Counterpoint and Harmony Page 3

  “Here I am.”

  She crosses the room to her own instrument locker, one of the long rectangles in the bank next to mine, turning the dial on the combination lock, not looking at me. “You seemed … distracted today in class.”

  God, was I that obvious? I don’t answer though, except to give a noncommittal grunt.

  She looks up from the lock as she pulls down, the metal shackle popping free. “She’s not with that guy, you know. It’s just for show.”

  I grunt again, swallowing hard, looking down at my cello case as I slide my arm through the backpack strap.

  “I talked to her the other night,” she reveals softly. And that simple statement has me glancing up again.

  How is she? I want to ask. I want to pelt Lauren with questions, demand information. But I have no right to do that. I pushed Charlie away. Ignored her attempts to contact me. Let her leave without reaching out, the very thing Lauren warned me against.

  “Good for you,” I say instead.

  Lauren’s face morphs to frustrated anger. “Fine. If that’s the way you want to play it. Silly me. I thought you might like to hear how she’s doing. But never mind. I’ll leave you to wallow in your misery. Enjoy your practice session.”

  With that she yanks her violin out of her locker, punctuating her anger with the scrape of the metal feet against the locker. She slams the metal cage door closed, hooking the lock through the hasp, and shooting a glare at me as she storms out.

  I slowly heft my cello onto my back and close my own locker, heading upstairs to claim a practice room.

  I do want to know how Charlie’s really doing. Not whatever sanitized version ends up in the media.

  The confirmation that her date was only for show is more soothing than it ought to be. Especially since I’m more aware of the fact that Charlie “dated” a lot of guys over the years just for career reasons than Lauren probably is.

  Because Charlie told me herself.

  But I can’t read more into that. No matter what details she let slip, she kept the most important detail from me. And I can’t let that go.

  Chapter Seven

  Dissonance: notes that clash or cause feelings of tension; notes that sound bad together

  Charlie

  “Delilah called. She has a new client she wants to set you up with.”

  I look up from the sheet music laid out in front of me on the breakfast bar. I have a meeting with The Professor this afternoon, and I’m trying to decide what I want to show him first.

  Blinking at my mom’s expectant face, it takes a second for her words to register. “Oh. Tell her no thank you.”

  I drop my gaze back to my music, shuffling papers around and making notes. I’m equal parts nervous and excited. It’s been over a year since I worked with The Professor, and that was only for one song. But he was so encouraging and welcoming of my ideas and contributions. That single is the only one I’ve felt like belonged to me in any way, reflecting something of the real me. Since it was also a number one hit on the Billboard charts, having him on board should make it easier to sell the idea of me being one of the writers on my next album to the record label.

  “Excuse me?” My mom’s sharp tone cuts into my thoughts, and I bring my head up to look at her again, brushing my bangs out of my eyes. I’ve gone back to blond, but a little more honey blond now, less platinum, and I’m growing my hair out again. It’s a process. I’m not entirely sold on the necessity of me having long hair, but when my mom, my manager, and my PR person all told me I needed to grow it back out to help salvage my image, I decided to pick my battles. Saving the fights for things like this.

  I sit back in my chair, laying my pencil down. “I said to tell her no thank you.” I keep my face carefully neutral, my voice soft and calm. Keeping a lid on my emotions is a necessity in all negotiations with my mother. Showing how much I care is like baiting a bear. Unwise.

  “Yes,” she says coldly, crossing her arms. “I heard you the first time. Care to elaborate as to why?” She waves one hand, as though inviting me to answer. But before I can, she plows on. “Because I was under the impression we were all trying to do the same thing. Namely, salvaging the disaster you’ve made of your career with your ridiculous break.”

  “And I was under the impression that since it’s my career, I’m allowed to tank it if I so choose.” I look down at my papers, strategically looking away and busying myself with straightening them, as though the conversation is over, even though I know Mom won’t let go that easily.

