Page 132 of Hope & Harmony

Connected

CHAPTER 1

LYRIC

Sometimes it’s not about the talent that performs in front of your eyes, it’s the people behind it who should be given trophies, the ones you walk by on the street and assume, project, disdain, and ignore.

Sometimes, the ones who should be called celebrities aren’t the figureheads you imagine, but the artists that wrote that small little chorus that saved you when you were young. Staying Alive, Staying Alive.

That song by the Bee Gees.

My dad was a huge fan of anything from the seventies, and that song, the one I clung to, was also the one that he met his demise with.

Dark?

You have no idea, but I still play it over and over again when I need to focus, when I need to write and create.

The darkest moments in our lives don’t have a hold on us, sometimes, they just barely keep us.

Alive.

“One more time.” Annoyed that it was his seventeenth try, at the very least, I knew my response sounded short. I spoke without even looking up at the talent in the room. At that point, I refused to even say his name out loud so he wouldn’t see the twitch in my eyes through the thick glass every time I finished begging him to actually do a moderately good job and stop acting like an ass.

It wasn’t even that his voice was pitchy or that he didn’t seem to care about my time or the label’s. It was that he was wearing dark sunglasses like he’d drank way too much the night before, smelled like he was born in a club full of fruity cologne and cigarettes, and his clothes were so wrinkly I felt another eye twitch coming on.

Oh, and he was late for the studio time his label booked for his new album, a fresh new look for a washed-up singer who couldn’t keep it in his pants four divorces in. Good luck to lady number five sitting behind me sipping milk, yes milk, from a straw while posting selfies to social media.

Her legs didn’t reach the ground and, for a second, I had to suspend disbelief that he would bring a nineteen-year-old into the studio post partying all night to show off a song he barely knew the lyrics to.

Absolutely ironic, since my name’s Lyric. Thanks to my musician dad, his sense of humor, and, in his opinion, manifestation, it was all I had.

Almost every single artist I worked with commented on it as if I hadn’t been hearing it since I could understand words.

Most were genuinely kind, but there were some I actually wanted to punch in the face. Like Axel is any better, you asshole? We all know you were born a Peter!

And I swore on my parents’ graves that if one more celebrity walked up to me and said they identified as younger, I would pull my hair out.

Yes, I, too, identified as a twenty-year-old. I also identified as a billionaire, and oftentimes identified as Taylor Swift’s bff—Okay, that was only one time, and nobody should blame me for that.

Jaz didn’t move when the music started again. It was upbeat, kind of nostalgic of nineties hip hop with a bit of a smooth transition into a sick hook of a chorus that I knew would grab people immediately—if he could just get the words and fix his pitch. How could he end every single note so sharp? I would even take a flat. Auto-tune could only work so many wonders.

He shook his head, cleared his throat, and then grabbed his bottle of water, only to start choking and throw his headphones off.

Oh.

Perfect.

“Jaz?” I asked again. “Do you need a minute?”

He kicked the stool, it barely missed the wall and rolled to the side of the keyboard. “This is complete bullshit! I’m not doing it. I’m not feeling it, I don’t like it, it’s shit music, to sell shit albums, to make shit money, it’s all shit!”

My producing partner, Gerald—a great name, I know— leaned over and shoved his black-rimmed glasses back up his nose. He was wearing a Star Trek shirt with Spock holding hands with Yoda. Ah, when worlds collide and all that. “I think that was at least four shits with a bullshit, does that mean five, or do we keep it at four and separate the different uses?”

I kicked him in the leg under the table.

Wincing, he rubbed his leg. “I was genuinely curious!”

“Five shits.” Jailbait yawned and stood behind us, setting her milk back on the table. “I’d just group them all together at thispoint. I’m out, he’s about ready to have a breakdown, and he has a massage later. I’ll have his manager reschedule.” She waved her impressively long purple-nailed hand at us, went into the studio, grabbed him by the wrist, and started walking out.

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