by Marie Powell
“I dunno,” said the tiny girl with the enormous shock of dark curls. Was her name Lucy? Skye thought it was. She looked even less happy to see Harper and Rafe grinning at each other like idiots than Skye was. “We’re in the studio tomorrow and —”
“We’ve got a session with our stylist after that. We couldn’t possibly make it all the way out to Malibu tomorrow,” Harper cut in.
The curly-haired girl looked relieved, but then Harper continued, “How about this weekend? I’m dying to see Malibu again.”
“Great!” Skye lied, through her teeth. “I can’t wait.”
Three hours later, Lucy curled into the pile of snowy white pillows that festooned her bed in Crush House. She knew there was some manner of duvet or quilt on the immense, squashy thing, but she was too tired and fogged with drink to be sure she knew which end was the proper one to put her head on, much less how to undo the elaborate arrangement of pillows, blankets and sheets enough to get under the covers. But there was a soft blanket artfully draped over the spotted navy-blue and hot-pink chair that stood at the foot of the bed. Lucy lunged for it and managed to hook a finger through one of its cabled edges, dragging it back over her incredibly inebriated body.
She would regret not taking off her makeup when she woke up in … She looked at the glowing face of the sleek alarm clock that rested on the bedside table. Three hours. She had to wake up in three hours.
Lucy rolled onto her back and stared up at the blank whiteness of her ceiling. She’d had no idea what she was signing herself up for. Not really. How could she, with Harper keeping that one, very important Rafe-Jackson-shaped detail tucked away and out of sight? Would Lucy have still come to Los Angeles if she had known?
She sat up and looked out of the floor-to-ceiling glass panels that lined her room. The lights of LA sparkled quietly below her, but the distance and the glass couldn’t disguise the pulsing beat of the place. She felt so alive here. How could she even consider the prospect of giving it all up? In her whole life, nothing had felt so right. Ever. So what if Harper was here for Rafe? She was here to be a drummer. It didn’t matter why Harper McKenzie had convinced Lucy to come. Lucy was exactly where she belonged.
And with that, she collapsed into the nest of pillows and closed her eyes.
4. If I Was Pretty, Would You Love Me?
Lucy’s head felt like it was full of broken glass. She’d never been so hungover. Ever.
And she wasn’t the only one. Robyn and Harper were moving as though they might shatter at any second and Toni was positively green. Even Iza groaned every time she moved her head too fast. They were in bad shape and they were also late for their first recording session.
The recording studio was gorgeous. A big white room lit by wide, high windows that filled the place with brilliant natural light. A sturdy man with short, curly hair that was more salt than pepper, and dark chocolate skin was bent over the mixing board in the booth, a chunky set of headphones clamped over his ears.
Lucy stared through the glass. Was that really … No, they couldn’t be that lucky.
“Hey, Ash,” she asked quietly as he pushed past her toward the booth. “That’s not Alexander Holister, is it?”
“YES, IT IS,” boomed a deep voice over the PA system. “And you are LATE!”
Ash turned to walk backward toward the booth, mouthing, Be careful, he can read lips, before he slipped inside.
Lucy ducked across the room to Harper, who was trying to comb out her hair and wincing every time the brush touched her skull.
“Alexander Holister is producing our album!” Lucy breathed, hangover forgotten.
“So?” Harper pressed a hand to her head. “Not so loud, Luce, I’m dying.”
“He’s only the most important producer, like, ever. He’s got more Grammys than anyone. He’s a legend. He —”
“I’m glad at least one of you knows what you’re getting into.”
Lucy spun to see Alexander Holister standing in the doorway of the booth.
“But apparently my reputation isn’t enough to inspire you to be on time.”
“We are s-so sorry, sir,” Lucy stammered. “We’re, um, having trouble with jet lag this morning. It won’t happen again.”
He studied them coldly, clearly not buying the jet lag excuse.