  She takes a deep breath, and I steel myself for her next line of attack. “It’s important that you be seen with other celebrities. Especially after those pictures of you and that boy. You need someone who can elevate your career.”

  “No.” I remain calm and firm. I’m not budging on this one. Not anymore.

  I see her throw her hands in the air in my peripheral vision. “Why? You went to the Grammy’s with Amos Wright. How is that different than this?”

  Sparing her a glance and a shrug, I move one of the pages behind the first one, deciding to switch the order of the first two song ideas. “I suppose it’s not. But I’m tired of parading around with some guy I don’t know, don’t like, and don’t care about.” Yeah, I’ll show him the chord progression that I’ve been messing with the most first. Then some of the lyric ideas. See what kind of beats he’ll layer under them.

  She slaps the papers out of my hands, scattering them on the breakfast bar, two pages falling to the floor. “Put those damned papers down and pay attention to me when I’m speaking to you!”

  I narrow my eyes, unable stop my nostrils flaring. “Mother. Those damn papers, as you call them, are for my meeting with The Professor this afternoon. I don’t have time to argue with you about who I’m supposed to be seen dating for the press. I don’t care about whether I keep myself in the public eye. I’m tired of them all painting me as a whore for ‘dating’”—I make dramatic air quotes with my fingers—“a different guy every week. And I’m tired of feeling like a whore for doing it, since half the time those guys are only there to advance their careers.” Sliding off the bar stool, I collect the fallen papers, placing them back on the breakfast bar and putting everything back in order.

  Mom has resumed her crossed-arm posture, complete with narrowed eyes and flaring nostrils. Guess that’s where I get it from. “When were you going to tell me about your meeting?”

  I raise an eyebrow. “I wasn’t aware I needed to inform you of everything I do.”

  She lets out a huff. “Please, Charlie. I’ve been helping manage your career since you were a little girl. Of course I should be aware of meetings with producers. What time? I’ll need to make sure I can rearrange my schedule so I can join you.” Pulling out her phone, she taps the screen.

  “You’re not invited.”

  Her head whips up, her eyes shooting knives. “What?”

  “I said you’re not invited. I will be meeting with The Professor on my own. I requested the meeting, after all. And don’t you think it’s weird for a twenty-one year old to take her mother everywhere with her?” I raise an eyebrow at my last question.

  “Not when her mother is part of her management team.”

  “You haven’t been an official part of my management since I was fourteen. And you’re no longer needed as an unofficial part of it either.”

  She gasps loudly, one hand flying to her chest.

  I can’t contain my eye roll. “I’m an adult now, Mom. I’m perfectly capable of meeting with The Professor on my own. I don’t need you holding my hand or dictating my career to me.”

  “But Madalyn works closely with me on everything.”

  Tilting my head to the side, I consider that. Madalyn’s been my manager since my mom hired her on my behalf when I was fourteen. That was when she officially relinquished her management duties. Not that she actually did so in reality. “You’re right. I think I’ll be hiring a new manager, too. Jonathan is very happy with his. Perhaps
I’ll give her a call. If she can’t take me on, I’m sure she can make a good recommendation.”

  Mom’s mouth is hanging open, her red lipstick looking garish against her face now white with shock. I reach out and give her a conciliatory pat on the arm. “I appreciate all you’ve done for me over the years. But if I’m going to continue this career for the long term, I need to be in charge of it. You’ve pushed me too hard for too long. I know you think what you did was necessary. But if I have to do that forever, I’d rather give it all up.”

  “But everything we’ve worked for …” she finally manages to croak out. My poor mother. I’m not sure why she didn’t see this coming after I threatened to cut off all contact while I was at school. I guess she expected me to come home with my head bowed, ready for her to take over again.

  I did, to some degree, at first. Going along with more of her suggestions than not. Letting her and Delilah, my PR person, find me an “appropriate” date for the Grammy’s, my first public appearance since Jonathan and Gabby’s wedding.

