Page 8 of Caught in a Storm
“Yeah, Nikki, for sure,” the guy said. “I’ve got her scheduled for next week. With you being the founder and her being the lead singer, it makes the most sense. The segment will be super quick, though. Burnt Flowers will probably get between a minute and a half and two minutes, tops. So, we’ll keep things high-level, if that’s cool.”
As Margot leaned on her kitchen counter, phone in hand, she discovered that you can be offended and relieved at the same time. Boiling their entire musical history down to ninety seconds seemed insulting, but then again…thank God it was only ninety seconds.
“Okay, so, question one. What, um, exactly have you been up to since Burnt Flowers broke up?”
How dare you, Margot nearly replied.
It was an obvious question, though. Margot fumbled through a summary of her days: the small birdfeeder she tends to on her five-foot-by-five-foot sundeck, the walks she takes through the city, her visits to see her parents, who’ve retired to Florida and are now alarmingly tan. Next, there was a question about her contact with Lawson, and another about her thoughts on the state of drumming in rock music. The guy asked Margot about exactly where she posted that now-famous flyer at NYU, the one asking if anyone wanted to be in her yet-to-be-named band. Margot was precise about the facts and vague about personal details, like her failed marriage and finances. Her Burnt Flowers money combined with her divorce settlement from Lawson allow her to maintain a frugal Manhattan existence.
“Great, great,” the guy said. Margot could hear him losing interest as he typed notes. “One last thing. This is kinda off the record, I guess. I’m just curious. Do you, like…miss it?”
Margot didn’t know what he meant by it, exactly. There is so much that she doesn’t miss about her handful of years in the spotlight. There’s one thing, though, that she misses nearly every day. “I miss the music,” she said.
* * *
—
Rebecca Yang’s eyes do more darting—to the bits of clutter, to the electric and acoustic guitars mounted on the wall, to the drums at the center of everything, where an entertainment center might go if Margot were a normal person. Rebecca touches one of the kit’s cymbals. “Dope apartment,” she says.
“Sorry about Jimmy,” says Margot. “He’s…”
Rebecca waves off whatever Margot was about to say like she’s shooing a bug. “No worries. I’m not that young. I’m twenty-five. But, you know…the Korean thing. It throws the boomers off.”
Margot settles into an overstuffed chair with her coffee. She wasn’t aware that she even had a publicist.
Rebecca, who doesn’t think twenty-five is “that young,” sits on the couch and clears her throat. “Not sure if you’ve had a chance to read the emails I sent,” she says. “I tried calling, but the number we have on file doesn’t go anywhere.”
Margot points to a phone next to the microwave, disconnected, strangled by its cord.
“Oh,” says Rebecca. “Wow, is that a…a landline?”
Margot hates herself for suddenly being nervous. Rebecca is a zygote in sneakers, but she’s from Stage Dive, the label. Unsure what she’s supposed to say, she decides to go on the offensive. “So, how’s Axl?”
“Axl?” Rebecca pauses. “Axl’s good.”
They’re referring to Axl Albee, the head artist relations manager at Stage Dive, whom Margot hasn’t heard from in several U.S. presidential administrations. “We used to be good friends,” she says.
“Axl’s working on strategic initiatives. He’s been pretty office-bound lately. He definitely says hey, though.”
Margot gets that it’s this girl’s professional duty to lie to her. Stage Dive has a hierarchy, like anywhere. Axl Albee deals with the big names. Any one of five other reps handle the tier below—indie rockers, morose singer-songwriters. People like Rebecca see to artists like Margot: legacy artists.
“And, no,” Margot says. “I didn’t read your emails. I haven’t checked lately.”
“No worries,” says Rebecca. “I’ll summarize. We got a message over the weekend through the media contacts link. It was addressed to you.”
Margot sips her coffee.
“The Netflix doc is getting good buzz all around,” says Rebecca. “Chatter’s up across social for bands who got featured—lots of engagement, right? But this one’s different.”
Another sip of coffee. Buzz and chatter and engagements. “Okay.”
“It’s from a little girl. And she’s a drummer, like you.” Rebecca takes an iPad out of her backpack and starts reading. “ ‘Dear Margot. My name is Mazzy, and I’m eleven. I’m the drummer for the band Hot Twist, and me and my bandmates are basically obsessed with you because you rock so fucking hard.’ ”
“Shit,” says Margot. “She’s eleven?”
Rebecca tilts her head. “My niece is eleven. She called me a skeezed-out ho bag at Thanksgiving because I beat her at checkers.”
“Oh. Well, go on then.”
