Heads Carolina Read online

  “So ...”

  One word was all he provided after I finished. I was going to have to invest in adult diapers when it came to communicating with him. My nerves and bladder didn’t work well with anticipation.

  “I like some things. Let me ... let me play around with it a little. I, unfortunately, have another meeting. It’s my fault for arriving late in the first place. But I’ll be in touch.” He stood as I put my guitar back in the case.

  “Um, okay. Thanks.”

  The sassy, outgoing personality of Bethany Lenay evaporated. In its place was the more legit, insecure girl from North Carolina. I knew a brush-off when I heard one because I had heard one or two or seventy before.

  “Thanks for the opportunity, Mr. Thompson.” Thankfully, I did manage to maintain good manners as I stood.

  “Oh, God. It’s Ryan, please. Hadn’t we covered that?” He took a few steps to the side of his desk and, with his body directly across from mine, I estimated him to be an even six-foot height.

  “No. No. I don’t think so. Anyway, thanks.” I stuck out my hand, which he shook softly but cleanly, and then he showed me out the door.

  ***

  On my walk back home, I thought of a billion things I could have, and probably should have, said. I scripted our conversation a lot of different ways—one where I was less sarcastic, one where I was more professional, one where I dared to look him in the eyes, one where I asked questions, and one where I told him more of the background for each of the songs I had written. My walk in the refreshing early March air was just short of forty-five minutes, so I had plenty of time to have alternate endings.

  When I entered the building where I lived, I was greeted by the front doorman. He always seemed half-asleep. But at least he was more pleasant than the nasty woman porched at the front desk. After checking my empty mailbox—which was better than a rejection—I took the elevator to my eighth-floor shoebox apartment. I turned the key and started to push the door when Willow swung hers open.

  “God!” my next-door neighbor exclaimed. “I’ve been so waiting for you to come back. Tell me. Tell me all about it.”

  I laughed. “I’m hungry.”

  “Geez! Hold on. I got some illegal contraband.” She raced into her room and flashed back into mine with a box of miniature chocolate graham crackers. “Here.” She shoved them at me.

  I scanned the box and then started devouring the secret stash. We weren’t supposed to have food in our rooms because the residence provided us with breakfast and dinner daily in the main floor dining hall. Plus, the owners were afraid of fire hazards in our extremely small rooms, which had no kitchen area. There was only enough space for a bed, dresser, desk, sink, mirror, and closet. The bathrooms were shared between two women. It was basically a hard-to-get-into dorm setting but not co-ed. No men were allowed ... even for visits. That was the only thing my dad—a minister by trade—liked about me moving to La-La Land.

  “Take it easy, T-Rex,” Willow teased. “Your digestive system is going to go all cray-cray.”

  “You models don’t need yummy stuff like this. I thought you only ate lettuce,” I countered.

  “Ha! Now ... tell me about Ryyyan.” She sounded like one of those teeny boppers infatuated with the latest YouTube sensation. But I knew better. Willow was just an upbeat, positive kind of girl. Besides, she was totally into her boyfriend, Tilman.

  Besides my parents, Willow was the only person I had told about the actual date of the meeting. Of course, after the whole Twitter escapade, a lot of people who knew me were asking. But I didn’t want to jinx or explain anything, so, I kept it private. And sitting there on my twin-sized bed made me glad I had.

  “He hated me.” I pretend pouted.

  “What!”

  “He said ... Are you ready ...?” Her eyes fixated on me, I worked hard to sound legit. “He said, ‘What the heck kind of clothes are you wearing?’”

  “Oh. My. God! I am going to kill that son of a bitch.” Her arms started to flail as she paced, obviously offended since they were her clothes and her life was fashion. “Who does he think he is? He may think he knows music. But how dare he chime in with his fashion sense—or lack of. He is—”

  She was on such a roll moving up and down the limited square footage that she didn’t even notice I was on the bed laughing so hard tears were coming out of my eyes. I had said the little fib just because it was me ... because I liked razzing people either when I was nervous or when I really got to know them well. I was glad I did. It definitely helped me unwind from the experience of Audition Round Two.

