by H. A. Swain
Orpheus looks at me.
“Joy ride?” I ask, but he shakes his head.
“Chanson Industry headquarters,” he tells the car and we begin to move.
“Are you crazy!” I yell and grip the armrest by my seat.
“Crazy about you,” he says and flashes his cheesiest grin.
“You’re kidding, right?” I ask.
“About what?” he says, being coy.
“Going to Chanson.”
“I’m entirely serious, Zimri.”
“Oh, no,” I tell him. “No, no, no, no. I can’t go there with you!”
“I know I just sprung this on you, but I think it’s a good idea. We don’t have another day off for two weeks and—”
“You’ve lost your mind,” I tell him. “Your parents are not going to be happy if you show up with some Plute warehouse girl after you ran away.”
“I’m not taking you to meet my parents,” he says. “I want you to meet Piper McLeo.”
“Piper McLeo!” I shout. “She’s one of the most powerful producers in the music industry! I can’t meet her looking like this!” I motion to my baggy cotton pants, comfy shirt, and my funky orange trainers.
“First off,” Orpheus says, “she’s an old family friend. And secondly, you look great! You always do. You have your own style. That’s the whole charm of you. It’s what sets you apart and makes you interesting and amazing.”
“You need to stop the car,” I tell him. “I’m not going with you.”
“Look, I get it.” He squeezes my hand. “You’re nervous. You’ve never been that far from home and the City seems like a giant overwhelming place, right?”
“No!” I drop his hand. “That’s not it at all. Once you get back to the City and see everything you gave up, you’ll never come back here. Then what happens to me? I’ll be stranded, far from Nonda without enough money to get back.” My breath comes in gulps and my head spins.
“That’s not going to happen, Zimri,” he says.
“Why wouldn’t it?” I demand.
“Because what I want most is right here, right now. Not back in the City. This is the only place I want to be.”
“Then why go at all?” I ask.
“My father’s in Europe and everyone else thinks I’m missing or dead, so we can slip in unnoticed. Otherwise, the ’razzi will be all over me.” He slows the car to a crawl.
“What are you doing?” I ask. “Why are you stopping?”
“This is where we decide. Windows,” he commands and the screens all disappear so the world outside becomes visible.
He points to an old bridge with elegant arches trussed up by crisscrossing steel beams. The whole structure is propped up on concrete pilings from the days when shipping was meant literally. The river is calm and the sky is bright so the bridge appears to belong in two worlds, one up here with us and one down below the surface of the water.
“Have you ever been this far before?” he asks me.
I swallow hard. “I come here once a year.” He blinks at me. “This is the place where people take the plunge.”
Orpheus is quiet. Without taking his eyes off the bridge, he reaches for my hand again and this time I let him take it. “Your father?” he asks and I nod. “I’m sorry, Zimri. I’m sorry that happened to you.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Me, too.”
“Have you ever wanted to cross it?” he asks after a moment.
I nod. “But I never had a reason to go.” Then I squeeze his hand and whisper, “Until now.”
* * *
Orpheus tells me a hundred times on our way into the City not to be nervous. At first I say I’m not. After all, I have nothing riding on this crazy plan of his, but the second we walk into Piper McLeo’s studios, I think that I might barf directly on my shoes.
The receptionist looks like he’s about to toss his cookies, too, when he sees Orpheus in the doorway. He half stands up then sits down like he’s seeing someone rise from the dead. “Your father…” he says.
“Is in Europe. I know,” says Orpheus. “I’m not here to see him. Could you please get Piper for me?”
The guy hops out of his chair and rushes off, then Piper appears within a few seconds.
“Orpheus? My god!” she shouts as she blusters into the reception area. “We’ve been so worried about you!” She wraps him in a long hug while I stand by awkwardly, trying not to pee myself because everything in the room costs more than I’ll ever make in my life. There is artwork on the walls, carpet as thick as river grass, deep soft sofas swathed in beautiful heavy fabric, and quiet calming music piped in through speakers hidden somewhere in the room.
