Paige
MASH-UP: A piece of music created out of two or more pre-existing tracks
“All right,that’s everything for today. You’re all booked.”
A bigger-than-I-usually-display-in-front-strangers smile stretches my face as I take my copy of the papers I just signed from off the booking agent’s desk.
I’m officially going to play The Cube Room next month.
“Thanks for coming in,” the agent says as she leads the way to her office door. “Normally we could do all this by email, but Nabil said you have some unique setup he’d like to accommodate and that you might want to get a look at the booth, so you’re welcome to go out on the stage before you leave.”
“Cool. Yeah, that’d be great.”
“Oh, and by the way,” she says after I’ve stepped into the hallway, “if you’re in the market for a manager, I’ve got a lot of contacts who I know would be interested. Nabil is crazy excited about booking you, and I looked you up too. You’re fantastic. A manager could really take you to the next level.”
I know she means well, and sheisright, but I have to fight not to sound defensive when I thank her and tell her I’m fine before heading down the hallway.
I know I’ll have to cave and get one eventually, but the last time I had a manager I was just a kid, and she didn’t exactly turn me onto the idea of giving another person that sort of power over my career. She pulled me and my sister out of school so many days I almost had to repeat a grade and dragged us to audition after audition for roles as ‘two cute Asian girls who know how to sing and play piano.’
She didn’t even care much about the way ‘two cute Asian girls’ get treated by men in the entertainment industry—which is not ideal for a manager who is also your mom.
I ball my fists around the cuffs of the loose grey sweatshirt I’m wearing and turn the corner that will take me past the stage and out the staff entrance. When I pass by the wings, I pause and take another look at the DJ booth. This will be the biggest venue I’ve ever played. It’s not a giant club by any means, but they pull in some big names.
And mine is going to be one of them.
I step closer so I can peer around the edge of the stage and out into the empty dance floor, imagining it filled with screaming fans waiting for a show.
There are a lot of moments in my life when I wonder what I’m doing—twenty-three years-old, a graphic design school dropout who bounces from one freelance job to the next while fitting in gigs wherever I can just to barely cover rent for a shitty apartment I share with some guy I found on Craigslist—but that moment when the lights come on and the crowd goes crazy always makes it all make sense.
This is what I should be doing. I know it. I trust it. I fight for it with all I have.
I glance over my shoulder before stepping onto the stage. There are a few people at the very back of the room stocking up the bars, but other than that, I seem to be alone. I take my place behind the booth and run a finger along one of the state of the art CDJs. I’ve only played on gear this nice a couple times before. The contents of this booth alone are worth more than pretty much everything in my apartment.
I was shocked when the booking agent told me I could set up my own stuff for my set too. That’s why I love Taverne Toulouse so much; most other clubs don’t want the hassle.
Even the microphone here is wildly expensive. I stare at the crisscrossing metalwork of the head and imagine singing into it. I haven’t sung on a stage in a long, long time.
I haven’t sung in front of anyone in a long time.
I’m looking out into the dance floor again, hands poised over the control panels like I’m about to play, when a crash from the other side of the stage makes me jump.
I squint through the glare from the stage lights and make out the shape of a guy trying to gather up all the cables that just spilled out of the storage container he knocked over. Then he straightens up and looks my way.
I freeze.
“Uh, hi Paige.” Youssef takes a step forward. “Um, fancy meeting you here?”
He looks like a complete dork. I almost laugh before I catch myself.
I should be angry. Or confused. I should have questions about what the hell he’s doing here, but all I can do is stand there and stare as something hot swells in my chest and blocks my throat.
He just feels so fucking familiar. Everything about him hits with the same sense of recognition: his voice, his hands, his faded black t-shirt with a drawing of New York City on the front. Even the way he stands calls up a hundred memories I told myself I forgot.
He steps closer, and again, I can make out the differences that mark him as changed, but they don’t matter. I know him.
You don’t. You don’t know this guy at all.
“Is this the part where I demand to know if you’re stalking me?”
