Page 111 of Out of Tune
“Though we understand your music is quite popular, we’ve opted for some jazz classics that will go better with the ambiance we’re curating. But that shouldn’t be a problem for professionals like yourselves?” Petra’s smile twitches again, obviously wishing she didn’t have to share this detail with us, and I almost feel bad for her. I’d say she knows perfectly well the type of people she’s working for, but by that same logic, I should have come prepared for something that would remind me exactly what my grandparents think of me. A convenient pawn or trophy to show off whenever they have company they need to impress.
Wes stops so abruptly that the man behind him carrying an arm load of flowers nearly collides with his back. “You’re telling me that we're here to sing other people’s music? Do you know how much it would cost for either of us to do a private performance? Hundreds of thousands of dollars.”
“And Mr. and Mrs. Sloane are so grateful for your donated time,” Petra says. “They understand the great monetary value of your skills, and because of that, we expect our donors to break records tonight. It is so gracious of you to aid our cause working to fund breast cancer research. Last year alone we donated ten million.”
That’s a lot of money and there’s no arguing the cause is close to both of us.
I put an arm on Wes’s arm. “It’s fine. It’ll only be for a few hours.”
Wes gives a tight nod, a vein in his neck pulsing.
Petra’s shoulders loosen with relief as she guides us the rest of the way. We meet the band—a jazz ensemble made up ofseasoned musicians, as expected. The set list is three hours total, but we’ve only been asked to sing about half of the songs to give some variation throughout the night.
“Okay,” Petra says, returning right on cue. “Wesley, Avery…we have an hour and a half to get you both ready.”
I moan as firm fingers massage my scalp. Maybe Ivy had a point all along. Hair stylists are wizards wielding magic fingers. This beats the awkward angles I have to contort into to reach the back of my head any day.
“You’re going to love it. I love reviving hair, it’s just so shiny after,” she says. I assumed I was going to be put in the chair and someone would jab pins into my head, but I’ve been given the full treatment.
I can’t complain, though. I’ve fallen behind on my root touchups, and when she mentioned adding a gloss, I was sold.
She turns on the hair dryer and uses a round brush to style as she goes. There aren’t any mirrors nearby, but as she lifts the strands, I get a glimpse of how it’s drying.
My brows pinch—it looks darker than usual—but my hair is still partly wet. “Did the gloss have any color in it?”
“Oh, the color is what had a gloss treatment. You’re going to love it. The undertones make all your features pop.” She grabs a mirror from her station and holds it up.
It takes everything in me not to scream.
For the rest of the appointment, I don’t look in the mirror because if I see my now brown hair, I will get mad at the stylist who’s just doing her job.
When she leaves, I take a moment to myself. There’s no point in storming out of this room angry and taking the burningfrustration searing my throat out on Wes or the band members we’ll be playing with tonight or Wes. It’s all for Ivy and she isn’t even here. She just expects me to take what I’m given and be grateful for it. Fuck her for making me feel like I had to fight for crumbs to the point that I convinced myself that it was worth the demeaning effort, knees bruising from how I crawled back repeatedly.
Footsteps approach as I look out the towering window into the desolate garden.
“Sorry, I think I have the wrong room. I was told—” At the sound of Wes’s voice I turn to face him. He’s dressed in a tux, his hair is trimmed and slicked back. Admittedly, he looks nice, even as his eyes rake over me and mouth tips open. “Avery. Your hair.”
I look past Wes to the mirror on the vanity to find the granddaughter they wished they had staring back at me. She’s covered up and contained in a long sleeved floor length golden gown with my sheet of tamed dark brown hair flowing down my back. I showed up the moment they asked me to, thinking I could finally do something they would approve of. Something helpful. Still, it’s not enough.
I’ll never be enough for them.
“It’s just hair, I’m fine.” I won’t admit how stripped bare I feel having part of my identity changed so easily. Just a little dye was all it took.
“You know…when I think of red, I think of you. I used to hate it, how it was everywhere. It was like you were following me, reminding me of what I could never have. Other times, it would be a reminder that you exist, which really made life tolerable,” he confesses. “It’s not just hair. It’s a part of you.”
“And they took it.”
“What do you want to do? We can leave right now, ditch our bags, and run right out of here,” he says.
“No, then they still win. If I do that, I’m the granddaughter who couldn’t handle the ounce of responsibility they stooped to give me,” I say.
“So, then what? Just go up on stage and do what they asked?” His voice dips in thinly veiled disappointment, as if he thinks I’m ready to roll over and show my belly.
“They brought Wesley Hart and Avery Sloane here to perform. Let’s give them exactly what they asked for,” I say innocently, but as I cross the room, I catch a final glimpse of myself in the vanity and the twist of my lips is nothing short of feral.
I’m done shrinking myself to make them comfortable.
27
