Page 16 of Loaded

I groan and point. “Go get dressed. Now.”

He listens, but he’s never in a hurry about it, which is irritating. I’m a little sick of living in an apartment that feels even more like a frat house now that Emerson’s gone, but Jake took over Emerson’s portion of the rent and utilities when he left, and I can’t afford to look any gift horses in the mouth.

Not until I find a more lucrative job, anyway.

Which is why, now that I’m clean, I work on my submission for the Jello Jingle competition that’s due tonight at midnight. Most people probably think it sounds lame, but if I win, I’ll have my first jingle credit—and also a paid job—to put in my portfolio, and I’ll have my foot in the door at the agency that set it all up.

I’ve got the melody worked out; that’s always a snap for me. Now I’m just agonizing over the words. In reality, someone else at the songwriting firms often handles lyrics, but for your first jobs, you have to do it all. It helps that the product’s an easy one to work with. Jello rhymes with everything.

In some ways, that also makes it harder. Standing out is the key, but when any idiotic first-year musical studies major can bang out a rhyming verse for a product, the songs all start to blur.

Mine needs to shine.

I’ve just scribbled out the entire thing, balled it up, and chucked it at the trash when Jake’s body gets in theway. My sad little paperball ricochets off his calf and rolls under the sofa.

“Easy there, Babe Ruth.”

“I think you mean Nolan Ryan,” I say. “Babe Ruth was a famous batter.”

“Yeah, well, Nolan Ryan didn’t get a candy bar.” Jake plops on the sofa, popping his ankle up on his knee. “Angry about a text from Lover Boy?”

“As if.” I sigh, my shoulders slumping. “I hate Jello.”

“Not this again.” Jake leans forward. “Just let me call my agent. I can get you some jingle work, and?—”

I shake my head. “No thank you.”

“You are so stubborn.”

“They’d only be giving me a job to try and make you happy. I donotneed my boss sucking up to me so you’ll consider their movie or their commercial or whatever. I want my songs to be chosen?—”

“Because they’re good.” He sighs. “Same song, different verse.”

“No, same song, same verse.” I let Jake call in a favor for me once. He sang a song I’d written on the one album he ever released, before he transitioned to doing blockbuster movies and was still sort of exploring the various options in the entertainment world. The album did fine, but my song was the worst seller on the album. . .until the media did an article about how he’d only included it for his poor, pathetic foster sister. It blew up, and those twice-yearly royalties still float me for most of the year.

I should be grateful.

But it was the most embarrassing month of my life. A few times, some crazy pop-culture weirdos actually recognized me. When they tried to take photos with meand wanted my signature, I wanted to die. The only reason that story disappeared is that my very angry grandfather made it go away. It didn’t make him look good, that I had a ‘foster brother.’ Any way you look at it, the last thing I need is more strings connecting me to one of the hottest new actors in America.

When Jake won’t let it go, I wave him over. “I don’t want a referral, but I will take your input on my ideas.” I play the melody for him.

“That’s really good.” I wish he didn’t sound so surprised.

“Of course it is. That’s like telling an ant he’s good at carrying heavy things. A bright and clear melodic line is kind of my thing.”

Jake nods. “Then show me your lyrics.”

“Keep in mind, I’m jingling a jiggly dessert no one eats anymore.”

“I’m aware, believe me. Go ahead.”

“I’m not singing it.” I point. “You.”

“No way. The only reason I agreed to this was so I could hear you sing it.” But he’s smiling, so I know he’s kidding. No one needs to hear me sing.

Not ever.

I’m not off key, not after years and years of music, but my voice is scratchy, always, probably from years of secondhand smoke from my mom. Who knows? “Okay. Start.”

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