OPEN YOUR HEART: Material Girls 1

by Henry, Sophia

Mom pauses. I think she wants to roll her eyes, but she’s so much better than that. She’s going to come at me the passive aggressive way. It’s the annoying trait Mom has. One I’m glad she didn’t pass on.

  “I understand she has a life, as well. But you need to remember how hard you’ve worked to get where you are. You can’t lose sight of your focus.”

  I know she’s trying to be supportive of me and all the exciting things in my life, and reminding me how hard I’ve worked for everything that’s coming together—but I can’t help but think it’s actually a passive aggressive dig at Liz. She doesn’t think Liz had to work as hard because of her family. I beg to differ. I’d bet my right nut that she had to work her ass off to become a surgeon. The family she come from can give her the upper hand by sending her to the best schools money can buy, but it doesn’t take the place of studying, clinical practice, and work ethic. I’m assuming not everyone—no matter what school they went to—has the talent to cut it as a surgeon.

  “I know, Mom. I know more than anyone.”

  “Because you’re my smart, passionate boy. I’m so proud of you. Always remember that.”

  I tap my temple with a finger. “It’s ingrained.”

  “You have people who count on you. You keep that group together. You keep it running. You think Franklin could handle the business aspect?”

  “Wow, Mom! You’re beating Fozzie down today. What did he do?”

  Mom must’ve seen something she didn’t like. She follows our social media like a hawk. She rarely comments on any of the stupid shit we do when we’re drunk and acting like fools. Honestly, she’s the most nonjudgmental person. But Fozzie has always annoyed her and I don’t know why. Mom being Mom, I guess. Just like her views about Liz and I getting involved. I know she’s trying to save my heart from crashing and burning, but sometimes you have to let the birds fly.

  “Is it noon?” I ask, scanning the walls for a clock that I know isn’t hanging. The only time there had been a clock was on the front of our old VCR, and that was switched out for a DVD player years ago.

  Mom retrieves her phone from her pocket—which I could have done—but I like making her feel like she’s taking care of me. “It’s five ’til.”

  “Fuuuck!” I jump off the couch. “Gotta get to work.”

  “Good thing it’s two minutes away.”

  “Right?” Before I leave, I lean down and kiss her forehead. “I love you, Mom.”

  “I love you, too.” Before I sail out the door, I turn around. “Will you promise to give Liz a chance?”

  “Of course I will.” Mom pauses. “Does this relationship run that deep for you Austin?”

  “Yes. I mean, I don’t know where it’s going, but I want to continue it. I feel that strongly about us.”

  “There’s only one thing I want for you in life and you know what it is.”

  “You want me to be happy.”

  “And if this girl is what does it, then I’ll keep an open mind. I mean, Lord knows you’ve brought home worse.”

  That’s keeping it real right there.

  “Thank you.” I blow her a kiss and shut the door behind me as I leave.

  Mom isn’t a liar, nor does she hold grudges against people for no reason. Sure, she has an unhealthy hatred for Commons Department Stores, but millions of people feel that way about Wally World, so how is her attitude any different?

  10

  Liz

  Ever feel like a black cloud is following you? That’s how I’ve felt since my last physical therapy appointment with Vik. The one where I realized that I can’t continue pretending that I’ll be able to operate again. I’ve been going through the motions for months, fooling people into thinking that I’ll be ready to go once my fellowship is complete. Now all I feel is that sense of dread that comes with having to tell my mentor, Dr. Crowder. The quicker I come clean and stop wasting everyone’s time, the quicker I can move on to healing—and figuring out a plan for what I’m going to do with my life.

  “What are you doing here?” Jordan Fletcher asks when I enter the physician’s lounge. Upon seeing him, all I want to do is turn around and walk out without a word. But I can’t because I always have to play nice.

  “I have an appointment with Dr. Crowder,” I answer without looking at him. Instead, I head straight for the coffee machine and pour myself a cup. I arrived fifteen minutes early so I thought I’d stop in the lounge and say hello to anyone that was around. I regret the decision now.

