The principal stands, thanks the guy, and heads to the podium, clearing her throat before speaking, telling the kids to calm down. Though, honestly, it’s not like they’re a bunch of soccer hooligans or anything. I make more noise by myself on a Tuesday afternoon after waking up with a hangover than these kids have made. Maybe now that Jerry the accountant is done, I can liven the place up. Though probably not too much since that’s kind of what got me here in the first place. I mean, I don’t see an accordion on the wall, but I bet I could scrounge up some trash cans and do an improv version of Stomp. Is Stomp even still a thing? Would these kids even get the reference? Am I old?
Mrs. Billings—do you ever get to not call principals Mr. or Mrs. Whatever? I guess it could be Ms., but that’s not really any better now is it—waves me up, and I slouch over to the microphone, feeling ridiculously awkward, which is not usually how I feel near mics at all. I love them.
But Zane said I had to wear a shirt with buttons to this thing and attempt to look like a responsible adult. The collar around my neck is strangling me, and it takes every ounce of self-control I have—which, to be fair, isn’t a lot—not to yank at it until the button pops off and probably hits Jerry in his face. At least he’s wearing glasses so I wouldn’t blind him. Has anyone ever been blinded by a rogue button? Must’ve been, sometime. I mean, there was that guy who had the spike through his head and survived, so blinded by a button’s gotta be on the list of things that’ve happened. Has anyone ever been murdered by a button? Sounds like something someone from whatever is more secret than the CIA could do. I wouldn’t be good at being a spy. Call way too much attention to myself, and you bet your ass I wouldn’t be down for that whole “if you get caught, we will disavow any knowledge of you” shit. Nah, my friends have been claiming me for as long as I can remember, even when I do some really fucked up—
“Next up in our financial responsibility program, we have Nick Fischer of—”
“License to Game is a piece of shit!”
The principal’s expression goes razor-sharp, and she jabs a pointy nail toward a section of the gym bleachers. I can tell she’s about to yell at someone, but she doesn’t need to do that. I know that kid. Was that kid. Hell, still am that kid. Except with a few small differences. Sometimes, very small.
I wave off the principal.
“Don’t worry,” I tell her quietly enough for the mic not to pick it up. “I’ve heard way worse.”
Mrs. Billings’s smooth brown face tightens, her raspberry-lipsticked mouth pinches, and her brows crunch. That looks…uncomfortable. But I bet she does that a lot. Teenagers are the worst. I don’t honestly know why the Parks put up with us, but thank god they did… Tossing us out in the garage probably helped. Benji’s mom has the patience of a saint. And she mails us cookies and shit. Still. I could really use a cookie right now. This place must have a cafeteria. Maybe they’d have a cookie I could buy?
I take up the mic, grateful it’s wireless because I can’t stand still, and then point in the general direction the principal had after the kid yelled at me.
“Your face is a piece of shit.”
Mrs. Billings covers her eyes, and I feel a pinprick of guilt but it’s gone sooner than the pain of a needle. When’s the last time I had a tetanus shot? I mean, what if I’d stepped on something sharp in that fountain? I’m sure people break bottles in that thing all the time. I could have gangrene right now. Or be dead. Wait, is gangrene the thing where your foot turns black and then it falls off or is it scurvy? They both sound like diseases pirates get. Scurvy’s the one you get if you don’t get enough citrus. Man, I could go for a lemonade right about now.
But I have to talk to these kids first. They’re all staring at me, the place in a bit of an uproar because I just told some kid his face was a piece of shit. And now this shirt has got to come off. I can’t even with the collar and the tag and the sleeves and the cuffs, and… Fuck it all.
I drop the mic on the ground since I’m nowhere near the stand and strip off the damn shirt, feeling like I can breathe for the first time in hours since I’ve only got my tee on now. Better, so much better. Swiping the mic off the floor, I wave to the kids.
“Sorry, sorry. I shouldn’t swear, should I? Not like you all haven’t heard it before, and hell, if you’re going into the entertainment business, you’re sure as fu—”
Aw, man. Billings is giving me a dark look, and it makes me feel worse than when I had to go in front of the judge.