Piper looks nothing like I pictured. She is small and wiry with tired, sad eyes. Not beautiful, but somehow captivating. She’s dressed plainly, all in dark blue from head to toe, but I can tell by the way the material shimmers and moves with her body that the clothes are expensive and made to fit her precisely. I look down at myself and feel like one of the shabby, worn-out toys I’d find at the dump when I was little. If I could, I would slink away.
Finally, Orpheus pulls away from Piper. “I’m okay,” he says with a laugh. “Really. Look at me! Never better.” He holds out his arms and flashes his super smile.
“Your father must be so relieved! He didn’t tell us that he’d located you,” Piper says. “Probably wants to keep it out of the Buzz for now.”
Orpheus lets that slide. Instead, he steps back and puts his arm around my waist. “Actually, I’m here because I have someone I’d like you to meet.” I shrink in on myself, like a frozard burrowing into the mud. “This is Zimri Robinson.”
Piper can’t hide her shock as she looks me up and down. She clears her throat and holds out a hand to me. “Well, well, well,” she says, her voice rising up an octave. “What a pleasure to meet you.”
I stand there, like an idiot, while Piper pumps my hand but I can’t make any words come out of my mouth.
“Is this your first time in the City?” she asks slowly, like I might be stupid.
I nod but still can’t speak, so unfortunately I’m proving her right.
“So…” She drops my hand and steps away. “What’s it all about, Orphie?”
“I brought Zimri here because I want you to hear her sing.”
Piper opens her eyes wide and is as speechless as I am. Finally she manages to say, “Yeah, sure. Anything for you. Just send me a recording and…” She tiptoes backward toward to the door.
“No,” Orpheus says. “I want you to listen to her today. Here. In a studio. Now.”
Piper stops and shakes her head. “Orpheus, I’m not sure where you’ve been or what you’ve been up to but you can’t just walk in here and—”
“Yes, I can,” he says and I see the entitled, take-charge Plute in him and, weirdly, I like it. “It won’t take long,” he tells Piper. “Just one song.”
She draws in a deep breath. Clearly she’s used to doing the young Mr. Chanson’s bidding. “We were just recording some demo tracks for your friend Arabella.”
“Arabella’s here?” Orpheus says. I feel him stiffen at my side.
“Yes. I forgot. You two know each other quite well, don’t you?” says Piper, a sly smile spreading across her face. “Let’s go to her studio. I’m sure she could use a break.”
I grab Orpheus’s wrist and pull him back. “I can’t do this,” I plead quietly. “What if I’m horrible? What if I embarrass you?”
“You won’t,” he says simply.
“Coming?” Piper calls over her shoulder from the doorway. She levels her gaze at me and raises an eyebrow as if it were a challenge she knows I won’t have the guts to take.
Orpheus leans in close. “This is your chance,” he whispers. “She thinks you’re a nobody. From nowhere.”
When he says those words, I think of all the people who’ve ever come to my shows and screamed and stomped for more. I think about DJ HiJax playing my song on the waves. I think about my mother and my father
—they never had a chance like this. I force myself to stand up straight. I know that I have to walk through that door for all those people and for Orpheus.
“Yes,” I say to Piper, my voice strong and clear even though my heart is thumping wildly. “We’re right behind you.”
When we walk into the studio, the first thing I see is a beautiful girl at the piano inside a glass booth. Her music comes out through the speakers in the ceiling and is as lovely as she is. There’s not a hair out of place on her head. Her clothes are perfect. She has big, soulful brown eyes and sharp cheekbones. And she’s singing a sweet, soft melody in a high and pretty voice, nothing like my gravelly, raw songs.
“So it worked?” Orpheus asks Piper, nodding at Arabella. “Her ASA kicked in?”
“Oh yes,” says Piper, her voice bolstered with certainty. “It kicked in big time. Piano. Marimba! She’s amazing on percussion. I’m thinking of going Brazilian with her. Maybe bringing back the samba, but with a dance beat. You know, sultry but we could remix it for dance trax. And she’s gorgeous, isn’t she?” Piper cuts her eyes to me and I flinch as if I’ve been smacked.