“Young ladies, you have been offered an opportunity that thousands of your peers would kill and die for. But for some reason, you choose to show up for it late and clearly not ready to work. You are wasting my precious time and your talent, though looking at you this morning, I have my doubts if you have that much to waste.”
He looked from Harper, who was leaning weakly against the stool behind her mic, to Toni, who looked as though the bass guitar she was half-heartedly tuning was too heavy for her bowed shoulders. “And, apparently, you are also wasting your brain cells. Lord, save me from little girls who think they’re rock and roll.”
He’s going to reject us, Lucy thought. The very best rock producer on the planet is going to refuse to produce our album all because we had to go to that stupid party so that Harper could find Rafe.
He shook his head and continued. “Pete swears you girls have real potential, so you have one hour. Get it together. And never show up in my studio anything less than ready to work your butts off again. Do you get me?”
“Yes, sir,” Robyn said.
“Sorry, Mr. Holister,” Toni added. Then a queasy look came over her face and she fled.
Alexander sighed and turned back into the booth.
“McDonald’s,” Robyn pronounced. “That’s what we need. There’s one just up the street. Who’s in?”
“Me,” Iza said. “I need a Coke to settle my stomach.”
“Ditto,” Harper sighed. “And a large helping of grease.”
“I’ll stay here, thanks,” Lucy said.
After the others cleared off, Lucy settled behind the drums and ran a few rolls, just tapping them out to give her head the chance to steady itself on her shoulders. She liked the feel of the kit — not really a surprise since it was better than anything she’d ever played on.
“Not bad.”
Lucy jumped half out of her skin. She’d been so focused she hadn’t noticed that Alexander Holister was standing right in front of her.
“Loosen it up some and you might be able to get more speed on the hi-hat at the end of the chorus there,” he said. “That was ‘I’ll Cross the World,’ right?”
“How could you tell from the booth? I wasn’t even really playing,” Lucy blurted. Then she remembered who she was talking to. “Sorry, that was a rude question. I didn’t mean to sound like I didn’t believe —” She cut herself off mid-babble when she realized he was struggling not to laugh. “I mean, yes, that was ‘I’ll Cross the World.’”
“Questions are always allowed, young lady,” he said. “It’s the not asking that’s rude.” He stared contemplatively at the drum kit and then added, “You might try starting the run on the snare, then rolling it up to the toms.”
“Yes, I will. Thank you,” said Lucy.
“You don’t want to try it now?” She thought she saw a flash of laughter in his black-brown eyes. “Or are you so good that you can rework a beat in your head?”
“No, I mean … Of course … I …” Shut up, Lucy, she thought. Just play the drums.
She ran the sequence as he suggested and, of course, it was better.
“I like it,” she said after the second pass. “Of course. But …”
“Spit it out, kid.”
“But what if I double up on the thirteen at the end?”
He looked at her, head cocked, considering. “Maybe. Try it.”
She did the run again. It felt amazing — right in a way it hadn’t been before.
“Good instincts,” he said, nodding. Then he turned and walked back toward the bo
oth.
She sighed. She had a million more questions to ask, but she couldn’t expect him to hang around chatting with her all day. He definitely had better things to do. But still, he had said not asking questions was rude. She didn’t want to be rude.
“Mr. Holister? There’s this moment on ‘Emotional Bloodbath’ that desperately needs a different cross-beat and I haven’t been able to sort out what to do. I …”
She trailed off as the door to the booth closed behind him. Of course. He didn’t want to talk beats with a “little girl who thought she was rock and roll.”
Maybe she’d just go meet Robyn and Iza at McDonald’s.
Then warm blues guitar poured out of the speakers around her. A sleek drumbeat ran under the melody, twisting and snaking through the notes like a living thing. It was beautiful.
A sharp rapping sound broke through the music. It was Mr. Holister, knocking on the glass between the booth and the studio. He waved, clearly indicating she should join him. She scrambled out from behind the kit and hurried to the door before he could change his mind.
When she stepped inside, he was already sliding another record out of its sleeve.