“Furbies? Sure as furbies going to hear some language in the studio and on set and backstage and all that. So, uh, sorry, dude, whoever you are. You don’t have to like LtG—I’m not here to perform for you. I’m here to talk about managing your money when you’re a creative. And to be honest, you got me not because I’m a good guy or because this is an issue near and dear to my heart or anything. Nah. I got arrested a few months ago. And this is my community service.”
Billings audibly groans, and yeah, she’ll probably be fielding some calls from parents. But I’m actually kinda good at this stuff? Sometimes, anyway. When I can focus on it. Which god knows isn’t all the time.
“You don’t have to like the music I make with my buddies, but you should know I make a sh—a boat-load of money. Like, I’ve made more money sitting on this stage listening to Jerry here than most Americans do in a year. Which may or may not be helpful to any of you sitting in this room. Some of you will be successful, but some of you will end up being waiters and trying to slip your screenplays under bathroom stall doors because some hotshot producer happened to stop by the trendy fusion place where you haven’t gotten fired from yet. But you will get fired for doing that, so don’t. Just, don’t do it, man. Taking a shi—dump is sacred. Don’t bug a dude while he’s dropping a deuce.”
Hmm. Maybe I shouldn’t talk about unloosing the caboose. Good thing Zane isn’t here. He really doesn’t like it when I call him while I’m laying the undersea cable. I don’t totally get what the big deal is, because like the book says, Everyone Poops, but whatever.
“Anyway, yeah, so besides not trying to pitch yourself while someone’s on the can…”
Dempsey
* * *
At long last, it’s my turn to talk to the students at the Burnett Magnet School for the Performing Arts. Nina—sorry, in front of the students, it’s Mrs. Billings—had skyped me in before the program started, so there wouldn’t be any fumbling with equipment when it was my turn. With the projector on her end and the camera on my end turned off, though, I’ve just been keeping half an ear on the rest of the presenters. Or trying to while I get some work done.
The first presenter was easy to ignore. Boring tax advice I can recite to my clients in my sleep, complete with warnings that I’m not your official tax professional so this doesn’t constitute real actual for realsies tax advice. Dullsville that I can easily tune out; he’s not saying anything new. I didn’t expect anything useful out of either of the guys going before me, to be honest.
Except this last guy is cracking me up. He’s swearing like every other word and telling these wild stories, and I’m pretty sure he told some kid his face was a piece of shit? Poor Nina must be losing her goddamn mind and preparing her notes for all the apologies she’s going to have to make to enraged parents. Although I have to say, I doubt any of the kids will be ratting this guy out because they’re totally on his side. Unlike Jerry, he’s keeping their attention, and I’m sure they’ll learn something from him. In point of fact, I wish Nina had put him last in the schedule so I wouldn’t have to follow this act, but she knew this was going to happen and basically asked me to bat cleanup.
Listening to him, though… He doesn’t have the slurred speech of the inebriated, and while he could possibly be hopped up on some stimulants, I don’t think he is. I think he’s just…like this. And while he’s relating a story about how compound interest works using an analogy about dust bunnies, I stop trying to work and just listen. Maybe I should have him talk to some o
f my clients, though given the numbers he’s been spouting off, I doubt he needs work as a freelance financial consultant. Nick Fischer is doing very well for himself.
Unless, of course, his own financial manager is fucking him over, which is something that happens all too frequently in this business. Which is precisely why Nina arranged for this whole thing in the first place. I really freaking hope we do these kids some good. They don’t need to know or understand everything about some of the more complicated financial instruments, but they do need to know enough that they don’t get screwed over by some bad apples. Show business is unsavory in so many ways, and if I can just help one kid from—
The vertigo starts. I sway, the dizziness coming on like a freight train and knocking me out of this plane of reality in the space of a single breath. I know it’s not real because I haven’t even stood up from my chair. And it’s not the rumble of an earthquake. Nevertheless, I clutch at the edge of my desk, my fingernails digging into the paper calendar blotter that I keep to the side of my computer. I can’t let it get out of control. Deep breathing exercises are good for these sorts of minor pinches, so I do the one that’s been working best lately. It’s nearly two, and that’s when Nina said I’d be up. I need to get my shit together to be a calm, competent professional who might not make the kids crack up like—who is this again?