  Which only confirmed my desire not to do that again. I don’t want everyone else running my life, dismissing my input if they even hear it in the first place.

  No. I’m taking control of my own career. Starting with finding a new manager.

  And working with a producer who’s happy to take my scribblings and turn them into gold. Maybe even platinum.

  If we can get a good demo laid down in his studio, I can take that to my meeting with the label in a few weeks and convince them that letting me write my next album isn’t a mistake. That I’m capable of keeping my continuity of hits going.

  Squeezing my mom’s arm once more, I give her a closed-mouth smile. Releasing her, I gather my papers and pencil and head to my room to change for my meeting with The Professor.

  The whole point of the Marycliff experiment to begin with was to prove to myself that I was capable of living life on my own terms. To get out from under my mother’s thumb and make my own decisions.

  And here I am taking control of my album, my career, my life.

  Mission accomplished.

  Chapter Eight

  A capriccio: a free and capricious approach to tempo

  Charlie

  I unlock the door to my house in Spokane, pushing aside all lingering pangs of nostalgia for everything this house represents. Being normal. Having friends. Damian. I knock twice on the open door. “Lauren? You here?”

  “Charlie!” she yells and skips out of the kitchen at the back of the house. “You made it!”

  I step all the way inside, pulling the door mostly closed behind me, a huge grin on my face. “Of course I did. I told you I wouldn’t miss your recital.” I return her exuberant hug. It’s fun making someone happy just by showing up. I mean, technically that isn’t a new thing for me. But most people are happy to see me because I’m Charlotte James, pop princess. It’s my celebrity they’re excited about, not me. But Lauren’s just happy that I’m here for me. That’s a rare and precious thing in my world, which is why as soon as she told me the date of her recital, I cleared everything on my schedule. My mom gave me multiple lectures about it. I listened politely to the first two or three. After that, I started getting up and leaving the room. Or hanging up, if we were on the phone.

  I’ve started looking for my own place, but between working with The Professor, writing the new songs for my album between our meetings, and laying down the demo to bring to the label execs next week, I’ve been busy. It doesn’t help that I’m trying to keep the fact that I’m moving out under my mom’s radar.

  When Lauren steps back, I grip her shoulders so she’ll look at me. “I have a surprise for you.”

  Lauren’s eyebrows jump up. “Really? What?”

  Pushing the door open behind me, Gabby pops into view. “Surprise!”

  Lauren squeals and practically shoves me out of the way to throw her arms around Gabby’s neck and pull her inside. “Why didn’t you tell me you were coming? You said you couldn’t make it!”

  “I didn’t think I could. But we made it work, so here I am.” They separate for a second, smiles on everyone’s faces, then Gabby grabs Lauren for another hug. “I’ve missed you.”

  “Aw, I missed you too, Gabby.” Lauren throws her arm out. “Get in here, Charlie. I’ve missed both of you. It’s weird living by myself.”

  Gabby throws her arm out too. “Yeah, Charlie. You need to get in here for a group hug.”

  Laughing, I do. These girls are the friends I always wanted as a teenager. The kind I saw in movies and read about in books, but never had the opportunity to encounter in real life. Happy tears sting my eyes.

  When Lauren hears me sniff, she pushes away, giving me a look. “None of that. If you start crying, I’m going to cry, and I don’t want to cry right now. I’m happy that you’re both here. How long are you staying?” Her hands fly to her mouth. “Oh my God, you guys are going to cause a riot.” Eyes narrowed, she looks us over. “If you’re in the audience, no one’s going to be paying attention to my recital.”

  Gabby laughs. “We’ll listen from the greenroom.”

  My mouth twists in disappointment. “Yeah. If that’s what we have to do, we will. I was really hoping to watch from inside the hall, though. It’s not the same in the greenroom.”

