Only 8 more stories to go . . . in three days . . . yikes! 😉 (They will be getting shorter despite my muse saying, “You know, this one really wants to be longer.” To which I will reply, sweetly, “Thank you, muse.” (Never antagonize your muse!)
Put Your Records On
In high school, we called ourselves, Choconilla. Salt and Pepper. And then Oreo.
In college, we became Gray and stuck with it until the night a music producer showed up backstage after our Jersey show. I recognized him immediately, but if DeShauna did, she hid it well. Initially he seemed vaguely uncomfortable that we shared a dressing room, but we were still very much small-scale.
“You’ve a special voice, Lacey, and a lot of guitar skill,” Dave Brewster began, and just like that I understood what was happening.
“You want to talk to DeShauna alone,” I guessed.
DeShauna looked for a moment like she wanted me to stay, but I just shook my head at her. Truthfully, I had been waiting for this occurrence for the past six months and it was finally here.
I grabbed my gear and found the nearby ladies room, where I changed into a dry shirt, and then went to wait by the bus where Mike was already waiting, as he always was. The evening was cool. Spring was a taste on the breeze. The surrounding city lights were too bright to see the stars, but I knew they were there.
Mike raised an eyebrow before looking slightly beyond me. DeShauna and I were always together, best friends since kindergarten, a musical duo since high school.
I nodded. Mike and I were on the verge of needing to find new careers. Brewster’s company would probably pay the venues to find another artist to perform as most of the venues wouldn’t want just me and Mike. Part of me was thinking, just when we were starting to make some real money. But I’d always known that one day the world would discover DeShauna’s voice could rival the powerful genius of Whitney Houston’s in her prime. That day had come.
DeShauna strides toward us, her jaw set. “Why did you just up and leave?”
“Because I knew he wanted to offer you something fantastic and that I wasn’t part of the deal.”
“Well, wah wah, he did, and I said ‘no.’ What did you think? That I’d just leave you behind?”
“I don’t want to hold you back. You’re going to be Beyonce-level famous one day soon . . . .”
“And you’ll be Taylor Swift, so what gives?”
I laugh. Taylor Swift? If only. “Can I be honest?”
“Have you been being less than honest?”
“I’ve been waiting for this day for a while. I’m okay with it. I want you to be all that you can be.”
“Am I in the army now?”
I grab her hands and squeeze. “Will you just tell him ‘yes’ and then invite me to your fabulous new home in Malibu that has a warm swimming pool?”
She rolls her eyes. “Malibu? We’ll have to see if I like it.”
Needless to say, she does.