Having gotten a decent handle on the spinning sensation, at least enough to reason my way out of the rest of it, I click over to my email from Nina that has the program schedule on it. Nick Fischer of License to Game. I’ve heard of them, I think? Some band.
Anyway, Nick Fischer has made my day with his antics as surely as he’s made Nina’s a bit of a hellscape. But she’s tough, she’ll be fine. And I’ll just sit here and enjoy the sound of his voice as he finishes telling the kids how cool spreadsheets are while I breathe in and out and convince my brain that I am, in fact, on solid ground.
“They’re like wizards, guys. Seriously. Magic on your screen. They do math for you, but in a cooler way than a calculator. And then you can even make pie charts. Pie charts are really fu—falutin’ rad. I don’t know about you guys, but like, sometimes numbers make my head hurt? But I’m totally game for colors and shapes. And pie. Pie is delicious. My favorite is probably key lime. Why do you think they call them pie charts instead of pizza charts? Because pizza is great, and it would make them sound way cooler. But then I guess they call pizzas pies, don’t they? Which is weird. Because it’s not like a real pie. Except in Chicago. You guys like deep dish?”
Nina cuts in as a bunch of the audience and I all snicker because this guy’s brain runs a mile a minute. Working with him must be a trip and kind of a delight because he’s clearly very intelligent. So, yes, fun. If you could keep his mind focused. Which would probably be like trying to cut the heads off a hydra. But if you could… Damn.
“Thank you so much, Mr. Fischer, for joining us today. Your talk was…enlightening.”
The audience roars, and I can only imagine that Nick is making a show of taking a bow. What does he look like, anyway?
A quick google later and I’m seeing dozens upon dozens of pics of this rangy-looking guy with sticky-uppy brown hair. The rest of his band is a bit more clean-cut than he is, but I can’t imagine he has a whole lot of patience for regular grooming. He probably gets distracted halfway through, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s adopted this hairstyle because you really wouldn’t be able to tell one way or another. And even if he has a PA to make all his appointments at Hollywood hair salons, he no doubt only goes to about half of them. I don’t envy that person their job, always making excuses and apologies. But at least their boss has enough money to smooth things over.
Since I’m not in charge of Nick Fischer, I can appreciate the way his worn jeans frame his cut hips and how his wild hair looks like it might be soft to touch, and when he’s sitting still enough for the cameras to catch him not in a blur, he’s actually got a nice smile. Friendly and open without a hint of guile. Yeah, no way a guy like that is keeping secrets. No way could a man like that lie. He’d never be able to keep track of any deceptions, though I bet he could construct a doozie given the chance, but why would he? He’s just an avalanche of himself who happens to have some nice hazel eyes with a sweep of dark lashes.
“Ms. Lawrence, are you there?”
Oh, shit. I’m supposed to be batting cleanup after Nick Fischer has word-vomited all over the stage, and I’m shirking my duties. All because I got curious about some rock star who can’t think in a straight line but whose thought process—if you can call it that—looks more like fireworks. Time to live up to my reputation as Dempsey uber-organized Lawrence.
Turning to the monitor, I flick on my top-of-the-line camera and smile into the crowd. I’m guessing on the screen they set up, my head is, like, four feet tall. Good thing my skin and hair cooperated.
“Thanks so much for having me, Mrs. Billings. I always like talking to the students of Barnett because you have great creative questions. There should be some handouts on financial literacy basics that are being passed around, and my card is attached. If you think of something after the presentation, please feel free to email me, but make sure you put Barnett somewhere in the subject line so you go to the top of my to-respond-to pile. My inbox could be declared a federal disaster area. Anyway, let’s get started…”
Nick
* * *
I was expecting Dempsey Lawrence to be some old-ass white dude with hair growing out of his nostrils. Maybe his ears, too. And bald. Definitely bald. Why do men go bald, anyway? And some women too, I guess, but not nearly as many? And why does hair in other places keep growing? What category do pubes fall under? Is it more like the hair on your head or more like the hair in your nose? Wow, I do not need to be thinking about old dudes’ junk, especially because I could be looking at a smoking-hot redhead instead.