“You know the Dirty Dozen Brass Band, right? Think about the beats on ‘Voodoo.’ ‘Emotional Bloodbath’ needs something like that … with a little bit of an extra uptick.”
“I, um … Dirty Dozen Brass Band?” Lucy asked.
“You don’t know the Dirty Dozen?” Mr. Holister looked heartbroken for her, as if she’d just told him she was a starving orphan.
“No, I’m sorry, Mr. Holister,” she said.
“We’ll have to do something about that,” he snapped, dropping the needle on the record. “And don’t call me Mr. Holister. My name is Alexander.”
“Okay … Alexander,” she said. “And I’m Lucy.”
“I know. Short for Lucille,” he said with a smirk. “I, for one, came prepared today.”
Lucy’s feet were hardly touching the ground when Crush left the studio, hours later. While the others had been recovering from their hangovers, she’d spent nearly three-quarters of an hour listening to classic vinyl with Alexander. Then, when the rest of the band had finally been ready, they’d had a session that even he had admitted “wasn’t half bad for a first try.” Perhaps best of all, as they’d been packing up to go, Alexander had pulled her aside once more.
“You’ve got homework to do,” he’d said. Then he’d piled several books on drum theory and jazz, as well as a fully loaded iPod, into her arms.
“I’ll talk to Jason about scheduling some extra sessions with you. There aren’t many youngsters who are worth my time, Lucille, but if you’re willing to do the work, I think you might just be. Don’t prove me wrong.”
She’d never been so excited about doing homework in her whole life.
Lucy listened to the fascinating mix of classic rock, blues, jazz and tribal drumming Alexander had crammed into the tiny iPod as Ash wove the SUV through traffic. She couldn’t even bring herself to switch it off as she and her bandmates dutifully followed Ash into what looked like a grubby mechanic’s shop. Well, if the mechanics in question had a taste for hot pink, that was.
The sign above the door spelled out Garage in a pink neon scrawl, which made much more sense after they stepped inside the cavernous space. Instead of cars and oil cans, beauticians’ chairs lined the walls and manicure stations were scattered across the concrete floor. The place had been converted into a beauty salon. Only in LA, thought Lucy.
“Makeovers!” Harper crowed.
“They’d better not shave my head or anything,” Toni said. She pointed at one of the cameramen, who Lucy had nearly forgotten were tailing them. “You got that on record? No head-shaving.”
“If I want you to shave your head,” a sharp voice called from somewhere behind Lucy, “you will shave it. And you will thank me. Britney did.”
A tiny woman strode dramatically into the center of the room.
“I am Debra Zeeee!” she proclaimed. “And I am your stylist.”
She was hardly taller than Lucy’s five feet and so thin that Lucy thought she could see the ligaments moving under her shockingly pale skin.
The melodramatic little woman swept around to face them, playing to the camera.
“Alexander Holister may be in charge of your music, but I command your image. And believe me, in this business, your look is more important than your sound. I am not just your stylist — I am your fairy godmother. You bring me pumpkins and I give you Bentleys. You bring me rags, I give you ruby slippers. You bring me mice—” she waved a hand at Lucy— “and I give you princesses. Now, my ducklings, prepare to become swans!”
Lucy had been petrified that Debra Z would actually shave Toni’s head, or try to put that awful chemical stuff on her own hair to straighten it or something, but their makeovers actually went quite well. Debra Z came off a bit more like the Wicked Witch of the West than a fairy godmother, but Lucy had to admit that she knew her craft. Lucy hadn’t expected to enjoy being dolled up like some kind of music video diva, but her perfectly tousled, carefully highlighted curls and her blunt, dark-green manicure suited her. Lucy still looked like herself, just a vastly prettier, vastly more interesting version of herself. Even the thick blue streak that ran through the very bottom layer of her hair was perfect.
“Rebellious,” Debra Z had said, “but without the need to show it off. Like any good drummer.”
