Page 90 of Haunt Me

It was a cashier’s job at CVS. The last of the fifty jobs I applied to. They have all rejected me, officially.

So I look at all the missed calls. Producers, music agencies, artists… I don’t know how they found my number, but if they traced ‘Issy Woo’ to Isaiah Pan, they must have missed the memo that I’m a wanted criminal. Another call is coming through right now. And I think:since I am unemployable, I might as well do this.

I pick up the phone.

It’s Skye on the other line.

Well, I don’t know it’s Skye yet.

As far as I know, it’s a dude who sounds like he’s entirely made of sunshine. Which is good, considering that I am currently standing in a room emptied of furniture, with no electricity, waiting for my childhood home to be sold on the market, to pay our debts to the school that expelled me.

“Issy Woo?” Skye’s voice says (even though I don’t know it’s Skye yet). “Man, did I love your song. You’re going places, kid.”

“I am not a kid,” I reply, my voice gravelly from being unused.

He bursts out laughing. It takes him a good half a minute to calm down. It’s so annoying that I hung up on him.

But then I think better of it and I sign with the next talent agent who hits me up. And just like that, it begins.

…

My next song,Heartbreaker, is released as a single under an official label. It blows up even more thanSaint Hope. It goes viral on multiple platforms, and keeps going viral over and over.

I meet Skye in person at some event. He looks like a surfer, has the vibe of an older brother, and knows music as if he went to music school. He knows the industry like the back of his hand. But more importantly, he gets my songs without me having to explain them to him. I hire him immediately. I fire the other agent almost on the spot—my connection with Skye is that intense.

We talk for hours. Skye keeps shaking his head, saying he’s never heard anything like my songs. He looks at me as if he’s never seen anything like me either, but I don’t think it’s my nonexistent talent that’s got him so surprised. It’s the pain. He’s never seen so much pain in a single person.

But he hasn’t seen anything yet.

…

A month afterSaint Hopeclimbs the charts, I call my brother.

“Can you write me a song?”

“Sure,” he replies. “How many hours do you need it in?”

“Don’t you mean days?”

“I mean at this point… I’m not sure inspiration will strike, but I’ll have something for you by this afternoon,” he says. “I’ll rework some of my old stuff.”

How much ‘old stuff’ exactly has this dude written?He is barely seventeen years old.

“I want the melody to be based off Beethoven’s 5th,” I tell him.

“Like the opening orchestra motif?”

“Yeah, something like that. A recurring theme, you know?”

“Right. Why?”

“Because it’s the freaking Beethoven’s 5th?”

“So? You’ve never cared about Beethoven before.”

“Well, I used to. A long time ago. It’s… It’s kind of our song.”

“Come again? Beethoven’s 5th is yoursong?”

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