellent,” Mr. Rumpel said. He reached into his suit pocket and pulled out a gold pen. “It’s magically binding. Breach of contract sends us to the Faerie Court. Nothing unusual.”
“Of course,” I said.
I signed on the line, Dior Miller, the liquid gold ink making my name appear fresh and sparkling.
August took Dad’s copy of the contract back and held the two packets of paper together. A faint light sparkled around them, subtle enough to not be noticed by the Humdrum patrons around us, and he handed the copy back to me. The alteration about the road manager had updated, and my signature was there, silver this time and just as glittering.
Tingles rushed up and town my body.
My future had begun.
“I think this calls for a celebration,” Mr. Rumpel said. He flagged down our waiter. “A bottle of wine, please. Best you’ve got.”
Suddenly starving, for food and for life, I dug into my meal. It had cooled while I’d been reading, but a quick touch to my wand, buried in a pocket of my skirt, solved that. The wine came and it was better than wine usually was, rich and hinting at celebration.
“I’ve been doing a lot of traveling lately,” Mr. Rumpel said. “Do you like to travel, Dior?”
“Very much,” I said. “I haven’t gotten to do much in the last few years except for the Cassidy tour, but I like it.”
“What about internationally?”
“I did a couple performances in Japan a few years ago,” I said. “And Dad and I went on vacation to Italy not long after that.”
That had been back when we could afford it, before the royalty and performance payments had stopped trickling in. The Cassidy tour had been a godsend. It wouldn’t pay for an elaborate vacation, but it would cover rent for a while.
Having the bills paid felt like a vacation now—if anyone needed evidence that teen pop sensation Dior Miller had become an adult, that had to be the biggest proof I could give them.
“I have such a fondness for Italy,” Mr. Rumpel said. “My grandmother came from Sicily, and I like to go back now and again and visit.”
“Do you still have family there?” Dad said.
“A few cousins,” he said. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen them. I’ve been down in Latin America more often than not the past few years.”
“That’s on my list of places to visit,” I said. “My mom was from Venezuela.”
“I was going to ask about that,” August said. “You have quite an exotic look.”
Inwardly, I cringed. The number of times I’d heard that word—from Humdrums, usually ones who were awkwardly trying to compliment me—was enough that I felt like I could never hear it again and be perfectly fine.
“I’m not exotic, I’m Latina,” I said. I looked down at my plate and speared a piece of eggplant.
“Do you speak Spanish, by chance?” Mr. Rumpel said. “Perhaps we could do a tour through South America eventually.”
“Barely,” I said. “Just enough to make small talk with fans.”
August tilted his head at me, eyes narrowed. “Sospecho que sabes más de lo que piensas,” he said. It took me a second to process the words, something like I suspect you know more than you think.
“Lo dudo,” I said dryly. I doubt it.
He laughed, and I felt a slight glow of pleasure that I’d triggered that.
“You’re a delight, Dior,” he said. “I can’t wait to get you in front of some cameras.”
I couldn’t, either. I interviewed well.
“Speaking of which,” he said. “I think that’s where I’d like to start with you.”
“Interviews?”
“Cameras.”
I tilted my head, waiting for the word to make sense.
“A music video,” he said. “We need to get your social campaign going as soon as possible, and what better way to do it than to shoot a video? Your generation loves them.”
“Everyone loves them,” I said.
“Even better,” he said. “I’m thinking ‘Let’s Go Wild.’”
The name immediately sparked a series of images in my mind: hair bands from the eighties, glossy red nail polish, girls dancing in clubs with lights strobing behind them. I could see the opening sequence already, of a glittering city skyline, promising a night of adventures free for the taking.
“I’m thinking a jungle theme,” he said.
I blinked. That wasn’t the kind of wild I had in mind. The song was pretty clear about that.
“We can put some footage of animals behind you. I’m thinking you in a series of cavewoman outfits, each more provocative than the last.”
“Cavewoman?” I said blankly.
“With cavemen as your backup dancers,” he said. He winked.
He seemed so sure of himself, so confident that this was exactly what would best capture my song.
I couldn’t even begin to picture what he had in mind.
“The song is actually about urban life,” I said.
“I know that, and you know that,” Mr. Rumpel said. “But a video is about what will sell. What will catch the viewer’s eye? What will draw them in? The video needs to have energy, motion. Trust me, Dior, it’s exactly what your career needs right now.”
Oddly, I did trust him. He knew what he was doing, much better than I did. The song might be about urban life and the sometimes-crazy feeling of being invisible and free in the middle of a crowd, but that didn’t mean pictures of skyscrapers and taxis were what my fans wanted to see. They probably did want jungles and bizarre cavewoman costumes.
