Page 1 of Disharmony

partone

the first verse

one

Ash

We regret to inform you… not what we are looking for… best of luck…

Luck? Everyone knows luck has nothing to do with it in the music industry. They may as well have written,Kiss your dream goodbye because you don’t have a chance in hell. I crumple the letter into a ball and throw it against the wall. Not that it changes anything. Their words are already burned into my brain after reading them over a hundred times. It will join the pile of ashes of my last two rejections.

This was my final chance, and I blew it.

It’s over.

“Ash?” Dad knocks gingerly on my bedroom door. He knows better than to barge into his daughter’s room when she’s in the middle of a meltdown. “Do you want me to bring a plate up?”

“I’m not hungry.”

When I turned sixteen a few years ago, I submitted my first application to Camp Harmony’s summer music program, and again every year since then. I spend hours agonizing over each application, time I could have spent paying more attention in class. What’s the point? It doesn’t matter how hard I try or how much effort I put in. The facts are clear. They don’t want someone like me. Who could blame them? My raspy voice couldn’t be more different from the cookie-cutter pop stars who climb the music charts and win Grammys for meaningless songs written by other people. Female rock singers are hardly in high demand, especially when they look like me. Gangly-looking emo chicks aren’t as marketable as the lithe Disney princess lookalikes they favor.

Dad knocks again, harder this time. “You have to eat sometime.”

“Try me.” I collapse onto my bed and groan into the pillow.

Camp Harmony churns out the same commercially viable superstars every year, but it’s not just about that. It’s about the experience. Their summer program is the most competitive in the world for a damn good reason. Everyone who is anyone in the music business starts there. They develop the best producers, agents, and songwriters in the business, and being a part of their program will rocket launch your career onstage. If I can’t make it as a singer, writing has always been my backup plan. Being a Camp Harmony grad means something, and now? I have nothing. Nada. Zilch. A big fat fucking zero.

“You’ve not left your room all weekend.” Dad cracks the door open and talks through the small gap. “I know you’re upset—”

“Upset?”

Upset doesn’t cover it. There’s no word in the dictionary to describe how it feels when your entire future is shattered by tearing open a manilla envelope.

Sure, I know there are other ways people succeed. Everyone’s heard stories about agents picking up buskers off the street, but that’ll never happen when you come from a deadbeat town in the middle of nowhere. Making connections with the right people is as important as raw talent, but getting into Camp Harmony is the equivalent of being handed a golden ticket to Wonka’s freaking factory. Think of it like Harvard or Oxford for musicians. Going there is the best thing you can do to guarantee success.

When I was twelve, I watched Camp Harmony on the television for the first time. That’s when I decided I had to go, and I’ve been dreaming about it ever since. At the end of each summer, the camp has a huge final show where they broadcast a set of three songs on live TV and all over the internet. Millions watch it around the world. It’s how they showcase their best talent and transform people from mere mortals into the next star of the generation. Last year’s show got canceled due to a freak storm, but this year’s will be bigger and better. Being up on their stage is every aspiring singer’s dream. It was mine, too… until they killed it.

At eighteen, this was my final chance to apply. Their rejection is the cherry on the cake of what has already been the worst year of my life. How could I have expected anything else? My life has barely started, but at the same time, it’s already over.

“Why don’t you go and hang out with Brick?” Dad suggests, like that would make everything miraculously okay. “He’s called twice already. He’s worried about you. We both are.”

I fling the door open, narrowly missing his nose. “Is it so hard to believe I want to be on my own after finding out my life is over?”

Music has shaped every aspect of my existence. Instead of reading books like a normal kid growing up, I spent days pouring over sheet music and compositions. As soon as I learned the basics, I penned songs of my own and performed for my parents in our backyard. Creating something out of nothing lights up a part of my soul like nothing else.

In school, I struggled to understand algebra and recall the periodic table, but playing instruments came as naturally as breathing. I play four: the piano, guitar, harp, and, my personal favorite, the drums. The noise and power of drumming drowns out everything else. When I don’t know what to say or how to feel, picking up the sticks gives me a way to channel my energy and take bad thoughts away. Dad soundproofed our garage to give me a place to practice because he wanted to get a decent night’s sleep.

If I can’t make music for a living, what the hell can I do next? It’s all I’ve ever been good at and truly enjoyed. What other options do I have? Move to the city, work a nine-to-five desk job in a depressing cubicle and live for the weekends? Or worse, be doomed to live in Meadow Springs forever?

“Come on, honey.” Dad’s eyes soften. I don’t know which is worse: his pity or his nagging concern. “Don’t you think you’re being melodramatic?”

“Melodramatic?” My nostrils flare. I can’t stay in the house for a second longer without exploding. I throw my leather jacket over my shoulder and storm past him. “You just don’t get it.”

Mom would have got it. She’d have known what to say to make me feel better. She always did. After all, she knew better than anyone what a life sentence in this town meant.

“Ashley, I didn’t mean—”

I clear the stairs and slam the front door behind me before he finishes his sentence. He should be pleased. After all, he was pushing me to leave the damn house.

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