Page 8 of Selling Out
“I’d hardly call him an artist. He’s a playboy masquerading as a musician. You have no idea how cocky he is, Gemma.” That dang smile flickers in my mind. Even if I were looking for a leg up in the industry, it wouldn’t be fromhim. I want to make it on my own merits. People who peg their success on others put their dreams at risk. I’m not doing that.
“Who cares? This is about you, Mia. About your dream! Do you have any idea what this could do for you? I mean, aside from the fact that it’s a tour of Europe—freaking Europe, Mia—you’d be getting experience in the industry, gaining exposure, making all sorts of connections… need I go on?”
“At what cost?Hic!I mean, do Iwantmy exposure to be singing lyrics like, ‘Girl, that bod makes me wanna applaud?’” I stick my finger in my mouth and pretend to gag, but a hiccup makes me spasm, and my finger pokes me in the throat.
I start coughing, and Gemma rubs my back, trying not to smile.
“Please tell me you weren’t hiccupping like this in front of him,” she says.
“I got out just in time.” I stand up and sigh. “I’m going to bed.” Austin Sheppard tired me right out.
“Wait,” she says. “Hold on.” She leans over, reaching under her barstool. “Let me just grab—HA!” She whips up, her hands out to scare me, and I jump back. She looks at me expectantly.
I wait. And wait.
“Like a charm,” she says when no hiccups puncture the silence.
“Thanks,” I say, my heart still slowing. “It’ll be a lot easier to get to sleep now.”
At eleven thenext morning when I’m getting yelled at by someone over the phone at work, Europe with Austin Sheppard is looking like a pretty good option.
“Sorry to disturb you, sir,” I say.
“Never call this number again, you hear?”
“I hear you, sir.” So does everyone in the surrounding cubicles. “Have a nice day.”
I press the button to hang up, then let my head hang over my crappy, creaky swivel chair as I stare at the asbestos ceiling tiles. How long can I possibly do this? My soul shrinks two sizes every day I come into this job. I’m not sure I even possess a soul anymore, honestly. What I do have is sympathy for the Grinch. I’d bet good money—which I don’t have—that his origin story involves a job in telemarketing.
There’s aclap clap clapright by my ear, and I jump.
“No snoozing on the job!” says my manager, Kevin. “There should be no more than fifteen seconds between the end of one call and the beginning of the next one.”
I sit up straight and get back to work just as a text comes in.
Gemma
Still can’t believe you tried to drown this person in the local pool.
The next message has a YouTube link, and I tap on it. It’s Austin on stage, holding a vintage silver mic in hand as he sings to a crowd of flailing hands trying to reach for him. It’s not a professional video, so you can barely hear him over the sound of shrieking young girls.
I’ve seen video footage of him before, but it’s weird now that I’ve met him. He’s a good performer, I’ll give him that. Obviously comfortable being on stage. He also has a decent voice—I think? It’s hard to tell. What he’s singing isn’t really meant to showcase vocal agility. Add all the fanatical screaming on top, and it’s a miracle I can hear any of it.
There’s an instrumental break in the song, and the shrieking builds, as if in expectation of something.
Austin smiles widely and points to his chest, bringing the deafening yells to a climax.
He grabs his shirt with his hand and yanks on it, tearing it right off.
All I can do is shake my head. And realize why my lack of reaction—external, at least—to his body came as such a shock to him.
He tosses his shirt into the crowd, and I turn off the video. I’m not in the mood for seeing humans shred each other to bits for a sweaty piece of fabric.
MIA
I’d have thought that video would make the reasoning perfectly clear.
I set down my phone and reluctantly get back to my calls. I’d almost rather watch Austin rip his shirt off ten more times than dial this next number, but I dial it anyway.