Except for the whole being-white part, Dempsey is almost the opposite of what I thought she’d be. Sitting at a desk, she’s got a setup like she does this a lot. Not the cluttered-with-real-life background I have on my video chats with my bros and my family. It looks neat, almost like she’s in a hotel. Maybe she is in a hotel. But not one I’ve been to. I’d recognize it—I’ve been to a lot of hotels.
And she is far, far more organized than I am—she made a handout, for fuck’s sake—and clearly knows her stuff. She looks vaguely familiar, but I can’t tell from where. Maybe I’ve seen her around at a club or something? But I don’t think she lives around here, because then she could’ve come in and given her talk live like me and Jerry. I really wish she would’ve, because as things are, I’m sitting next to Jerry and trying to keep my mouth shut and my body still and that’s not easy. I keep my arms tight across my chest and let my heel drub on the floor which Mrs. Billings gives me a look for, but dude, she’s lucky I’m sitting down and still have most of my clothes on. Anyone can tell you that’s not a guarantee.
There are a few extra of Dempsey Lawrence’s handouts on the table between me and Jerry, and I pick one up. Not because I need this stuff, but just for something to do with my hands because I’m itching to move, dying to get up and do something, anything. Stretch, run a lap, check what’s behind that door, how the mechanism for the pull-out bleachers work. Seriously, anything. Plus, it’s entirely unnatural for me to be on a stage and not be the center of attention. I’m doing fine and I don’t want to fuck things up for this woman, but it’s like an itch in the back of my brain that I can’t scratch.
Why do we itch, anyway? It’s some nerve thing, right? But what’s the point of that? In evolution or whatever? It feels really good but… Do fish get itchy? And if they scratch, do their scales come off? That doesn’t seem like a good idea. Now my foot is itching and I want to take my shoe off so bad, but at some point, Mrs. Billings is just going to lose it and grab me by my ear and haul me down to her office until my parents come pick me up. Except they’re in Texas, and I’m not a minor anymore. Hopefully she�
�ll at least give a decent report to the judge, so I don’t get stuck doing this again. Actually, she might give a good report out of pity. Not for me, natch, but for any other person who might be subjected to my “help.”
The little packet in my hands is well-designed and glossy, and I try to read it instead of scratching my foot. Don’t think about your foot, Fischer. Except that’s like telling people not to think about the elephant in the room. It’s all anyone can think about. Where did that expression come from, anyway? Because I can’t imagine there are all that many rooms that’ve had elephants in them. Like circus tents, sure, but rooms? There can’t be many doors that are big enough to let an elephant through. Maybe a baby elephant. Aw, man, how cool would it be to have a baby elephant? But that’s probably against the zoning for my house. Which is too bad because that would so get me laid. Like, “Hey, girl, wanna come back to my place and see my baby elephant? That’s not a euphemism.”
That would be awesome.
Speaking of which, the more I listen to this woman talk, the more I think I’d like to take her out on a date. She’s super-smart and polished, and while people usually think I’d be more into the manic pixie dream girls, I like women more buttoned-up. Until I can get them to take their hair down. That’s part of the fun. Infecting them with…I don’t know, not a disease or whatever because that’s gross, but fun. Joy. I bet Dempsey works a lot. I could show her a good time. Not like naked-accordion-playing-in-a-fountain good, because we all know how that worked out, but maybe something almost as good.
There’s no address on her card, only a phone number and an email address, plus her name followed by a bunch of initials that probably mean she went to a lot of school. School and I never really got along, but thank god some people like classrooms and desks and tests and all that. Like Stan and the rest of the people who manage my shit.
The Inside Track: A License to Love Novel Page 2