“Oh.” Tim huffs, slinking down in his chair. “Sorry, man.”
“Contracts aren’t written to benefit new artists. They’re written to benefit the label. And if you don’t realize what you’re getting yourself into, you can be screwed big time,” Nelson says.
“I read about this one band who got signed by a label of the dude who was their biggest competitor. The label never planned on releasing their music. They just wanted to shut the band up for years and years. So the other guy could become famous.”
“I feel like you guys are all gloom and doom. These stories happen to the minority rather than the majority,” Tim says.
“Do you ever research things? We hear shit like this all the time from guys we know and trust,” Fozzie snaps.
“Gloom-and-doom stories aside, I, personally, don’t want to give up the control or the freedom to make the music that we want. I don’t want it overly produced or have our vision changed by suits because they think they know what’s right,” I say honestly.
I’m not trying to sound arrogant, or suggesting that people at large record labels don’t know what they’re doing. Obviously, they do. But if they want a certain sound or a certain look, a band has to conform, and I don’t want to do that. I don’t want our music changed to appease the masses. That’s not what it’s about for us. Personally, I’d rather sign with a small independent label.
“Yeah, I was thinking about that, too,” Fozzie agrees.
“You guys know that Drowned World is my number one priority, but what about my other stuff? Will I be able to keep working on side projects?”
I’m constantly collaborating with others in the music scene on various projects. My latest is with a friend in DC; we’ve been recording our parts on our own and uploading it to a shared Dropbox account so we can mix it and bring it together.
I’m completely committed to my band and absolutely aware that other ventures will have to take a back seat, but if I have downtime, I need to make sure I’ll still be able to work on projects with other artists. That’s a huge deal-breaker for me.
“If Drowned World is your number one priority, why are you worried about side projects?” Tim sneers.
“Fuck you, man! At least Drowned World is a priority for me,” I lash out at him. “I put all my time and energy into this band. Can you say the same?” My heart races and I can feel the anger heating my face. I didn’t expect to have it out with Tim today, but here we are. I’m not about to sit here and let him question my commitment.
“What does that mean?”
“You’re late all the time. You’ve skipped more soundchecks than you’ve made it to. You show up high as fuck, despite us having multiple conversations about how we don’t want that shit in our band.”
“Your band,” Tim spits. “It’s always your band. I’m part of this band, too!”
“Then maybe you should fucking act like it,” Fozzie says.
Tim has a nervous habit of bouncing his knee up and down quickly. Right now, the table is shaking so hard we all have to grab our beers to make sure they don’t topple.
“I’m not signing a fucking contract with you until I see changes,” I tell him.
Tim’s demeanor changes from anger to concern. “Am I on the chopping block? Do you want me out of the band?”
“Do you even want to be part of the band?” Fozzie asks. “It’s a hell of a lot more work than showing up five minutes before a show.”
“Yes,” Tim says emphatically. “I want to be part of the band.”
Fozzie and I exchange glances. We’ve talked about getting a new bassist on multiple occasions; we’ve just been too busy to really think about it. Maybe we’re closer than we thought.
“We’ve got a few festivals coming up. Let’s see what happens,” I say, downing the rest of my beer and getting up from the table. “I’ve gotta get to work.”
These are the things that keep me awake at night. Am I starting a major life event with someone who’s not all in? Someone who sleeps through soundcheck and shows up minutes before shows, while Fozzie and I—and a few rad friends who lovingly act as our roadies—get everything set up.
I’m the one who’s put my heart and soul into our success. I’m the one who paid for studio time to make our demo EP. I’m the one who booked all of our gigs—from regular appearances at local venues to mini tours where we’d take a month and travel to places within driving distance to be seen and get people excited about us.
This band is my baby, and there’s a huge part of me that doesn’t want my success tied to Tim.
We need to see some changes from Tim before we sign this contract—if we sign the contract.
12
Liz
Leaning back against the elaborate booth, I allow the waiter to drape a black napkin across my lap. The color matches my pencil skirt. Maddie got a white napkin because she’s got a pair of white capris on.
It’s the little pretentious things that I don’t usually notice. Why does the color of the napkin matter when all I’m doing with it is wiping my dirty hands off?
Mama cares. Daddy cares. Hundreds of other people must care, because we’re sitting in one of the busiest restaurants in Uptown Charlotte.
It’s not the place I want to be right now. I’d rather be at my house, tucked in my king-sized bed with the duvet over my head, mourning my career alone like I did yesterday after leaving the hospital. Was it productive? Nope. But it was necessary.
Mama sets her menu on the table. “How’s the planning coming along, Elizabeth?”
“Hmm?” I ask. So consumed in my own thoughts, I wasn’t paying attention to her at all.
“The planning, for the auction? How’s it coming?”
She’s talking about the Silent Auction and dinner, an event I thought of three years ago when Hugo, one of the guys in the crew who landscapes my parent’s yard, found out his mom had cancer. She didn’t have insurance, and he and his wife, Maria, didn’t have the means to pay the massive bills. I knew they were absolutely devastated, not only by the costs, and I had to do something to help.