  “Were you at the Intermission show a few months back?” he asks.

  Why is he making small talk? He never makes small talk.

  “Yeah. I went with my sisters.” I hope he doesn’t ask me why I didn’t say hello. Because there’s no part of me that can create any kind of nice response to that question.

  “I thought I saw you. I talked with Madeline a bit at the show, but it seemed like you were busy.”

  “Busy?” I ask, looking at him for the first time. “Yeah, I guess. It was a concert. I was there to see the bands.”

  I’ll admit, Jordan has always intimidated me. He’s the type of guy who will do anything and everything to get ahead. I don’t understand that mentality even though I’ve been around it my entire life.

  “You were talking to a guy from the first band. Full of tattoos. Messy hair.” He rubs his head as if I don’t know where hair is located. Maybe he’s trying to be cute, but the demonstration only leaves his shaggy frat-boy coif a disheveled mess. If I were in a better mood, I might laugh, but not today.

  “Austin. Yes. He’s extremely talented. The band sounded great.” I grab a paper cup off the counter and fill it with coffee.

  “I saw you leave with him.”

  I pause. This isn’t really territory I want to go into with Jordan, of all people.

  He continues without waiting for me to speak, “Slumming it, don’t you think?”

  “Excuse me?” I ask. It annoys me, not only because he has the nerve to say it, but also because shallow thoughts like that crossed my mind when I first worried about what my family and friends would think about Austin.

  “Not really your type, is he?”

  I set my coffee cup on the counter before I throw it in his face. “I’m not sure how you think that is an appropriate conversation, but it’s not.”

  “Sorry!” He holds his hands up as if telling me he’s backing off. “Just making sure you’re staying on top of your game, Liz.”

  “Don’t worry about me, Jordan. I’m doing just fine.”

  He smirks. “You’re doing just fine? Have you gotten a timeline for when you’ll be able to operate yet?”

  “Not yet,” I admit, which is true but not the entire truth. It’s not Jordan’s business. “My PT and I are working with Dr. Crowder on a plan to get back into rotation as soon as I finish my fellowship.” It’s a lie, but he doesn’t need to know anything yet. I’ll be the laughing stock soon enough.

  “Oh, that’s right! The fellowship that your parents used their power and influence to get you just so you could stay in the program. The one that knocked a deserving person, who actually applied, out of the running. How could I forget about your fellowship?”

  In an effort to reel in my anger, I pause to count to five before speaking. Leave it to Jordan to dig straight into my internal insecurities. Other people may think what he does, but he’s the only person who would ever say something like that to my face.

  “My fellowship is none of your business,” I say jabbing my finger toward his chest. “And you should probably tread lightly when talking to me because, as you stated, my parents are very influential in this hospital—and this city.”

  “Are you threatening me?”

  Instead of an answer, I smile innocently, then grab my coffee cup and brush past him, elbowing him on my way toward the door.

  I’ve never spoken up to Jordan before, and I never thought I would. But there’s no way I’m letting this manipulative douchebag get the best of me. I’ve either
come to terms with the fact that my career is ending or I’m trying to sabotage it myself.

  Guess I’m about to find out.

  I hurry down the hall to the office space where Dr. Crowder and I planned to meet before he heads into his next surgery today. When I arrive, he’s relaxing behind the desk with his feet propped up and a magazine in his hands.

  Thankfully, he’s the only one in the lounge right now.

  “Hey, Dr. Crowder!”

  He looks up and smiles. “Liz! Come on in! Shut the door, please.”

  I nod and close the door behind me. “I assume you’ve talked to Dr. Sharma?” I ask, wringing my hands as if trying to twist the ability back into them.

  “I have.” He sits up, places his feet on the floor and stands. “I’m going to ask you a question and I need an honest answer.”

  I nod. I know what’s coming. I know this is it.

  The end.

