With a balloon of helium inflating my gut, I sprint down the alley toward the staff parking lot and climb into the old sedan Folly and I share.
The drive to Adelicia is a blur. I blast the radio all the way there, windows down, hair scooped into the wind. Every time a new song comes on, I mentally organize its metadata—a habit I’ve picked up since going to school for music. Who produced the song? Who got writing credits? Was the singer involved in the creative process?
It almost always adds to the listening experience for me, knowing a song’s origin story. The background of its makers. Privately, I think of it as honoring artists unseen.
I park on the street outside the music label’s building. It’s nothing more than a refurbished old house with blue-painted brick and dated window shutters, as unassuming as all legacy publishers on Music Row. I live not far, in a dilapidated townhouse, with Folly. We walk past the Stillwater office every Wednesday night on our way to Fred and Frankie’s, where some of my friends play the open mic night on the patio.
I take a few deep breaths before leaving the car, my head still teeming. A few more as I walk to the front porch. A few more as I open the door and step inside.
A girl who looks like the photographic definition of a tween is sitting behind a massive desk in the entryway. Small shoulders, dewy skin, and sparkly pink nails moving across a keyboard with the speed of a seasoned professional.
When she sees me, the girl gasps. “Dad! Paige is here!”
“Just a moment!” the voice from the phone calls from the depths of the office-house.
“Hi,” I say.
She smiles, revealing green rubber bands on her braces. “Hi! I’m Emily. I’m thirteen and I just got my first-ever period this morning.”
I have not a clue how to respond to this. As a youngest child who never really babysat, my experience with children is negligible.
“Congratulations?” I guess.
“Thanks!” She beams. “My mom’s organizing my menstruation celebration for tomorrow. Do you want to come?”
My lips curve. “Will there be cake?”
“Red velvet, obviously.” Emily’s voice reminds me of my sister Zara’s: deeper than you’d think from looking at her.
“Are menstruation celebrations… common at your age?”
She snorts. “Duh.” When I don’t immediately reply to this she adds, “I liked your songs. I listened to both of your demos this morning, and then I told my dad to listen.”
“Thank you. Are you…” I cock my head. “The assistant?”
She smiles even bigger and nods. “Only because it’s summer break and Andy is on vacation in Gulf Shores. I’m earning five dollars an hour.”
I smirk. “Do you know what the minimum wage in Tennessee is?”
She chews on her lip. It’s possible she doesn’t even know whatminimum wage is as a concept, but like a true Gen Alpha, she googles it in three seconds flat.
The sound of footsteps drags my attention to the hallway, where a man dressed in khakis and a black golf shirt emerges. He has a tapered nose and bright blue eyes, attractive in a way that has everything to do with presentation. I’m guessing he’s nearing forty.
Paul Friedman shoves his hands in his pockets while his gaze roams over me with a steady bearing. I feel like a piece of artwork for sale in a ritzy gallery. Temporarily enamoring, forgettable the moment you move on to the next piece.
I’m wearing a plain white cotton T-shirt with my jeans (the waitstaff uniform at Oyster Diver) and my mess of dark curls is tugged into a braid down my back. Perhaps I should’ve stopped home to change into something less casual before this… interview? Is this an interview?
“I’m Paige.” My voice cracks as I offer him my hand.
“Paul Friedman,” he says as he shakes. “Are you feeling okay?”
I clear my throat. “Yeah, just… concert last night.”
“Ah.” Paul turns to his daughter. “Emily, if anyone calls for me, take a message, okay?”
She smacks her gum, eyes still on her computer screen. “’Kay. When you’re finished, I’d like to discuss a raise.”
Paul turns his severe look on me with a questioning, accusatory glint in his eye. I smile apologetically. “Very well. Paige, you can follow me.”
