1
MIA
“Honey, I’m home,”I mutter, hanging my crossbody bag on the hook inside the door. I miss, and it falls in a heap on the floor. Ignoring it, I shuffle to the loveseat in the living room and slump into it, staring ahead like the soulless zombie I am. Telemarketing is the career version of a dementor, sucking the joy out of life and obliterating your faith in mankind. And yourself.
A head of brown hair peeks around the corner, and my sister Gemma’s gaze lands on me. “Thought I heard you come in.” She sucks in a breath through clenched teeth. “Ooo. Bad day at work?”
I point at my head with a floppy finger. “This is my normal-day-of-work face.”
She’s wearing a blazer, collared shirt, and slacks, looking as fresh as she did when she left this morning. I’m wearing a similar getup—hazards of working for a company that thinks telemarketing isn’t enough punishment and adds a strict dress code on top of it—but I look like a crumpled-up paper towel. I feel like one, too.
Gemma takes a seat on the nearby couch, her brows pulling together sympathetically. “It’s a means to an end, Mia.”
I let my gaze shift to her without moving my head. “But it feels like the end.”
She gives me a teasing grimace, then stands and pulls me up. “Come on. Get out of those clothes. You’ll feel better.”
“Then why doyouwear them every day?”
She smooths the fabric of her blazer. “Because we’re different.”
She can say that again. The main thing Gemma and I have in common is motivation… and about fifty percent of our genetic makeup. Gemma’s a career woman, while I’m your garden variety struggling artist.
“Weren’t you planning on busking today?” she asks. “And playing that new song of yours?”
I perk up slightly, like a droopy plant that just got watered. It’s not that I love busking. Ideally, people would offer their credit card numbers on Ticketmaster for my music instead of tossing dirty old change in my guitar case while staring at me like I’m a zoo exhibit.Extraideally, there’d be a bigger buffer between me and the sketchy passersby. But I’m excited about this new song.
“See?” Gemma says, guiding me to my half of our two-room apartment. “You’re already looking more like yourself.”
Once I’ve got on my t-shirt and overalls, Ifeelmore like myself. When I add in all my rings, bracelets, and necklaces, I’ve almost forgotten about my soul-sucking day job.
I drive my beat-up Honda Civic to Huntington Beach, doing vocal warmups as I search for the ever-elusive free parking spot. Twenty minutes later, I tune my guitar, the case open and ready to receive whatever filthy coinage is currently jingling around people’s pockets. Next to it is a paper people can scan to follow me on my social media accounts or pay me on Venmo. I get a couple wolf-whistles and some funny looks as I tweak the keys until the guitar is perfectly in tune. I try to ignore them.
But when I start singing?
It all goes away. It’s me and my music—almost.
While my real-life audience is an ever-changing crowd of passersby, I also have an audience of unpaid bills that sticks around for all my songs and stares me down, reminding me how many times I have to fill that guitar case to afford living in my apartment without my day job.
The black velvet of my case starts to get speckled with change and a few crinkled dollar bills. One guy even sticks around for an entire song.
“Can you playEuphoria Avenue?” he asks afterward. “Do you know it?”
Unfortunately,I want to say. It’s sung by one of the cockiest up-and-coming pop singers in the industry, Austin Sheppard. Most of my social media content is music-related, which means I have the doubtful pleasure of seeing his stuff on the regular. The man is as arrogant as they come. I hate that guys like him can sing generic garbage and make it big, while I’m treasuring up every couple of followers like a kid with a piggy bank.
I smile apologetically at the guy requestingEuphoria Avenue. “I play all my own original songs, actually.” And there’s no way in Hades I’d play that sad excuse for music or sing those awful lyrics, even if Ididn’thave a strict policy about playing only my own stuff.
The kid grimaces and walks away.
I suppress a sigh and start into the next song. Halfway through, a man stops and listens. He takes out a ten-dollar bill, and I give the bridge everything I’ve got, hoping to show him how much I appreciate it.
He drops the bill in the case, then crouches down, picks up a bunch of ones, counting them until he has ten.
I stop my song. “Hey!”
“Thanks for the change.” He holds it up, waves a hand, and continues on his way.
“Jerk,” I mumble. I take a sip from my water bottle and pullmy phone out of my pocket. A quick check of my social media channels tells me what I already suspected: the numbers are the same as they were yesterday. Which is to say, dismal.