  “Do you believe you’ll be able to perform surgical procedures within the next six months?” he asks in a gentle, but firm tone before reaching down to grab his coffee cup off the table.

  I look him in the eye, because even though this is the hardest answer I’ve ever had to give in my life, I have to do it professionally. Dr. Crowder’s respect and recommendation is essential to my future if I’m going to stay in the medical field.

  “No,” I say. It comes out in a squeak, so I clear my throat and continue. “I don’t believe I will.”

  “I’m sorry, Liz.” He steps closer to me and closes his eyes longer than a blink. “I’m truly sorry, because I know what happened with your hand is not your fault. You’ve been doing amazing work in your fellowship, but as you know, we created that opportunity to give you time to rehab. If you’re not going to be able to operate when the fellowship ends, we have to look at the reality of your future in surgery.”

  I nod.

  Keep it together, Elizabeth. Keep it together. I bite my bottom lip and lift my eyes to the ceiling quickly.

  “You’re the best surgeon I’ve mentored in years, Liz. I’m not just talking about skill and drive. You’re always willing to step up. You figure things out on your own and work independently with little supervision needed. And patients absolutely love you. You have a way of easing their minds, making a scary experience a bit less stressful for them. That’s a brilliant skill, one that can’t be taught.”

  I nod.

  Anyone in my position would beg to hear this kind of praise from Dr. Crowder. I know he’s trying to make this easier on me, but it’s making me feel worse. Being forced to walk away is already killing me—hearing someone I admire tell me how good he thinks I am is nailing spikes in my coffin.

  “Everyone knows how talented you are. Everyone can see it.”

  “Not everyone,” I say, thinking of Jordan.

  “Absolutely everyone. Which is why you’re seen as a threat to some.” Dr. Crowder smiles.

  I try to return it, but I can’t. I physically cannot move the muscles to smile.

  “I’m trying to help. I really am.” He runs his fingers through his salt-and-pepper hair. To his credit, as a decent human being, he looks absolutely gutted, like he never wanted to have this conversation. “You have a bright future in medicine, Liz. Just because it’s not surgery doesn’t mean your career is over.”

  I nod. If I do anything else I’m going to break down right here in front of one of the most revered surgeons in Charlotte. Pathetic isn’t a good look.

  “I know how much this must hurt. But you’re already very well-respected in this hospital, and that reputation will follow you into the next phase of your career. This isn’t the end.”

  It is the end.

  “Let’s set up a time next week in my office to sit down and discuss options for your future, okay?”

  At the risk of sounding completely paranoid, I wonder how long Dr. Crowder has been holding off on having this conversation? There’s no doubt he’s been getting pressure from the other surgeons. I’ve been dead weight for months and it’s time to shed the excess baggage.

  I understand completely. It still sucks.

  I nod and paste a smile on my face. “Thank you, Dr. Crowder. I truly appreciate your kind words and encouragement.”

  “Harry. You can call me Harry.” He extends his hand and I shake it firmly.

  It’s definitely the end.

  “Thanks, Harry. I’ll be in touch next week.”

  I exit the office feeling completely defeated. I knew this was coming, but instead of owning up to it and facing it head on, I kept faking to see how far I could put off the inevitable conversation because of my own damaged ego.

  I wish I could be optimistic about the future. Finally admitting I can’t perform surgery anymore frees me to move forward in the medical career that I want. I wish I could be as excited as I was when Austin and I discussed it, but I can’t. I’m too consumed by the failure.

  11

  Austin

  “I called you all to this fine establishment today,” Nelson begins in a very regal voice, “to let you know that RGA Records wants to sign you.” He lifts his beer in the air, silently asking the rest of us to clink our bottles.

  “Holy shit!”

  “Fuck yeah!”

  Fozzie and Tim are over the moon, as anyone in our position would be. Being signed by a big-ass label is the dream. And then there’s me—and I have doubts.

  “Do we have time to think about it?” I ask.

