Page 91 of Loaded

“Yes.” I nod. “The rules say that the person orpersonswho are submitting the song will perform it. I will play the piano, andyouwill sing it.”

Octavia freezes. “You don’t know what you’re asking.”

“I sure do,” I say. “In fact, I’m crystal clear on what I’m asking. You’re the reason I lost the jingle contest, and you suggested this one as an alternative. I have not one, but three songs already in the works, and I’d likeyouto come over and work on them with me. Then I’d like thetwoof us to submit one of them. The best one. And with your voice? We’ll make it to the finals. I’m sure of it.”

She stares at me for a moment, and then another. Her hand is trembling where it’s hovering above her taco. “You really don’t understand. The second we walk on that stage, you’ll lose, no matter what your song is.”

“Why?” I want her to say it.

“Why?” Her eyes widen, but the one on her burned side widens slightly more. “Are you really asking?”

I nod.

“Because of my face. No one will ever risk having someone like me recording an album. Ever.”

“You’re beautiful.”

“That makes exactly one person who thinks so.” She folds her arms.

“Octavia.”

She shakes her head. “No. Look, I don’t know if you’re trying to punish me or whatever, but I will not do this. Never.”

“You said I can get up and sing my songs,” I say. “Ihave zero desire to do it, but I heard you that day. You love performing. Your voice—it’s like an angel’s. I know that’s corny, but I have no idea how else to describe it. I could listen to you for?—”

She crumples the end of her second taco into a ball and shoves the basket into the corner. “You couldlistento me all day. You could listen to me all year. But Beatrice, no one wants tolookat me. Not you, not the record label, not evenme. I avoid mirrors. I try to spare people whenever I can. If you partner with me, not a single person will vote for us. Do you understand me?”

“I think you’re wrong,” I say. In that moment, something happens that has never happened. Something that may never happen again. It’smiraculous. That’s the only way I can describe it. The song that was bugging me, the song that I was up half the night writing, the melody without a message. . .distills.

The words are justthere.

“I havethesong already,” I say. “I wrote it for you—for us. And if you follow me back to my place, and if you listen to it, and if you still don’t want to submit it with me, I’ll never bother you about it again. You’ll recommend your agency consider my jingle portfolio, and we’ll never speak.”

“Beatrice.”

“No.” I shake my head. “I’m only asking you to listen to my song—tooursong. And if you have no faith in me then, fine.Fine. I’ll walk away. But at least listen.”

“Our recording studio has a practice room,” she says. “It’s two blocks from here.”

I don’t have my music with me—the sketch from last night. But the notes are clear in my brain. “Sure.” I nod. “Let’s go.”

She says exactly nothing as she cleans up her area. Iscarf down the end of my second taco, and then I drop some cash in the tip jar on my way out. I have another thirty-four minutes on my parking meter, so I should hopefully be fine. I follow her around the corner and down the street—two and a half blocks away, just as she said. I walk behind her into the studio.

She checks in with some woman at the front, who looks surprised to see us, but then we’re waved through. And suddenly, I’m sitting in front of an unfamiliar piano. I sit, close my eyes, and inhale and exhale a few times. Then my fingers start to move.

The song starts out soft, lovely, wistful. The opening bars are harmonious and almost ethereal.

The world is full of beauty.

The world is full of peace.

The world is full of light and joy,

that almost never cease.

You made me lots of promises.

You made them all come true.

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