Page 3 of Little Monster
A sense of calm washes over me as I grab the controller and power up the PS5. Margot hops up beside me and sniffs one of my lettuce wraps before turning her nose up at it and going to lie down on the fluffy orange pillow at the other end of the couch.
“Suit yourself,” I say, then take a bite while pulling Tribe up on my phone. Pictures of my peers out for drinks, laughing and smiling and hugging, appear in my feed, and my brow creases as I scroll through them.
They all look so happy, so comfortable, socarefree. I’m not sure that could ever be me. I’m too anxious, too quiet, too...me.
Locking my phone, I toss it onto the coffee table, then prop my feet up, take another bite of lettuce wrap, and settle in for a full night of gaming.
chapter 2
“WHAT?” I GAWK DOWN AT the seven-dollar box of salad greens in my hand. “Sevendollars?” I grumble, scowling at the organic baby spinach as if it’s wronged me. With a sigh, I put it back on the refrigerated shelf and reach for the fresh romaine instead; it’s better not to pay for the plastic anyway.
I’m just slipping the romaine into my canvas shopping bag when my phone rings. My hands are wet from the lettuce, and I wipe them hurriedly on my jeans before digging into my purse and yanking my phone out. It’s from the concert hall, which is weird, because they never call me.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Nora Miller? This is Meredith, from the front office. How are you?”
“Oh, um, fine.” I tuck the phone between my ear and shoulder and continue pushing my tiny cart through the fresh produce section. I still need beets, carrots,and—
“We got an interesting call for you this morning,” Meredith says, sounding almost giddy.
“Forme?” I’m only half paying attention. The beets are a glorious purple red, and they’re calling my name. I grab a bundle of them and toss them into my bag with the romaine.
“You’re not going to believe this.”
She pauses for a moment, probably trying to build the suspense, but I’m already moving on, looking for the carrots I’ll need for my potato soup tonight.
“It was an agent... for Loaded God Complex.”
My search for the carrots stops abruptly.
Did I hear her right?
Loaded God Complex?
I know their music vaguely, just from hearing their songs on the radio during my commute to and from the concert hall. They’re a popular rock band with a lead singer who’s often on the front covers of those glossy magazines in the checkout lines.
“What do they want?” I ask, now standing stock-still in the middle of the aisle. A woman glares at me and wheels her cart around mine with a distinct air of frustration, and I quickly move to the side and out of the way.
“I don’t know. To talk to you, but they didn’t tell me what about. The agent gave me her number to give to you. Are you ready for it?”
“Oh, yeah, hang on.” I dig into my purse for a pen and an old business card from a lady who did my eyebrows once. “Go ahead.”
She reads off the number, and I jot it down, then slip the business card and pen back into my purse.
“Okay, thanks.”
“You’ll tell me what she has to say?” Meredith asks.
“Um, s-sure.”
She lets out an excited squeal, and then another phone rings somewhere behind her. “Hey, gotta go, but call her right away! Okay, bye!”
“Bye.”
The line clicks, and I stand there for a second, staring down at my phone in a stupor.
Loaded God Complex?Really?That can’t be right. Hopefully thatisn’tright. What could they possibly want with a classical violinist?