Hell, maybe we’d get a tiger in there. I’d watch a video with a tiger in it.
“Okay, Mr. Rumpel,” I said. “You’re the boss.”
“No, Dior, you’re the boss,” he said, leaning in toward me. “I’m just here to make your decisions easier. And please, call me August.”
“I’ll drink to that,” I said.
Chapter 4
“What about scales?” Briana said. She handed me one of the
magazines we’d been using as music video inspiration. The model in the perfume ad wore a long, slinky dress patterned like rattlesnake skin. “Only some kind of jungle snake, all emerald green and sexy.”
“I don’t think cavewomen wore snake skins,” Sadie said, looking over my shoulder. “Not like that, anyway.”
“None of this is going to be historically accurate,” I said. Sadie raised her eyebrows, clearly full of opinions, but didn’t say anything.
I paged through the magazine, taking in one glossy image after another. The scent of the paper and glue was at odds with the images of evening gowns and sparkling turquoise pools. On the worn old sofa next to me, Sadie flipped methodically through a gardening magazine, and Briana abandoned her upscale fashion magazine halfway through to turn her attention to one on housekeeping.
“What about this for a backdrop?” Sadie said, holding up a picture of an overgrown backyard garden. “Make it more relatable.”
“I don’t think August will go for anything so… domestic,” I said. “But it’d be kind of cool to take a bunch of images like that, pictures of gardens and ocean landscapes and deserts and whatever, and stitch them behind me like a patchwork quilt. It could sort of give the idea that wildness is everywhere.”
“Love,” Briana announced. “Super love. Writing that one down.”
She scribbled the idea in the notebook where we’d been recording our inspirations, her hot pink handwriting almost illegible. I’d be able to make it out later, but only if I concentrated.
“What if you alternated between your ideas?” Sadie said. “You as the cavewoman surrounded by vines and stuff, and then it cuts to you in a club, but still wearing the same outfit? And then later you’re back in the jungle but wearing a club dress.”
“Writing it down!” Briana said. She scribbled, then said, “And your backup dancers could be looking all caveman-ish, but a couple of them could be holding a rum and Coke in a fancy glass.” She wrote that down, too, without waiting for our responses.
“That’s such a dude drink,” Sadie said. “Have them hold colorful, girly cocktails with umbrellas.”
“That’s not wild,” Briana said, wrinkling her nose.
“It pushes gender boundaries,” Sadie said. She pulled her silky blond hair up into a ponytail. “And it’ll match a jungle color scheme better.”
“I need to remember to work on some dance moves, too,” I said. “I’m meeting with August and a choreographer tomorrow and I want to have some ideas to show them.”
“Ooh, look at this,” Briana said, shoving a magazine my direction. A nail polish ad showed cheetah-print fingernails. They were tacky, but in a way I could get behind. Sadie raised an eyebrow, then shrugged.
“Might be fun,” she said.
“Cheetah-print nails on hands gripping a steering wheel,” I said.
“Yes!” Briana said. She grabbed the notebook again.
We spent the rest of the afternoon throwing ideas around and drinking fairy dust soda. By the time Briana and Sadie left, I had a list of ideas three pages long and a stack of images torn from the magazines that would help me explain my ideas to August.
“It’s about finding a primal wildness inside ourselves, no matter where we go,” I said the next day, laying a collage of images out on the wooden floor of the rehearsal space in the same building that held August’s office. I sat cross-legged, while August crouched behind me. He was in slacks and a polo shirt today, which didn’t do anything to make him look less dashing and formal.
I set a picture of the cheetah-print manicure next to an advertisement for a sports car, racing down a coastal highway at sunset. “I want to juxtapose these ideas of instinct against backdrops of civilization, and vice-versa. We could play around with a lot of different combinations, but I feel like it needs to be very raw and urgent and empowering.”
“Empowering?”
“Well, yeah. So much of the song is about being empowered as a modern woman to exist in the public sphere in a way that women couldn’t a hundred years ago,” I said. “The wildness I’m singing about—it’s about existing in an urban landscape and having the power to play with different identities and make different choices. That’s a freedom that not many women throughout history have had.”
“You’ve given a lot of thought to this,” he said.
“I wrote the song,” I said.
“It’s an interesting design concept.”
“I’ve got tons of ideas for costumes, too,” I said.
He held up a hand, stopping my excitement mid-flow.
“We already have your costumes.”
I twisted around to look at him. He was surveying the spread of images on the floor, and didn’t look at me.
“Already?” I said. “That was… fast.”