Hugo and Maria’s ordeal opened my eyes to how devastating it is for many families—even those with dual incomes, working at least forty hours a week—to pay for catastrophic medical expenses. Instead of using the event as a one-time fundraiser for a single family, I created a nonprofit to be able to help more families pay for medical care. The event was very well-received, thanks to the amazing event-planning company who took care of all the details. As someone who’d never planned a huge event before, I knew I had to hand it off. My parents and their friends really helped with the word of mouth. It’s become one of the biggest events in, raising almost $500,000 over the last two years. We’ve been able to help multiple families with that money.
“Oh, good, I guess. I’m hands-off this year. Too much going on. Ariana and her crew are taking care of the details again.”
“Are you getting that same band from last year?” Maddie asks. “They were so good. Trent loved them.”
I make a mental note to make sure Ariana did not book the same band. If Trent loved them, I don’t want them back.
“Or maybe Austin’s band?” Maddie suggests.
“Well, that would be awkward, asking him out of the blue,” Mama says. She lifts her water glass, then pauses and looks at me. “You did break it off with him, didn’t you, Elizabeth?”
I scowl at Maddie, then shift my gaze to my own water to avoid eye contact with Mama. I’ve barely spoken to my parents since Maddie’s birthday. On the rare occasions I have spoken with them, I didn’t mention Austin at all. My personal life isn’t open for anyone’s opinion, despite what they might believe.
“I’ve been busy at the hospital, Mama. No time for much of anything.”
“That didn’t answer my question. I thought your father and I made it clear that you shouldn’t be dating someone like him?”
Someone like him. Someone like your youngest daughter?
I
t takes all my might to bite my tongue. Instead I answer, “I’ve hung out with worse people in my life than an attractive, talented man who thinks I’m amazing, Mama.”
“Of course he thinks your amazing. I bet he says he loves you, too, doesn’t he?” The mocking question slides out of her mouth, in a tone sweet as the iced tea the server places in front of her.
The worst part about it isn’t that she doesn’t like Austin or she thinks he’s with me for our money, it’s the fact that Mama was the one who came from less money than Daddy. He was born into wealth, but she was born and raised regular, old middle class. It still makes me sad that she turned her back on her family when she got married. Slowly phased them out by the time I was in elementary school. She—of all people—has no right to question Austin’s motives for wanting to be with me.
I allow the server to set our drinks down before I speak. “He’s not what you think, Mama. He’s very ambitious and interesting and deep.”
“Deep,” Mama repeats.
The only time she uses the word deep is when she’s talking about the level of water in our pool. Deep isn't a trait my parents appreciate in others. They see it as a character flaw. Deep means introspective, maybe a dreamer. They have no use for dreamers. Logical, academic, business minds are the ones that impress them.
I can’t do this right now. I thought going to lunch with Mama and Maddie would help me heal a little bit, but now I’m regretting my decision. In theory, these two people should be the ones I can open up to. They used to be the first people I turned to when I needed a shoulder to cry on.
The exact opposite is true today. Telling them my residency ended is a failure. Telling them I have to start over in another program is humiliating—not only for me—but for my family, as well. I can’t say anything right now.
Part of me wants to call Emily; she wouldn’t care at all. She’d be my cheerleader. She always has been if it’s something that pisses my parents off.
I can’t bear to be around anyone in my family right now.
I take a deep breath and pull my phone out of my pocketbook. At first, I open my texts and click on an old message, as if I’m reading something important that just came in. Then I pull up the number of the only person I want to talk to right now.
Austin.
Me: Hey! What are you up to?
Very casual. Easy. Keep it cool, Liz.
Me: Do you want to grab a drink?
Still casual. A little creepy that I double-messaged, instead of typing that in the first one. But hopefully he won’t think anything of it. I set my phone down on the table next to my plate.
“Is that work?” Mama’s voice is thick with disapproval when she speaks. She hates when anyone texts while engaging with people. She thinks it’s the epitome of bad manners. “Do they need you?”
“Yeah. Things are crazy, as always.”
Does she know that I talked to Dr. Crowder? It’s not improbable since word travels fast and Mama seems to have ears all over the city.
“You know how rude it is to text at the table,” Maddie says.
She becomes more and more like Mama every day, and that’s not a compliment.
Me: Austin, I’m so sorry to bother you. I know you’re hanging out with your cousin, but I really need you. I’m sorry I didn’t call you yesterday. I had a meeting with Dr. Crowder and my residency and fellowship are ending. I couldn’t face anyone. I’m devastated and lost and stuck at lunch with Mama and Maddie. I can’t even breathe without wanting to cry.
Me: You’re the only person I want to be with right now.
A response text finally pops up.
Austin: Absolutely, babe. I’ll be at your house in an hour.
Me: Thank you. See you soon.