When Arabella looks up, her fingers fumble and she hits an off-key chord. I watch her gasp as she rips off her headphones and runs out of the booth. “Oh my god! Orpheus!” she yells. “Orpheus!” She bolts across the room and throws herself at him.
Again, I stand aside, this time feeling like I’m the wrong note that’s hanging in the air. Arabella has a stranglehold on Orpheus, who stiffly pats her back. Piper watches them, tapping one finger against her lips as if she’s plotting her next move.
“I’ve been so worried about you,” Arabella says. “Why didn’t you ping me? Why didn’t you tell someone where you were?”
Orpheus disentangles himself from her and steps firmly away. “Pinging works two ways,” he says and Arabella winces. He comes to my side. “This is Zimri. She’s here to audition for Piper.”
Awkwardly, I stick out my hand. “Nice to meet you,” I squeak then swallow and lower my voice down to normal. “How long have you been playing piano?”
“How long?” Arabella shakes her head as if she doesn’t understand my question. “You mean, when did I have my ASA?”
I look to Orpheus to translate but he says, “Zimri plays every instrument, some of which she builds on her own.”
“Oh. How … um … interesting,” Arabella says. “Out of what?”
“Mostly things I find at the dump,” I say and enjoy the look of revulsion that passes quickly over her face. “You can get all kinds of great stuff there. Electronics, furniture, bikes…”
“And clothing, I see,” says Arabella.
I grit my teeth. Something in the way that girl looks at me just then, like I’m from the dump, makes my determination kick in. I drape my arm across Orpheus’s shoulder and say, “Oh no, Orpheus and I shop exclusively at Black Friday.”
Orpheus cracks up.
“I have another meeting soon,” Piper says. “So…” She winds her hand around as if the clock is ticking.
The engineer who’d been working with Arabella sets up a microphone in the center of the room for me.
“Is it okay if I use that?” I point to one of the electric guitars hanging on the wall.
“Of course,” says Piper. “Do you know how to play?”
“I think I can manage,” I tell her as the engineer hands it to me and makes sure the wireless pick-up connects to the amps built into the wall. Unlike the cheap, plasticky guitar my mother left at Nowhere, this one is heavy but perfectly balanced. The strings respond instantly to my fingers, each note glorious and clear.
“Okay,” I say, but something doesn’t feel right. Then I realize what it is. I’ve never played my songs for anyone while my face was showing. For a second, I’m not sure I can do it.
Orpheus steps forward and gives me a quick peck on the cheek then he says into my ear, “You’ll be brilliant. I know it.”
Seeing Arabella blanch over that kiss gives me one more shot of confidence. I take a deep breath and say, “I’m ready.”
“Are you recording this?” Orpheus asks.
Piper shrugs. “Sure, why not?” She gives the engineer a wave.
A little thrill goes through me. The only recordings I’ve ever made have been illicit and dangerous but now here I am, in an actual recording studio, about to sing for one of the top producers in the world. I raise my hand and strum the first notes of my song, then I begin to sing, “I’m Nobody from Nowhere.…” The song overtakes me. I get lost. I’m no longer in this room in front of these people. I love that feeling of suspended time when I’m everywhere at once and nowhere in particular. And when I finish and the last notes fade into the walls and floor and ceiling, Orpheus stands up, beaming, as he claps.
The engineer pops out from her booth and gives me a thumbs-up. “That was great,” she says. “You’re an amazing guitar player, and your voice—”
“Yes,” says Piper, cutting her off. She rises from the sofa where she was sitting between Orpheus and Arabella. “That was very interesting, Zora.”
“Zimri,” I say.
“Sorry, Zimri,” she repeats. “You’ve been singing a long time, I suppose?”
“All my life,” I tell her, although she’s already turned away.
“Arabella,” Piper says. “Zimri must be parched after that. Could you please take her down to the artists’ café and get her a bevvie?”
Arabella stays seated, clearly stunned by Piper’s request.
