It’s a spam call.
One of those calls that tells me my whole life is about to change if I accept the opportunity to open for Gracie Dunn during the U.S. leg of her tour this summer.
I’m not a child.
I’m not falling for something so stupid.
I remember being in the car as a kid and hearing that if my parents paid $8,000 and took me to a random studio in downtownChicago, I’d get my big break. After three weeks of classes, I could be chosen for a record deal.
I threw a huge fit when they told me it was a scam.
I thought it was the real deal.
I was also only eight years old.
I click on the voicemail, knowing the second it’s over, I’ll delete it and move on, just like I’ve done with each one I’ve gotten in the last few weeks.
“Hi, this is Lola Green, a representative with Miss Dunn’s team, calling for Tatum Lewis. I’ve left you a couple of messages over the last few weeks, and I’m hoping to finally get in touch with you regarding Gracie Dunn’s upcoming tour.” My finger hovers over the trash can icon. “Either you’re really not interested in the opportunity, or you think this is fake.” I scoff, getting ready to delete, but the voice stops me.
“Please check your social media for clarification that this is a very real opportunity. After you’ve done that, if you really aren’t interested, I won’t call you again. But, if you are, please give me a call back at—”
I exit my voicemail and go to my Instagram. I change from my personal account to my singing one and click on the DMs.
There’s nothing there.
However, when I click on the requests, I see a list of DMs. Most of them are spam or sugar daddies; some are just people who have slowly become fans of my music, but one catches my eye.
“No fucking way.” I sit up, clicking on the message.
My eyes scan through the paragraph… and then they scan again.
“No. Fucking. Way!”
I jump off my bed.
“There’s no way.”
I click on the profile, and sure enough, it’s the one I follow. A very real, very verified profile.
“Tate, I’ve been following along with your videos for the last couple of months. I think you’re really talented as both a singer and a songwriter,” I read the message out loud, hoping it’ll help it sink in.
It’s real.
It’s fucking real?!
“I would love for you to join me on tour this summer. You’d be one of two opening acts, and I think we’d all have a blast. If you’re interested, please call Lola Green back; she’s been trying to get in touch with you. She’ll send you all the details once you agree.”
I fall back onto my bed, clutching my phone to my chest.
I pull it away just far enough to read the last sentence one last time.
It could be the beginning of the rest of your life.
“Oh my god!”
I feel like a kid. I want to get on my bed and jump around. I want to scream and cry and—
Tell Fletcher.
