Page 24 of Perfect Pitch

I beam at him. “I love that idea.”

For the next hour or so, we pass the magazine back and forth battling which color combination would look best with my coloring.

* * *

Hours later, Marcel is shaking his head. “No. If we use reds, oranges, and yellows, we’ll drown out your skin color.” He slaps a color book in my hand. “Focus on pinks, blues, and violets.”

“But don’t those wash out easier?”

He shrugs. “So you come back.”

“I’m not looking to give y’all my first born every time I need a root touchup, Marcel.”

He counters, “Then they wouldn’t be your first born.” Before I can find a retort, he grabs clips of hair extensions and starts weaving them through my hair—one side completely rainbow, like I asked for. The other, the more romantic colors of twilight.

But even if he’d just done the one side, I can see the point he’s trying to make. Relenting, I hand him the book back and ask, “How many thousands of dollars in product am I going to end up buying?”

He runs his hands from the back of my scalp to the front. “Hundreds. Not thousands. And they’re a gift from a Mr. Trevor Clifton. He said he couldn’t wait to see you at home.”

My heart warms at Trevor supporting my dreams this way. “He’s great.”

“Your significant other?”

“My roommate,” I correct.

“Some roommate.”

“Tell me about it.” A surge of energy I usually only feel in the booth wiggles through me. “Let’s do it.”

Hours later, I’ve been bleached, washed, colored, washed, conditioned, trimmed, blown out, and now my long hair is being braided by three apprentices while Marcel finishes blowing out a trim he fit in. I feel each of the braids being lifted and pinned to the top of my head. All I can think is, I’ll never get my headphones to fit over this, when Marcel’s dryer turns off and he leans over my shoulder. “Are you ready to see, Austyn?”

I nod, excitement churning with nerves. He spins me around slowly and I acclimate myself to the music royalty reflecting at me in the mirror. The young woman facing me looks ready to shred her T-shirt and appear on stage with earpieces or to don a ball gown and walk a red carpet. “You see it don’t you?” Marcel breathes.

I manage, “I do.”

He then pulls a single pin and the braids come tumbling down. “And unless you need to have it up, this is what your every day looks like.”

“This is better than I could have hoped for.” I toss my hair and watch as light catches my natural mink woven amid the violets, dark and light blues, dark and hot pinks. I reach up and clasp his hand on my shoulder. “Thank you.”

I feel ready to expose my soul in perfect pitch. I just hope the universe is ready to listen to it.

* * *

CHAPTER ELEVEN

AUGUST- ONE YEAR AGO

If the music’s too loud, you’re not singing loud enough.

—Moore You Want

“Hey, Uncle Charlie,” I answer the phone on the first ring.

“Have you spoken to your brother recently?” the old badger demands.

“I am not my brother’s keeper,” I quote the old Bible verse to him though his reprimand reminds me I do need to get in touch with Trevor.

“Then I don’t suppose you care he has a woman living with him whose voice will raise the dead?” At that, he disconnects the call.

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