  All heads swivel toward the weirdo, which I expected.

  I want to join in on the toast, because we should celebrate the fact that a label is interested. I just don’t have it in my heart.

  “Yeah, of course. I want you guys to weigh all of your options before you make a decision,” Nelson says. I appreciate that he’s a levelheaded dude who gives us unbiased advice instead of trying to sway us one way or another.

  I hate that my first reaction isn’t happiness. I feel like a complete dick about it. But I can’t ignore the sinking feeling in my gut that tells me signing with RGA isn’t the best road for us.

  It’s no secret that Nelson has been sending our demo out and talking to various labels, since we all agreed on testing those waters just to see if there’d be any interest. We’d even flown to New York a few months ago to meet with RGA, but thought nothing came out of it.

  “What’re your thoughts, man?” Fozzie asks.

  “Do you really want to sign? I mean, we said we’d take a look at our options, but we haven’t really discussed everything that goes along with selling our souls.”

  Tim rolls his eyes, which makes me want to punch his stupid face because I don’t even think he should have anything to do with this decision. Though, I will admit that using the term “selling our souls” may be a bit dramatic.

  When I was younger, being signed by a major label was my number one goal. In my head, that was the epitome of “making it” as a musician. Until I realized, after research and talking to other artists and soul-searching for what I really want out of life—signing with a major label is not my goal anymore.

  Everyone has a different path. And if the guys want to sign with RGA, maybe my path isn’t with them. Which means starting over. Again.

  “No, I’m with you,” Fozzie agrees. “The game has changed. Signing might not be our best choice. We’ve got some things to work through as a band before we agree to anything.”

  I lean back in my chair and blink a few times. “I thought this was your ultimate dream?”

  We’ve had the discussion numerous times in the past. He thinks being with a big label means more exposure and more opportunity, which eventually leads to fame and money. I don’t agree with that. I think we could make more money by being with an indie label. Especially with how the music industry has changed over the last ten years. Plus, I don’t want to sell my soul or be someone’s puppet, and that’s the feeling I get about signing a contract.

  “It was—at one point. But I’ve been thinking about it
more recently. Is it really my dream? Or is it some ego bullshit, ya know?” Fozzie looks around the dark bar, then back at me. “There’s always been this voice in my head saying if a major label wants us, that means we’re special. Look at how many bands get rejected. But if they pick us: Whoa!” I laugh when Fozzie wiggles spirit fingers in front of him. “But is that real or is it a fucked-up illusion created by people struggling to keep their place in a changing industry?”

  “Are you kidding me?”

  “No. Look at how huge indies have become. Not in terms of corporate greed—but by doing right by the artists. Keeping creative control and making money. And look how many bands the big labels have screwed over? Nelson is a prime example.” Fozzie tilts his beer toward our manager.

  “Fucked me over real good,” Nelson says before taking a drink.

  “Fucked you how?” Tim asks, looking up from his phone.

  Nelson picks up a cardboard coaster his beer was on, holds it between his middle finger and thumb and spins it. I know he hates telling the story, but it’s completely relevant to our making a decision.

  “I was in a band in the nineties. Put out some EPs, toured around the U.S., Europe. We were huge in Serbia,” he says with a wink. “We signed with a big label who shall not be named. They sent us to L.A. for three months to record an album. And it released on September 10th, 2001.”

  “Sounds like the dream. So how’d they screw you?”

  “Well, if you remember American history, September 11th, 2001, was a pretty shitty day for our country. The label cut all marketing and pulled the record.”

  Tim tosses his phone on the table and gives Nelson an evil eye. “Thousands of people died and you’re pissed over a record label pulling your record and marketing?”

  “No, dickbag, I’m not. I’m pissed that they took away our ability to bring in revenue and then sued us for the cost of making the record. We had to pay back the cost of the producers and the songwriters that helped us, even the studio we recorded at and the place we stayed in L.A. Everything,” Nelson finishes.