by D. M. Paige
J. T. nodded at me once and followed her out.
THIRTY-ONE
The next day was just weird. I made copies and got coffee, but all I wanted to do was scream. I was on the verge of doing it when Malik found me.
“Follow me. You need to see this.” He pulled me out of the copy room. “J. T. cherry-picked that bad blog review. I have a feeling it’s about to backfire.” He led me into a big conference room filled with guys in suits.
“Lawyers? Execs?” I asked, sliding into a seat next to Malik’s—away from the table.
Malik whispered, “Both. The guy with the ugly goatee is J. T.’s boss.”
Pippa sat at the head of the table. She blinked her superlong lashes in every direction. She didn’t look intimidated. But I was.
“Since you weren’t inclined to listen to me, I thought you might listen to your contract.”
Pippa looked across at J. T., her face still unreadable.
“We can’t release this single. It goes against your brand. And we only want the best for you.” J. T. sounded bored.
Pippa continued. “The contract states that if I can demonstrate that the new material would boost my brand, then I, the artist, have the right to go forward with material of my own creation.”
J. T. stared at me as if asking whether I’d had anything to do with Pippa knowing what was in her contract.
I nudged Malik. He kept staring straight ahead, but the tiniest smile played on his full lips.
“Here you go. The hashtag is newpippa.” She pulled out her cell phone and began reading from Twitter.
“I love the new song. Where can I get it.”
“If this is what the rest of the album is like, I can’t wait to buy it.”
“Just when I thought that Pippa couldn’t get any better, she does this. Can’t wait to buy the new song.”
J. T. sneered, “You can’t seriously be using Twitter as proof.”
“You use it all the time. Aren’t you the one who’s always talking about my social media index? And I’d say that this song brings it way up.”
Several of the suits were deep in their own phones.
One said, “#newpippa’s trending.”
“A million tweets and counting,” added a guy with a ponytail.
“J. T., we share your concerns about the new material,” said one of the execs. Pippa’s face fell, and a twinkle of anger flashed in her golden-brown eyes. “However, she’s right. J. T., you’ve spent the better part of two years showing us how social media numbers are a good indicator of future sales.” He turned to Pippa. “Don’t let us down.”
With that, the room cleared. J. T. was clearly pissed, but he didn’t say another word. I never thought of J. T. answering to anybody. But I guess everyone answered to someone—except maybe Harmon Holt.
Pippa broke into a huge smile and gave me a hug.
“Pippa, that was amazing. You were so brilliant,” I squealed.
“I was, wasn’t I? But I couldn’t have done it without this guy. Thank you,” she mouthed to Malik.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He shrugged and smiled.
She winked at him. “J. T. would kill whoever sent Pippa a copy of her contract with certain portions highlighted.”
And for the first time I met him, he was speechless.
Pippa laughed and linked her arm through mine. “We have to hurry.”
“What for?”
“We have a press conference.”
THIRTY-TWO
A few minutes later we were standing in front of the press on Bonified’s in-house stage. Just before she walked on stage, Pippa grabbed my hand and informed me that she expected me to sing backup for her. I shook my head. I looked out into the sea of press that had filled the small auditorium on the fifth floor.
“You can do this. I’ve heard your voice. It’s almost as good as mine.” She laughed when she said it. “You know what I do when I’m singing. I pick someone in the crowd and sing to them so that it isn’t so overwhelming.”
“You mean someone in your entourage.”
“Sometimes. But I like picking someone I don’t know. The important thing is that you make it so that it’s just you and the other person. Then it isn’t so scary.” She walked out, and the press began yelling questions. “I’ll answer all your questions. But first, a song.”
Malik was standing beside me. He looked at me a long beat and then nodded.
Pippa continued. “None of this would have been possible without the songwriter, Beth Thorne.”
I tried to take a step back into the crowd, but Malik pushed me forward.
The spotlight found me.
I waved at the crowd.
“Beth is going to come up here and join me.”
I shook my head.
“Come on, Beth. Crowd, help me out here. Don’t we want Beth? Beth! Beth! Beth!!”
She could scream anything and they would repeat it. But they were screaming my name.
Malik pushed me forward again, toward the stage. He looked at me. “You can do this,” he said.
Malik had faith in me, and so did Pippa. I didn’t even bother looking for J. T. in the crowd. If I did, I would run out of the club.
I took the stage and began to sing.
THIRTY-THREE
Dear Mr. Holt,
Music was my secret. Thank you for bringing it out into the light. I never thought I could be a singer/songwriter. But this summer proved to me that I could do a lot of things I never thought I could. Singing in front of a crowd, standing up for my lyrics. I did that, but only because you gave me the opportunity.
I understand how difficult the business is now, and I know I have a very long way to go. But now I have the tools to try.
Sincerely,
Beth Thorne
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
D. M. Paige attended Columbia University and her first internship eventually led her to her first writing job at Guiding Light, a soap opera. She writes and lives in New York City.