“I’d like to speak with Orpheus for a moment,” Piper says. “Alone,” she clarifies.
“Yes, of course,” says Arabella as she walks stiffly toward the door.
I look at Orpheus. He smiles and nods for me to go, so reluctantly, I follow Arabella.
ORPHEUS
Piper leads me to her office where the wall screen rotates through pix and vids of her many successes. Gold records. Grammys. Pixs of her with nearly every major artist over the past twenty-five years, all the way back to a photo of her beside my mom when they were not much older than I am now.
“God, we were young,” she says, tapping her finger against the screen. “I was just a production assistant. Running errands. Making sure everyone had enough water, the right lip gloss, a favorite microphone.” The picture switches and she turns away. “But even then I had a knack for knowing which musicians would make it and which ones wouldn’t.”
She loops her arm through mine and draws me over to the plush couch. “Your mom was a no-brainer. Anyone could see she was meant to be a superstar. She was like a vortex, drawing everyone around her in. Want something to drink?”
“Sure.” Piper’s RoboMestic wheels over and presents me with a tray of choices. I take a fresh fruit drink, something I haven’t had in weeks, then I sink down into the softness of the sofa and hear myself sigh. I didn’t realize until that moment how much I’ve missed the little luxuries of Plute life, like comfy couches and cold sweet drinks on demand.
“Other people come to me rough. Like a block of stone,” Piper says as she arranges herself beside me. “I think of myself as a sculptor whose job it is to chip away to find what’s beautiful inside.”
“Like Zimri,” I say. “I know she’s not polished, but she’s brilliant and she has that quality everybody in the industry is trying to manufacture.”
Piper cozies up to me so we’re knee to knee. She leans in close and peers at me. “I’m worried about you.”
“Why?”
“You seem lost. You brought me this girl, but what about you? It’s like you’ve forgotten that all of this”—she motions around the office at the awards and gold records—“is meant to be yours.”
“It’s funny,” I tell her with a sigh. “Ever since I was little, running around these studios, sitting on superstars’ laps, everyone assumed I’d be in the recording booth someday, but that’s not what I want.”
“How can you say that?” Piper asks. “You were made for this and,
more importantly, this was made for you. You’re Libellule and Harold’s son and making music is in your blood.” She traces a finger down the blue vein of my inner arm. “It’s in your heart.” She presses her hand against my chest. “All we need is to wire up your brain.” She taps the side of my head. “And we’ll all be set.”
“You sound like my father,” I tell her.
“Good,” she says. “He knows what he’s talking about.”
“He’s knows what’s best for his business, but not what’s best for me.” I lean in close, ready to confide in Piper, who’s known me all my life. “The thing is, I want to bring music out of other people like you do, like my father used to do before he got so greedy and wanted to take over the entire industry. I want to find that spark in real people, people like Zimri.”
Piper jerks away from me. “Oh, god. Don’t tell me you’ve aligned yourself with that horrid Project Calliope?”
“No!” I say. “Of course not.”
“They got to your mother, you know.”
I roll my eyes. “Come on, Piper. Mom would align herself with anything that makes Dad look bad. Next week she’ll lose interest and be on to something else. Like her clothing line? What’s up with that?”
Piper sighs. “You’re probably right about your mom, but come on, Orpheus! What’s your fascination with this Plebe girl?”
“You heard her,” I say. “You watched her. She’s the real thing. She could be another Libellule.”
Piper shakes her head. “I’m not sure what you’ve been through in the past week or so, but it looks to me like you think you’re in love. The problem is, it’s blind love. Stone-blind love. The kind that makes you do stupid things.”
“I can’t deny my feelings for Zimri, but I see very clearly what she can do. I’ve watched her perform onstage. I’ve seen the way people react. I’ve heard her on the waves. You can’t tell me that you, of all people, don’t see it, too. There’s something else going on here if you’re trying to convince me otherwise.”
Piper stands up to move away from me. “Even if I wanted to, I can’t. If I took in some random person off the street, no matter how talented and engaging, it would upset the entire structure of the industry.”