  “Bethany Opala, I hate you!” Willow bellowed, catching on. “You are meaner than mean Ryan Thompson.”

  “He’s not that bad,” I admitted. “And pulling out my real last name? You’re like a parent when they’re mad at you!”

  “Ahhh,” she scoffed at the comparison, but she was one of only a few people who knew my real last name versus my stage/pen/California name. “Are you seriously going to tell me?” Willow managed to sit on the desk chair after spinning it around to face me.

  “Seriously,” I mimicked. “I don’t know. He doesn’t seem so mean, but I think he’s going to crush my dreams again.”

  “Yeah?” she asked in a softer and kinder tone. “Then I’m back to hating him. Mr. Mean—that is his name,” she said with finality.

  “No.” I shoved the box of treats back at my friend. If I ate any more, I would be sick. “I sang my songs. He took notes. He said he’d get back to me.”

  “Well, that’s good.”

  “Willow,” I blew out her name.

  At age twenty-three, just like me, she already knew rejection, too ... from the modeling world. While she was tall and pretty, it was in a plain, simple kind of way. Willow’s features—mousey, thin, straight brown hair, and similarly hued eyes—were not distinct enough to set her apart from others ... certainly not in a money-making, cover model sort of way. Hopefully the fashion degree she was about to get would provide her with something promising.

  “You never know.” The native Bostonian kept positive.

  “You never know,” I repeated. “Do you want me to throw this outfit in my bag? I’m gonna go do laundry. I need clothes for work tomorrow.”

  “No, I’m sure it’s fine. Besides, it might have Ryyyan’s scent on it.”

  “Oh, geez.” I rolled my eyes.

  “Does he smell as good as he looks?”

  “Better,” I teased.

  “Nu-uh? Like what?”

  “I don’t know, Willow! I wasn’t there sniffing the guy! The only thing I smelled was my deodorant working overtime.”

  “Throw the top in the wash then ... yuk!” She smiled. “I’ll meet up with you at dinner. I read it is couscous night. I love hearing Andre”—she spoke of one of the dining hall servers/maintenance workers—“say that. I order it just to hear him say ‘couscous ... couscous.’” We laughed together. “I think he likes you. He’s always trying to give you two desserts even though we’re only allowed one.”

  “He doesn’t know I already partake in my neighbor’s secret stash,” I offered, trying to get off the topic of Andre.

  “You buy next time. I’m craving M&Ms.”

  “You got it.”

  “Caramel flavored.”

  “Sure thing.”

  When Willow left, I threw her outfit in my overstuffed laundry bag, put on a comfy pair of pants and a coordinating shirt, and started the journey to the basement. The elevator didn’t go all the way down to the exact floor of the laundry room, so I descended the few metal steps to completely make it to the deepest part of the complex. I cringed momentarily, looking to the left where maintenance workers stored things and sometimes took their breaks. Then, with a shake of my head, I turned right and entered the dry heat of the laundry area. There were usually sufficient washers and dryers, but they looked like they were manufactured in the 1970s. There was also a place for ironing and a wooden bench. But I had never seen someone ac
tually stay during the hours it took to do laundry. I did, though. I liked the silence the area provided—minus the monotonous sound of the running machines. It was the perfect space to compose lyrics since—even though we had our own rooms—the residency still hosted a variety of sounds and bustle.

  After adding the detergent and starting the machine, I sat with my notebook and pencil on the bench. I liked writing things out the old-fashioned way first. It was interesting to see Ryan do that on the papers I had handed him, too.

  Before I wrote any choruses or verses, though, I wanted to compose a follow-up thank you to the judge/talent manager. I’d heard plenty of stories where people said they hadn’t hired someone because they didn’t have the common courtesy to send a “thank you” of some sort. My dad also delivered numerous sermons on being courteous and thankful, and we kids listened.

