Chapter Seven
Dissonance: notes that clash or cause feelings of tension; notes that sound bad together
Charlie
“Delilah called. She has a new client she wants to set you up with.”
I look up from the sheet music laid out in front of me on the breakfast bar. I have a meeting with The Professor this afternoon, and I’m trying to decide what I want to show him first.
Blinking at my mom’s expectant face, it takes a second for her words to register. “Oh. Tell her no thank you.”
I drop my gaze back to my music, shuffling papers around and making notes. I’m equal parts nervous and excited. It’s been over a year since I worked with The Professor, and that was only for one song. But he was so encouraging and welcoming of my ideas and contributions. That single is the only one I’ve felt like belonged to me in any way, reflecting something of the real me. Since it was also a number one hit on the Billboard charts, having him on board should make it easier to sell the idea of me being one of the writers on my next album to the record label.
“Excuse me?” My mom’s sharp tone cuts into my thoughts, and I bring my head up to look at her again, brushing my bangs out of my eyes. I’ve gone back to blond, but a little more honey blond now, less platinum, and I’m growing my hair out again. It’s a process. I’m not entirely sold on the necessity of me having long hair, but when my mom, my manager, and my PR person all told me I needed to grow it back out to help salvage my image, I decided to pick my battles. Saving the fights for things like this.
I sit back in my chair, laying my pencil down. “I said to tell her no thank you.” I keep my face carefully neutral, my voice soft and calm. Keeping a lid on my emotions is a necessity in all negotiations with my mother. Showing how much I care is like baiting a bear. Unwise.
“Yes,” she says coldly, crossing her arms. “I heard you the first time. Care to elaborate as to why?” She waves one hand, as though inviting me to answer. But before I can, she plows on. “Because I was under the impression we were all trying to do the same thing. Namely, salvaging the disaster you’ve made of your career with your ridiculous break.”
“And I was under the impression that since it’s my career, I’m allowed to tank it if I so choose.” I look down at my papers, strategically looking away and busying myself with straightening them, as though the conversation is over, even though I know Mom won’t let go that easily.
She takes a deep breath, and I steel myself for her next line of attack. “It’s important that you be seen with other celebrities. Especially after those pictures of you and that boy. You need someone who can elevate your career.”
“No.” I remain calm and firm. I’m not budging on this one. Not anymore.
I see her throw her hands in the air in my peripheral vision. “Why? You went to the Grammy’s with Amos Wright. How is that different than this?”
Sparing her a glance and a shrug, I move one of the pages behind the first one, deciding to switch the order of the first two song ideas. “I suppose it’s not. But I’m tired of parading around with some guy I don’t know, don’t like, and don’t care about.” Yeah, I’ll show him the chord progression that I’ve been messing with the most first. Then some of the lyric ideas. See what kind of beats he’ll layer under them.
She slaps the papers out of my hands, scattering them on the breakfast bar, two pages falling to the floor. “Put those damned papers down and pay attention to me when I’m speaking to you!”
I narrow my eyes, unable stop my nostrils flaring. “Mother. Those damn papers, as you call them, are for my meeting with The Professor this afternoon. I don’t have time to argue with you about who I’m supposed to be seen dating for the press. I don’t care about whether I keep myself in the public eye. I’m tired of them all painting me as a whore for ‘dating’”—I make dramatic air quotes with my fingers—“a different guy every week. And I’m tired of feeling like a whore for doing it, since half the time those guys are only there to advance their careers.” Sliding off the bar stool, I collect the fallen papers, placing them back on the breakfast bar and putting everything back in order.
Mom has resumed her crossed-arm posture, complete with narrowed eyes and flaring nostrils. Guess that’s where I get it from. “When were you going to tell me about your meeting?”
I raise an eyebrow. “I wasn’t aware I needed to inform you of everything I do.”
She lets out a huff. “Please, Charlie. I’ve been helping manage your career since you were a little girl. Of course I should be aware of meetings with producers. What time? I’ll need to make sure I can rearrange my schedule so I can join you.” Pulling out her phone, she taps the screen.
“You’re not invited.”
Her head whips up, her eyes shooting knives. “What?”
“I said you’re not invited. I will be meeting with The Professor on my own. I requested the meeting, after all. And don’t you think it’s weird for a twenty-one year old to take her mother everywhere with her?” I raise an eyebrow at my last question.
“Not when her mother is part of her management team.”
“You haven’t been an official part of my management since I was fourteen. And you’re no longer needed as an unofficial part of it either.”
She gasps loudly, one hand flying to her chest.
I can’t contain my eye roll. “I’m an adult now, Mom. I’m perfectly capable of meeting with The Professor on my own. I don’t need you holding my hand or dictating my career to me.”
“But Madalyn works closely with me on everything.”
Tilting my head to the side, I consider that. Madalyn’s been my manager since my mom hired her on my behalf when I was fourteen. That was when she officially relinquished her management duties. Not that she actually did so in reality. “You’re right. I think I’ll be hiring a new manager, too. Jonathan is very happy with his. Perhaps I’ll give her a call. If she can’t take me on, I’m sure she can make a good recommendation.”
Mom’s mouth is hanging open, her red lipstick looking garish against her face now white with shock. I reach out and give her a conciliatory pat on the arm. “I appreciate all you’ve done for me over the years. But if I’m going to continue this career for the long term, I need to be in charge of it. You’ve pushed me too hard for too long. I know you think what you did was necessary. But if I have to do that forever, I’d rather give it all up.”
“But everything we’ve worked for …” she finally manages to croak out. My poor mother. I’m not sure why she didn’t see this coming after I threatened to cut off all contact while I was at school. I guess she expected me to come home with my head bowed, ready for her to take over again.
I did, to some degree, at first. Going along with more of her suggestions than not. Letting her and Delilah, my PR person, find me an “appropriate” date for the Grammy’s, my first public appearance since Jonathan and Gabby’s wedding.
Which only confirmed my desire not to do that again. I don’t want everyone else running my life, dismissing my input if they even hear it in the first place.
No. I’m taking control of my own career. Starting with finding a new manager.
And working with a producer who’s happy to take my scribblings and turn them into gold. Maybe even platinum.
If we can get a good demo laid down in his studio, I can take that to my meeting with the label in a few weeks and convince them that letting me write my next album isn’t a mistake. That I’m capable of keeping my continuity of hits going.
Squeezing my mom’s arm once more, I give her a closed-mouth smile. Releasing her, I gather my papers and pencil and head to my room to change for my meeting with The Professor.
The whole point of the Marycliff experiment to begin with was to prove to myself that I was capable of living life on my own terms. To get out from under my mother’s thumb and make my own decisions.
And here I am taking control of my album, my career, my life.
Mission accomplished.