All eyes are on me, and it feels suffocating. I’m exposed to them, and I can’t stand it.
I push my chair out. “I-I need some space…”
Mr. Marcus shrugs. “Why don’t you take the day off? When you’re ready to talk, we’ll be here.”
Skipping school should make any kid happy, but it feels more like a command than a light-hearted request. It sounds too tempting to pass up, and with the state I’m in, I really can’t find any reason to argue with him.
I think they know that too.
“That sounds like a good idea,” Mrs. Lennon smiles. “Marcus could use some help in the studio.”
“Mom,” Charlie fusses.
“She’s right,” Mr. Marcus says as he stands. “Any help is more than welcome. Just think about it.”
I nod before heading back to Charlie’s room and barricading myself under the covers. I stay there for most of the day, my mind repeating the events of the last day to me like a fucking broken record. With every fresh replay, I notice new things popping up in my memory—how if I had taken the trash out, Dad wouldn’t have found the glass, or that the electricity was out since the trailer was sweltering and we were bathed in darkness as the afternoon sun began to set.
Every do-over is horribly new in its own way, and it makes my teeth grit as I imagine the glass cutting into the knick at my throat. It’s fresh Hell over and over again, and I can’t escape it. I sink lower into the abyss that’s threatening to swallow me, that black shadow curling around my limbs and causing me to feel heavy. Breathing becomes hard, and I sense panic gripping my chest.
“Oh, come on!” Mr. Marcus shouts from down the hall, causing everything to crash around me. The darkness recedes, and I’m left panting as sweat pools beneath me. I yank myself upright in bed, shocked to see that most of the day has passed.
I blink, blurry-eyed and disoriented, before dragging myself out of Charlie’s bed. I rub the sleep from my eyes as I shuffle towards the end of the hall where a door is ajar. Neon blue lights filter out of the crack, and I’m drawn to it.
I push the door open, a small gasp leaving me as a full recording booth comes into view. Guitars and keyboards line the walls, hung up or propped as if they belong in this space. The mixing board is massive, stretching along the booth with Mr. Marcus seated in a rolling chair before it as he flips dials with one hand and holds his phone with the other.
He seems agitated as he argues with whoever is on the phone. “Listen, if Harlow can’t hit a falsetto, then consider this a fucking wrap. I’ll find someone who can.”
He sits back in his chair, pinching the bridge of his nose. “And you still aren’t fucking listening to me. Background vocals are going to sell this. Without it, you might as well count this project as a loss.”
He stands abruptly, causing me to back up as he throws a hand up. “Find someone who can hit the falsetto. End of discussion.” He slams a finger on the red button, hanging up on whoever was on the other end, before he rests his head back against his shoulders and sighs.
I try to close the door gently, but end up scuffing my foot along the carpet as I hiss at the loud sound.
Mr. Marcus turns, his brows lifting. “I guess you heardthat…”
I push the door open, abandoning my idea of sneaking away. “Yes…”
He nods. “Music is cutthroat. Now I need to find someone who can hit a falsetto before I trash this whole project.”
That sounds serious.
I don’t know what all goes into making music, but from what little experience I do have, I know it isn’t easy. Marching band is nothing compared to the big leagues, and the part of me that once wanted to fix everyone and everything seems to come back to life as I shift my weight. I play with my fingers, nerves wracking me as I stumble over my words. “I…I can hit a falsetto…”
Mr. Marcus’s lips thin as his head tilts. “Can you?”
I nod.
“Huh,” he hums. “What are the odds? Get in the booth, and let’s see what you got.”
I hold my hands up, shaking my head. “I-I don’t think I can do that—”
“Stage fright,” he winces with a hiss. “Oh, that won’t do. Get in the booth, and we’re gonna fix that right now.”
“What?” Panic seizes me as he opens the booth’s door for me.
“Trust me, kid. In the booth, you go.” He motions me forward, and I feel like lead is weighing my feet to the floor. “Don’t make me shove you in here.”
That shocks me into motion as I shuffle into the cubicle, and he closes the door behind me. Sound is nonexistent here, and it would be almost calming if my heart weren’t about to explode.