“I like to move quickly,” he said. He pulled out his phone and tapped on it, then held it out to me. “These are what I had in mind.”
I scrolled through the images of dressed-up mannequins. Each one filled me with more distaste than the last, probably because each one included less fabric than the last. The first outfit was a flimsy faux-fur dress, and the last one—I’d had bikinis that covered more skin.
“This is, um, not what I was thinking,” I said.
“What’s wrong with them?”
“My brand isn’t so skimpy.”
August took the phone from me before I was ready to hand it back.
“I know,” he said. “I respect that you might have trouble adjusting to some new ideas. But remember, Dior, this whole video is about re-branding you. That’s why you hired me.”
“If it’s about the skin, it’s not about the music,” I said.
“You’re a performer, Dior,” August said. His voice was smooth and rich, and I felt calmed in spite of myself. “For your fans, watching you sing is about the whole experience. The costumes, the dancing, the music—it’s all there to create an environment your fans can escape into.”
No, it isn’t. I opened my mouth to try to explain, but he talked gently over me.
“You have the power to transport people to a fantasy world, a better world, but you’re not using it fully. Your music is incredible—exceptional—but if you only use your music to connect with your fans, you’re only using one tool out of your considerable toolbox.”
“I’m not objecting to the idea of a video, period,” I said. “I just think we have different ideas of what it should look like.”
“You want this to be about empowerment, right?”
I nodded.
“What else could be more empowering than this?” He held the phone up. “You, a strong, capable, professional musician, shown in a position of power over everyone else in this video, wearing a variety of costumes that allow you to express different parts of yourself. You have the ability to make a strong, body-positive piece of art here. You just have to be brave.”
“I’m not sure it’s bravery that’s the issue,” I said, but my voice held less conviction.
What if he was right? I had wanted the video to be about a woman having power in lots of different situations. These costumes could be the perfect way to show that, even if wearing them hadn’t exactly been my first choice.
Something about the idea felt off to me, like a puzzle piece that wouldn’t quite slide into place.
But this wasn’t a puzzle, it was my career. And August wasn’t some random person trying to put a picture together—he was August Rumpel, the guy who’d managed the careers of Glimmering artists like Gabriella Dobashi, Puss in Boots, and the Gingerbread Girls.
“Trust me, Dior,” he said. “You won’t regret this.”
I bit my lip. I wanted Dad’s advice, but he was at work, and I knew what he’d say anyway. He’d shrug, tell me that August was the professional, and go back to checking sports stats on his phone. Anyway, I was an adult and it was my career.
“I guess you’re right,” I said. “We can try it for one video.”
“I’m glad you’re
on board,” August said, and smiled at me. His smile was like the sun, showering down warmth and light. I relaxed.
The choreographer arrived, a wiry man with light brown skin and muscles in his arms that looked like someone had sculpted them out of rock. I figured his legs looked like that, too, though they were covered by loose black dance pants. He walked across the floor toward us, moving freely, as though his joints weren’t totally attached. I stretched my arms out behind my back, trying to make my body mimic his playful looseness.
“Dior!” he said, like we were great friends who hadn’t seen each other in a while. I held out my hand and he shook it with both of his. His grip was strong and warm. “I’m Starling,” he said, stepping back to survey me. “Oh, look at those long legs, girl. We’re gonna have a lot of fun.” He took my hand and dragged me out to the middle of the dance floor.
We worked on stretches and basic moves for half an hour, just so he could see what he was working with. He had a bright, high tenor voice and laughed at almost everything. I adored him. I caught August’s eye from across the room and gave him a quick smile.
I’d been dancing since I was tiny, and throwing my body back into a series of rolls and jumps and shimmies felt like coming home. Starling made moves, I imitated, and then he put on my song and showed me what he had in mind.
His body shifted through steps like light through a waterfall. It was almost impossible to tell where one movement stopped and the next began. Even the sharp pauses and reversals in the dance felt as smooth as breathing, and yet that smoothness came with a fierceness that did make him look wild. I was transfixed watching him.
Starling was Glim, I knew. August had said he was a werewolf, one of a pack of weres who’d bought an old building downtown and turned it into an artists’ community. I hadn’t met many werewolves—most didn’t like to announce themselves—but I didn’t think his abilities were a result of that. He was just good, with a precision that could have only come from years of hard work as he refined his raw talent into purified silver.
Well, maybe not silver. Werewolves weren’t really into that.
Starling pumped his fist in the air, threw his elbow back behind him as though he was taking someone out, and snapped his head to look straight-on at me. The song ended with a bang, and he stood, muscles tense, then abruptly collapsed back into himself.