  “True.” Gabby sighs, then waves her hands. “We’ll figure it out. That’s why we came a couple of days early. Do you have another rehearsal with your pianist? Can we sneak in for that? I mean, you won’t be in your awesome dress, but at least we’d get to hear you play from the audience.”

  “Hmm.” Lauren’s brow furrows, and she strokes her chin as she thinks. Gabby and I exchange a smirk. When Lauren considers something, she strokes her chin like a man stroking his beard. She calls it her existential beard and swears it helps her think better.

  “That might work.” Her hand drops and her focus sharpens on Gabby and me. “You guys will have to sneak in. I’m rehearsing on Friday afternoon so we’re out in time for the recital that night. That means people will be around. If anyone recognizes either of you, you’ll get mobbed.”

  Gabby gives her a skeptical look and gestures at me. “I can see Charlie getting mobbed. Especially since no one realized who she was when she was here before. But me? I thought you said that I was a cautionary tale around here.”

  Lauren laughs. “Yeah, you kind of are. But that doesn’t mean people aren’t also starstruck. And if you ask me, I think the people who snipe about you are jealous of your success more than anything.” She waves her hand, as if waving off an unpleasant odor. “Don’t worry about stupid people. I am serious about the mob, though. If you stay for at least part of the day on Sunday, you should do something so that people here can come see you, talk to you, get an autograph or something. I’ll seriously get in trouble if people find out you came after the fact and they didn’t get a chance to meet you both.”

  “Oh.” I chew on my lip. “I’m sorry, Lauren. I wasn’t trying to make your life more difficult by coming. Or bringing Gabby. I just …”

  Lauren’s eyes go wide. “No! No. I’m so excited you’re here. It means a lot to me that you’d make the effort. I know how busy you both are. And it’s not like you’re close by, either. Not everyone I’d like to be here is able to make it.” She says the last part quietly, and swallows visibly, before shaking her head and moving on. “I’m just saying, it’d be cool if you guys did something on Sunday that we could invite people to.” Then she narrows her eyes, and one corner of her mouth lifts in a sassy smirk. “But not before. I don’t want anyone distracting from my big day.”

  Gabby laughs. “You sound like a bridezilla.”

  Lauren’s smile widens, and she shrugs. “A violinzilla? Does that work as a thing?”

  “Ha. No, I don’t think so. But I can’t blame you. You’re the diva this weekend. We’re not here to overshadow you. I’ll have my manager see if there’s a venue available on such short notice. Hang on.” I pull out my phone and s
end a quick text.

  “Ooh.” Gabby nudges my shoulder with hers. “How are you liking your new manager?”

  I look up from my phone and flash her a grin. “She’s awesome. And she’ll totally make Sunday happen somewhere great. Just wait.”

  After that conversation where I basically fired my mom and my longtime manager, I texted Jonathan for his manager’s number. I’m sure that’s why Gabby knows about my management change.

  She didn’t have room for me, but she sent me a few referrals. I interviewed them and finally settled on Grace, who’s awesome. She gets that I’m trying to navigate a new direction and is helping smooth the way for that to happen. She sat in on the demo recording last week at The Professor’s studio and was super excited about what she heard. Once he gets the track finished, we’ll take it to the record label. The three of us. Together.

  It’s awesome. I love having a team that’s on my side, that I selected. At last. They help me make decisions, but they don’t bully or pressure me into doing what they think is best. They treat me like an adult. It’s refreshing.

  And for the first time since I was a little kid, I have friends. Great friends that I get to spend time with because I’m not running myself ragged touring nonstop and recording every spare moment between shows.

  And no one telling me how I’m wasting time being here for a long weekend rather than doing something to further my career. No set up dates with other celebrities for the purpose of being seen by the press. No pressure to stick to a ridiculously restrictive diet. Because my diet now is built around healthy food. Yes, I’m counting calories and losing weight. But it’s extra weight that I don’t need. And my new trainer is amazing and encouraging, building a routine that doesn’t make me feel like death, but instead makes me strong and healthy.