Never mind. It doesn’t matter. What matters are my trembling hands, the teleprompter full of words I have to speak in front of all these people.
I clear my throat as the words appear line by line.
“As many of you know,” I begin, “I’ve been involved in an ongoing effort to reclaim the master recordings of my first two albums,Brightly BurningandNebulous. This is the music of my young adulthood, the evidence of everything I did and felt during those years. I wrote those songs as I sat on IKEA furniture in my first apartment … while my neighbors pounded on the thin walls for me to shut up.” A few people chuckle. “I scribbled the lyrics in notebooks as I sat on park benches and beach blankets and bus seats. Whenever I felt physically captive—waiting in line somewhere or stuck at some boring event—I mentally tested phrases and melodies and stashed them in my head for later. Those songs have been a source of pride and joy, of release and redemption, of sorrow and solace. And I wouldn’t be where I am today without them. But …”
But.
The worst word. The water that freezes in the cracks of a rock and splits it wide open. It seems so inert, and yet it can break something you once thought was solid enough to hold up under pressure.
“Yet that was only a small fraction of my life,” I continue, my voice choked, my eyes burning with the tears I’m trying to contain. “Since then, I have fought and failed, loved and lost, and built a longstanding career that allows me to keep pursuing my passion and share it with all of you. Since then I have grown into someone new, a person I once feared because I feared change. I was afraid to get older, afraid to be a different size, afraid to want different things. Well … I don’t fear any of that anymore; now I welcome it, all the wrinkles and scars and calluses, because every mark is a sign of a life well lived. And I’m not done yet.
“With that in mind …”
The text ends abruptly.
I wait, but there doesn’t seem to be anything else.
Shit, shit, shit.
Where’s the rest of it?
The entire second half of my speech is gone—the “leave the past in the past” and the “masters will stay with my first label,” the “no Harmony’s Versions,” along with “those songs are mine and no document can change that,” “I have nothing to prove,” and “the best is yet to come.”
Did I delete it by accident before I sent it to Stefanie to send to the teleprompter op?
My heart starts thrumming and my legs shake and I look up at everyone who’s watching me.
Okay. I just have to stay calm.
I’ve read this speech so many times; if I focus I can piece together what comes next.
“Um,” I say, “with that it mind, I …”
Breathe.
The word appears on the screen out of nowhere.
What the hell?
Who’s doing this? How am I supposed to breathe when I’ve apparently been hacked? This is—
The word “breathe” scrolls away and a new paragraph takes its place.
I am pleased to announce that Glambam Records has acquired my masters and placed them in an artist-controlled trust, with a reversion clause.
Without thinking, I turn my head abruptly to look at Charles.
What? How?
This isn’t possible. A matter of days ago, not only was I explicitly forbidden from letting Glambam try to buy my masters, I was also at risk of having my career and Griffin’s publicly blown up.
And yet, Charles only nods—and gestures for me to go on.
Griffin nods too, like he’s in on this. God I hope he hasn’t made a huge mistake. I hope he didn’t do something that’s going to get the truth about us leaked.
Not sure what else to do, I shakily read the words. “I am … pleased to announce that … Glambam Records has acquired my masters …”
People start to cheer but I keep going, elevating my voice over the sound, because it’s only pronouncing one syllable after the next that stops me from spiraling.
