I hesitate, which is apparently enough of an answer.
“Oh my God.” She drops her face into her hands. “They do, don’t they? What did they say?”
“Nothing worth repeating.”
“Taio.”
“Something about a fish. And a dock. It wasn’t clever.”
She laughs, but it’s hollow. “A fish. Great. That’s exactly the vibe I’m going for. Sexy fish energy.”
I push off from the doorframe and move into the kitchen, giving her space but making my presence known. “You’re not as bad as you think. You’re just in your head too much.”
“Easy for you to say. You’re not the one who has to dance in front of twenty thousand people tomorrow night.”
“No, but I am the one who’s watched you rehearse for three days straight. You know the moves. Your body knows the moves. You just need to stop thinking and start feeling.”
Charlie snorts. “Feel the music? Really? That’s your advice? What is this, a dance movie from two thousand three? Because if watchingStep Upwill magically impart some wisdom from the universe, make some popcorn, buddy. I need all the help I can get.”
“I’m serious. You’re so focused on hitting every mark perfectly that you’re forgetting to actually enjoy what you’re doing.”
“Hard to enjoy it when the music sounds like the soundtrack to a Disney Channel original movie.” She hops up onto the kitchen island, her legs dangling. “That’s the problem, Taio. The songs are juvenile. The choreography is juvenile. My whole brand is juvenile. I’m twenty-three years old, and I’m still performing music I wrote when I was sixteen.”
“So?”
“So I’m never going to be taken seriously. I’m like Peter Pan—destined to never grow up. My career is basically over becauseeveryone is bored of me. Nobody wants to watch a grown woman sing songs about first kisses and summer crushes.”
I consider this for a moment. She’s not entirely wrong—the pop landscape is littered with child stars who couldn’t make the transition to adult artistry. But she’s also catastrophizing, which seems to be her default setting.
“Those songs meant something to you once,” I say. “When you wrote them?”
“Co-written. Which is code for my label takes my notes and censors me. My producers take my sloppy thoughts and transform them into something I don’t recognize.”
“But you chose to sing them. You connected with them enough to build a career around them.”
She’s quiet for a moment. “I guess. When I was younger, they felt true. Like they captured something real…things that feel obsolete now, but in the moment felt epic.”
“Then go back to that place. When you’re performing tomorrow, don’t think about whether the songs are ‘mature’ enough. Think about the girl who first sang them and believed every word. Let each song serve its purpose. If that purpose is youthful joy—so what? There’s plenty of time for you to grow up, Tweety. You don’t have to rush it.”
“Tweety because I’m short?” Charlie asks, flipping her long hair over her head, then collecting it into one bunch so she can lasso it all with a thick scrunchie.
“Tweety because you’re my little songbird. Your performance at the Elusive was breathtaking. I’ll never forget it,” I say, full of genuine praise.
“The performance of a song that wasn’t mine,” she counters.
I take another step toward her. “You made it yours.”
Charlie studies me with an expression I can’t quite read. Then she smiles—a real one, small but earnest. “Know what I’m going to do, Taio Wilkes?”
“What’s that?” I fold my arms over my chest, waiting to be impressed at the little firecracker standing barely over five feet in front of me.
“I’m going to believe every damn thing you tell me, so you better not lie to me…ever.”
I hold up my pinky. “You have my word.”
She laughs, and something in my chest loosens. “Okay, fine. So your advice—stop thinking, start feeling. Let the songs be what they are.” She tilts her head. “But the dancing part—it’s still a problem. You make it sound so easy.Just relax. Just feel the music. Like I haven’t been trying to do that for literally years. It’s not that easy. I mean, canyoudance?”
“Sort of.”
