Page 23 of Loaded

“I don’t know. I’ve only been home for ten days. I told Dave I wanted a solid break this time. I could just tell him no.”

“You could,” I say.

“Why do you say it like that?” He drops the script on the coffee table and stands.

“Like what?”

“Like, if I tell them no, I’m Jennifer Lopez or something.”

“I’m not saying you’re anywhere near her level, but if you’re making them delay their schedule because three weeks isn’t a long enough vacation for you. . .” I can’t help smiling. “I haven’t ever had three weeks off.”

“Filming’s hard.” He folds his arms.

“I know it is,” I say. “Wanna come wait some tables for me?”

“It’s not the same. It’s draining for me the whole time I’m filming, on and off set. Plus, I have to live in a hotel. At least you get to sleep in your own bed.”

“I have heard the Hyatt’s a tiresome place to stay.” I shake my head slowly.

“You’re kidding,” he says, “but?—”

The computer dings.

“I’ve been checking,” he says. “Nothing so far.”

I don’t get many emails, so I’ve been obsessively watching my email since I submitted my jingle.

Which is really stupid.

It’s not like I really think they’re going to reply twenty-four hours after I submitted my song, but they did say the applications were rolling and that they’d make their decision quickly after the deadline. I submitted mine right at the end, but surely not everyone procrastinates.

When I step close enough to see the computer screen, it’s an email from someone about the upcoming local election. I groan.

“There’s a special place reserved down below for spammers.” He shakes his head. “They’re like a plague.”

“It’s fine,” I say.

Only, the finals is a few days away—they said they’ll call back just a handful of composers and select from between us with the client’s involvement. They can’t taketoolong to notify us, right?

I shower, brush my teeth, and put on my favorite pajamas. I’m in bed, almost asleep when I hear it. Another ding. Checking now is dumb. I should go to sleep.

It’s probably an email offering me twenty percent off Ann Taylor’s summer line now that it’s fall.

But then Jake starts shouting. “Bea! Get in here!”

My heart’s hammering when I leap from bed and race into the family room.

“Dear Ms. Cipriani,” Jake says. “We are pleased to inform you that your submission of ‘Smooth like Jello’ has been chosen to advance to the final round of the competition. Your presence is requested to present your jingle on Tuesday, September 7th, yada yada.” Jake spins around slowly, a smile spreading across his face. “You did it!”

It takes me almost an hour to fall asleep after that. I’m too excited.

I dream of the final round, and when they pick my jingle, for some reason they hang a huge wreath of roses around my neck, like I’m a horse that just won the Grand Prix. The strangest part is that, for some reason, Easton Moorland’s standing beside me when I win, beaming.

When I wake up, I check the time—late enough to call. I dial my boss immediately. “Hey, Harv,” I say.

“It’s pretty early,” he says. “Aren’t you usually still asleep at seven?”

“Did I wake you up?” I wince.

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