Page 52 of You Spin Me

CAL

Tuesday evening, I’m in the library prepping when Talia pops in, expression dialed to hopeful.

“I’ve got the promoter for the Sprytes on the phone. They can squeeze in an interview with you tomorrow afternoon. Their show isn’t until the weekend, but they’re laying over in Boston for a couple of days.”

Big breath in, big breath out. “Okay.”

“Thing is, they want to do it in person.”

“In person,” I repeat.

“That’s what I said.”

Closing my eyes, I picture front man Gray Thompson’s face and imagine the sneer when he sees mine. Redirecting my focus to the notes I’ve accumulated on the Boston-based band that’s been taking over Europe for the past year while failing to get traction in the U.S., I remind myself that they need me as much as I need them.

“I’ll do it.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’m sure.”

When Talia’s hand lands on my shoulder, my eyes pop open to take in her proud smile. “You’ll do good, Cal.”

After letting my face crack its half-smile for a beat, I swipe her hand away. “Get outta here. I’m not your kid. I got work to do.”

I get a whap on the back of my head in response, but I’m grinning as I pull the folder I’ve compiled on the Sprytes from the pile in front of me and start editing my questions.

JESS

Wednesday, as I’m about to head out the door to drive to Bedford for dinner with my parents, my phone rings. I check my watch. I’m already late. Traffic will only get worse with every passing minute, but the call might hold good news that’ll counter the bad news I turned up calling demo producers, where I learned that rates have skyrocketed since Marnie’s assistant put together that handout.

When the machine picks up and I hear Jones’s voice on the line, I don’t hesitate; I grab the receiver. “This is Jessica.”

“Jessica. It’s Jones. From WBAR?”

My heart skips. I haven’t talked to Cal in over a week. “Is Cal—is Cal okay?”

“Oh yeah, he’s fine. At least I think so. He hasn’t come in yet.”

“Right. Of course.”

“So listen, I’ve got a few promos I need recorded. Since we chatted the other day, I’ve been wondering if we need to add a female voice to our talent pool. You interested?”

My feet do a jeté and I have to clamp a hand over my mouth to stifle a squeal of joy. Before I speak, I shake it all off so I can play the role of a woman that does this all the time. “That sounds like an excellent idea.”

“Great. Can you come in tomorrow? Say, two thirty?”

“I can make that work if I can be finished by four.”

I give him my fax number and calmly thank him for thinking of me, as if this isn’t the best news I’ve heard all day. After the call comes in, my feet are batting out entrechats of impatience as my fax machine slowly spits out its missives.

Picking up the sheets from the floor and holding them by the edges to avoid the icky feeling of the slimy paper, I mumble the king’s words fromMidsummer: “What revels are in hand?”

After a few slow breaths, I’m able to read the spots, which are indeed about revels, announcing the station’s annual anti-Valentine’s Day concert called Bleeding Hearts. It makes sense to have a woman read them, I guess, but you’d think one of the female jocks could do it.

But hey, I’m not complaining.

I float through the drive to my parents’ house, riding the wave of hope that maybe I can keep this career going through my thirties without asking anyone for a loan.

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