“I have to go in,” I say, shoving my phone in my purse. “I’m so sorry to rush out like this.” I push back from the table and stand immediately, without waiting for any kind of response. “Thank you for lunch, Mama.” I say even though I haven’t ordered any food. Then I lean over and kiss her cheek. “Bye Maddie,” I call over my shoulder as I rush toward the door of the restaurant.
13
Austin
“Harris Commons’ daughter?” Vinny asks, casting his line with ease. It lands inches away from mine.
“You couldn’t have cast on the other side of the boat?” I ask dryly. I hate fishing. But I love hanging out with my cousin and we rarely get time together. Both of our jobs keep us out of town a lot. He’s a traveling electrician and I’ve been touring.
“This is my side,” he says with an unaffected shrug.
“It’s my side, too.”
“I’m older.”
“This is why I stopped fishing with you.”
“You stopped fishing with me because you suck at fishing.”
Despite Vinny and I having been raised by native New Yorkers who moved to Charlotte before we were born—my cousin adopted a thick Southern accent. It’s actually pretty comical when a dude who sounds like him introduces himself as Vinny. He’s either a person who picks up accents easily and can’t help it, or he amped up his Southern charm to impress girls.
Which goes to show that relationships and what people are looking for in a mate is subjective. I’m not trying to mess with girls who are impressed by his thick Southern accent. I prefer General American—that sort of neutral, non-regional accent used by people in broadcasting.
After reeling in my line, I turn my back to Vinny and cast from the opposite side of the boat, knowing damn well I’m not going to catch a thing over here.
“Back to Harris Commons’ daughter. How’d you get involved with her?”
“I was on my way to class a few months ago, the night we had that ice storm. Saw a car smashed between two trees while driving up Queens Road West on my way to class. I stopped to check on it and saw a girl slumped over the wheel.”
“Did you make it to class?”
“What?” I glance at him over my shoulder. Not the question I expected.
“Did you make it to class or did you spend all your time saving the damsel in distress?”
“I made it to class…late.”
I never cared much about school when I was in it. Going to college never crossed my mind. As I started learning more about the music industry and what I wanted out of my career, I decided to take a few classes. I’m not book-smart, but I can understand concepts that are interesting to me. And not getting screwed over by a management company or record label was very interesting to me. There are so many horror stories about mismanagement of money, having a basic understanding of accounting is essential. I have no problem with someone else handling the business aspects of our career, but needed to know enough so we weren’t fleeced.
“You have to get over the hero complex, Austin,” Vinny warns.
“What?”
“You’re attracted to people who need saving.”
“I’m not—” I begin.
“Don’t even!”
“If you’d let me finish a goddamn sentence! I was saying that I’m not trying to save her. She doesn’t need saving.”
Vinny chuckles. “I thought you were denying your history.”
No reason to deny anything. Vinny is right. I am attracted to broken people. People who need me. People who need someone. White-knight syndrome.
It’s not just women, but friends. What can I say? I like the underdog. I like making friends with the kid everyone is picking on and making sure he knows that I’m not going to be a bitch-ass bully just to impress the crowd. I’m gonna have his back. Maybe it was growing up with Vinny, the stereotypical alpha male, my entire life. Vinny’s a dick—definitely had bully moments when we were kids. I’d take a bullet for him, but he can be a douche.
“So, you saw her car on the side of the road…” Vinny leads me back to the story.
“It had already started sleeting and there were accidents all over. I knew it would take hours for an emergency crew to get to her, so I took her to the hospital.�
�
“If that was over a year ago, why am I just hearing about her now?”
“Well, we didn’t actually meet that night. When I dropped her off, the nurse told me she was a surgeon at the hospital and in the Commons family. So I left. Then she came to that show we did with Intermission.”
“The one I was at?”
“Yeah.” I nod.
“Did she come to thank you or—?”
“No. She didn’t know I brought her to the hospital. I never told anyone there my name or anything. Didn’t post my heroic efforts on social media.”
“Surprising, since you’re an attention whore,” Vinny jabs.
“I get my fix on stage.”
“She randomly showed up at your show? And you recognized her—”
“No! Jesus, man! Let me finish the story! Have you always been this annoying?”
“Yes.”
At least he admits it.
“I didn’t recognize her at all. I fell for a gorgeous brunette in the second row.”
“Here we go,” Vinny says. I bet he’s rolling his eyes.
“What?”
“You fell in love with a girl in the crowd that you’d never met or spoken to.”
“There was a pull! I can’t explain it, and even if I could, you wouldn’t get it. We had this undeniable, intense connection.”
“From the stage?” The disbelief in his voice is thick.
“Yes.”
“Okay. What happened with the brunette and how does this all tie in to the girl you saved?”
“The brunette was her. It was Liz.”
“Oh! Gotcha!”
“It was fate,” I say, knowing he’s about to rail me. He hates that I think in terms of fate and destiny and universal connections. And I hate that he can deny those things so easily. Life isn’t always logical, neither is love.
“Your head is in the clouds, kid.”
OPEN YOUR HEART: Material Girls 1 Page 14