  Once I was happy scripting out my message, I entered it into my phone and DM’d Mr. Thompson. Thank you very much for the opportunity to meet with you and share my passion for writing music. At the very least, it has inspired me to continue writing. If you are interested in anything I gave you today or additional material, please let me know ... hopefully before my hair gets much longer.

  I debated, but I liked the sassy, personal ending to my thank-you message. It showed creativity. It showed a willingness to joke. It showed being fearless. Ha! I pressed send.

  I tried to write lyrics then, but I couldn’t get my mind to focus. Not only had I just experienced one of the most thrilling moments of my mediocre career, but I also couldn’t stop thinking of the last time I was in that laundry room. I had been at my lowest of lows—knowing my Singer Spotlight show episode was going to air soon and seeing no future in the music business or even in the city itself. It was amazing what a difference a couple of weeks could make. And any regrets from that time, I was going to have to live with and hopefully learn to forgive myself for.

  ***

  Couscous spit from my mouth clear across the table. I rose from my chair and started apologizing to Nell who had the unfortunate seat in the line of fire. “Sorry, so sorry.”

  “It’s all right. I needed a shower, just didn’t expect it to be with food,” she replied.

  “I’m sorry,” I repeated.

  “What made you do that?” Willow, who was sitting next to me, asked as I sat back down. “There isn’t a bug or hair or something in the food, is there?”

  “Ewww.” Nell stood. “I’m gonna get some more napkins.”

  “Sorry. I shouldn’t have my phone at the table. My parents brought me up better than that.” Nevertheless, I peeked at the just delivered DM again.

  It was nice to see you. Don’t put up any dart boards or pierce any voodoo dolls. I’m swamped, but I will get back to you. Keep writing.

  I had been waiting for it—a reply from the music manager to my thank-you message. And it hadn’t even taken him too long—just a load of laundry and partway into dinner. I flipped my phone upside down.

  When Willow ever so slightly leaned her head toward me and squinted her eyes, I promised, “I’ll tell you later.”

  From across the room, I could see Andre handing Nell some napkins. She was shaking her blonde head of hair and laughing, and I could only imagine the story she was telling him since he then glanced in my direction. Eternally golden from being raised in southern California, he had that cat-ate-the-canary kind of grin on his face. But I didn’t care. I didn’t care about anything else but that promising message from Ryan Thompson. The moving papers I was set to turn in were going to have to wait because I was pretty sure I was in Los Angeles to stay.

  Chapter Two

  We were sitting in the same seats from a week before, and I should have felt more comfortable considering I was back ... back there ... back in the music manager’s office. The hard part was over. I had sung and revealed my original work. I had bled out my written heart the last time I was there. But right then ... it was harder somehow.

  “You didn’t have to shave to prove it hasn’t been that long since our last meeting,” was my ice breaker.

  Mr. Thompson shook his head in amusement. “I much more prefer the no scruff, especially with the show now airing. I was being recognized out and about. Not into that. But your idea works.”

  I think I liked the clean-shaven look. He definitely appeared younger without the beard. He looked like someone I would have hung out with a couple years before ... before I graduated from college and things seemed so much more carefree and achievable.

  “You know, you should work some of that wit into your lyrics sometime. It’s a totally different style. For a songwriter, it will make you easier to sell to a wider variety of artists and genres.”

  “People have told me that about my sense of humor before. It’s not my writing style, though. I kind of become a different person. It’s hard to explain.”

  “So, here’s the thing, Bethany ...”

  Oh, dang, there was a “thing.” I had thought if he asked me to come in, it would be good news. No one lets someone down personally, especially in today’s world of electronics galore. But when I thought about it, I guess that’s what doctors did for terminal patients. Otherwise, it was good news on the phone. Oh, man, I was dying a slow death.

  “You all right?” He interrupted my internal lowering of my career casket.