She’d done just as well with the others. Iza’s shining pixie cut perfectly highlighted her big eyes and fantastic cheekbones and Toni’s thick bangs gave her just the right touch of sophistication. Harper’s blonde had been lightened to a platinum that made her blue eyes even brighter and her perfect skin glow, while Robyn’s rich red hair had been razor cut around her face into a long, shaggy bob that looked so perfectly undone that you’d never guess how carefully styled it was.
“Now, my darlings,” Debra Z proclaimed. “It’s time for a surprise. Ash, please take the girls to my studio. I will meet you there.”
“More?” Iza whispered excitedly to Lucy as they filed out of the salon, their camera team trailing behind them. “After all this? What else can there be?”
“Plastic surgery?” Lucy wondered, only half-joking.
Debra Z’s studio took up the entire fifteenth floor of a Beverly Hills high-rise that looked down on Rodeo Drive. When they arrived, they found rack after rack of brand-new clothes lined up and waiting — complete wardrobes for each of them, courtesy of Debra Z and Project Next.
The girls dug through their racks as Debra wandered between them, tweaking their outfit choices, or in Lucy’s case, completely vetoing each attempt and making her start again … and again and again and again. Debra seemed to think Lucy’s hopeless lack of fashion sense was charming, but unfortunately so did Ash and the cameramen. They stayed glued to Lucy and her fashion nightmare until Harper finally rescued her by dragging the camera team off to film the other girls learning to create a proper smoky eye from one of the makeup artists instead.
Lucy studied the skinny jeans, hot-pink tank top and oversized men’s tuxedo shirt she’d assembled. This outfit just might score her a nod of approval from Debra, she reckoned. She hoped. Then she noticed Robyn standing in front of her own rack, looking as though she was on the verge of tears.
“Robs?” Lucy said, crossing to her. “What’s wrong? Don’t you like your new gear?”
“No,” Robyn said. Then she cleared her throat, fighting back tears. “I mean yes, it’s all lovely … apart from the fact that most of it won’t fit.”
“What? That doesn’t make sense at all.” Lucy leaned in to check the labels. Sure enough, most of them were a US size two or four. Robyn was at least a US ten.
“Perhaps it’s a mix-up?” Lucy asked hopefully, though a look at the funky blend of hippy and hipster that lined the racks told he
r it wasn’t. These clothes were perfect for Robyn; they were just three sizes too small.
“No, they’re for me. This is just her way of telling me I’m an ugly, enormous cow who must lose weight before they can even be bothered to dress me. There are a few things that fit, but not enough for a whole summer. Not if we’re going to be playing shows and going to events and all that.”
Tears were running down Robyn’s face now, turning her splotchy.
Lucy shook her head. “We’ll speak to her. They’ve no right to wind you up like this. You’re gorgeous just as you are, Robyn. We’ll just tell her to find you the proper sizes.”
“We can’t do that!” Robyn moaned. “Imagine going on camera and announcing I’m too fat for my new wardrobe. I’ll die of shame.”
“Is something wrong, Robyn, dear?” Debra Z called across the studio.
She was deliberately making a scene, Lucy realized, her heart in her throat. Robyn was going to be humiliated.
“Is there a problem?” Debra continued loudly, when Robyn didn’t reply.
The nearest cameraman swung around at the word “problem,” zeroing in on Lucy and Robyn.
“Um, sort of,” Lucy said, trying to stay between Robyn and the cameras. “We’d really rather talk to you privately, Debra, if you don’t mind.”
“Of course, sweetie. I was actually just looking for Robyn. There’s someone I want her to meet,” Debra Z simpered. “Come along up to my office, darling,” she said, dragging Robyn forward into the camera shot with her tiny, steel cable arms. “Lucy, my dear, you stay here with the other girls. We’ll be back in a tick.”
Lucy tried to follow Debra, but the lead makeup artist, Paulina, turned out to be something of an octopus and manhandled Lucy into a makeup chair before she could escape.
