“Thanks, Aditi. I love you.”
Matty signed off and gazed at the screen, feeling the loneliness that crept up whenever he got off a call with his family and returned to the quiet of his room.
Chapter 3
Coop
Coop cuedthe beat on his computer and bobbed his head until he became one with the rhythm. He stood in the center of his room and imagined the wall in front of him was actually a packed audience of eager fans.
Welcome to college
I’m gettin’ more knowledge.
I be partyin’ all night and sleepin’ all day
And I be cutting the crusts off my own PB&J
[thank you very much!]
I can eat what I want.
And smoke when I want.
And drink when I want.
And fuck when I want.
Rollin’ outta bed for twelve o’clock class
Still hungover from chasin’ tequila and ass.
Man, that night was one for the books
College is da bomb. I don’t give no fucks.
I see that hottie in the front row
Don’t care ‘bout her name.
We’ll be havin’ discussion section in my bed
Cuz she can’t deny my mad Tinder game.
Coop looked at the lyrics scribbled in his notebook in disbelief that this was the best he could come up with.Discussion section in my bed?Tupac would be rolling in his grave, if he were actually dead. And rapping about sleeping with a girl? Maybe one day, when the rap world was less homophobic, he’d rap about bedding dudes.
He felt there was something missing in all of his lyrics, and no matter how much time he dedicated to writing, he feared that he’d never be able to find it. It was like they were just words with no meaning.
Coop ripped the pages out of the notebook, tore them into tiny pieces, and watched them flutter into his trashcan. After all this time, he thought his rap game would’ve improved more. But he kept coming up with total shit like this.
He glanced at a poster of Copenhagen on his wall. Maybe this would be the year. Any extra cash he had he was saving for attending the International Songwriters Conference. But he couldn’t network with the top artists and producers in music on his way to becoming a world-famous musician if his music sucked. He had to keep practicing, keep writing. And keep hustling, because airfare to Norway was expensive as hell.
When his phone rang, Coop started beatboxing to the ringtone before picking it up. “Hey, Dad.”
“Evan, how are things?” His parents were one of the last people alive who still called him by his real name.
“Things are good.”
“Good. Listen, I had some bad news.” That was how his dad started many sentences nowadays. Coop liked to remember him as the strong Dad from his childhood, the guy who carried him and his sister Erin on his back, who rolled the windows down and sang “Free Falling” at the top of his lungs. His shoulders now had a permanent slump that killed Coop.