  “Yeah. Yeah. What’s the thing?”

  “I like your stuff. I do.”

  “Good. But ...?”

  “I can’t take any more on.”

  He paused at the same time as I said, “Oh.”

  If he knew that, why did he taunt me from the beginning? Men. They were all the same. It didn’t matter if they were a college co-ed or a charismatic stud in the base—

  “After your songs. I would like to try working on some of the material with you. If you’re willing to do that.” Pause. “Bethany?”

  Backtrack. Backtrack. What did he just say?

  “Did I get you on that?” he continued. “Was the dart heading straight for my forehead on the—”

  “You did that on purpose?” I expelled.

  “I grew up with three siblings. I’m the youngest. I had every trick in the book played on me. I was their personal ‘Ha! Ha! Let’s fool Ryan.’” I didn’t realize I was actually getting teary until he pointed it out. “Oh, geez, I didn’t mean to make you ... I thought with your sense of humor ...”

  I wiped at my eyes as he handed me a tissue. My meeting with the music exec was going down as the worst job opportunity ever. I was probably going to be shunned from the entire industry.

  “You did say you wanted to help me with my songs?”

  “For real.” He seemed to smirk, and I realized he chose those words to mimic mine when originally tweeting him.

  “I think we can use some of your wit, too, Mr.—Ryan.” I remembered at the last moment to call him by his first name. “That was good. You got me.”

  “Mmmm-hmmm.” I think he actually smiled. “So ... here’s my offer. They still need work, but I’ll invest my time and people to help make these the best they can be so we can pitch them.”

  “Great. Yeah, great.” Yeah, like a thousand smiley and celebration emojis exploding out of my head great.

  “Good. I was hoping you’d say that. I already started passing a lot of the day-to-day stuff off to my associates and need to concentrate on Spotlight. And hopefully before that ramps back up with the live shows, I can work on writing with you. This isn’t normally how things are done, but the show has really inspired me to get back to why I chose music as my area of specialty ... the artistic creativity. I haven’t had a chance to do that in years. You have the talent. Together I think we can get you to the next level. I’m looking forward to it.” It was a legitimate smile. Go figure.

  I knew there wasn’t a clear path on how to break into the music industry. The one Ryan was proposing seemed more mentoring than a sign-on-a-dotted-line deal. But he was the owner of his company and had that flexibi
lity. And I couldn’t be more thrilled.

  “So, what’s your schedule like?” he asked. “Work?”

  “Uh, pretty free since I quit my job.”

  “Quit? Because ...?”

  “I am moving back to Carolina?” It came out as a question because I most definitely did not want it to be true. I wanted him to actually refute it.

  “You what?”

  “I’ve put my time in here. Nothing was happening. It’s too expensive. Time to face reality. Tail between my legs and all that.”

  “Would you ... you’d consider staying now, though? I mean, I suppose—”

  “Yeah. Yeah, of course.”

  “But your job.”

  “Well, I haven’t turned in my official notice yet. My boss knows my intentions, though. She has been avoiding thinking about a replacement since it is a lot of training and, quite honestly, I am a good employee. She keeps trying to change my mind.”

  “What do you do?”

  “Coffee barista.” I grumbled. “I know. It’s not an overly-desirable job ... like the head of a lucrative, headlining company,” I snarked, alluding to his business and feeling a little more confident again.

  “But a very important one, and it sounds like you’re good at it.”

  “I make a good cup of joe. And they let me sing there sometimes.” That doubled the tips I had coming in from the coffee counter, which helped me be able to barely make my low-rent living situation.

  “I know this is asking a lot, but could you see if you can get the end of this week and next week off or at least during the days? That’s when my schedule is a little more open, and it would give us an intensive block of time to work.”

  “I’ll see what I can do. Maybe if I say I’m staying, it would be a good bargaining chip.”

  “Negotiating ... I appreciate that.” He nodded in regards to something I’m sure he did quite regularly in his business.