Tori

Bright sun greets me the moment I leave the community center and I wrinkle my nose at it, warding off a sneeze. This whole thing is ridiculous, and I march straight across the street and jump into Onyx’s beat-up old van. Why he’s never bothered to upgrade after all our success, I’ll never know. The thing reeks of mildew and stale Fritos, but he refuses to give it up. He gives me a sideways glance from the driver’s seat, a cigarette pinched between his fingers.

“Done already?” he asks, making me bristle. I don’t really want to recount the whole thing with him. He already knows more about this bullshit than anyone else. He knows it’s ridiculous that I’m having to do this. And he knows how much I don’t want to deal with any of it. So instead of giving him a real answer, I just grunt, folding my arms and throwing my feet up on the dashboard.

I half expect him to give me a hard time for leaving already, but he just puffs on his cigarette, absently flicking ashes out the window as smoke curls around us both.

“Two more minutes and you would have made it to one-percent completion of your required time.”

I flip him the bird. “Believe me, ten minutes was all I could take.”

His mouth falls into a frown and he stamps out the butt, dropping it in a cup full of its spent brethren. He’s just looking at me for a long time, those dark gray eyes making me want to squirm in my seat, but I hold still. I’m used to his scrutiny at this point.

Finally, Onyx sighs, his shoulders drooping. “Tori… You know if you don’t complete those hours in the next month you’re going to jail, right?”

“You think I’ve forgotten that? Of course I fucking know I’ll go to jail,” I snap, gritting my teeth together until my jaw is sore. “It’s not like I can exactly ignore how I’m being forced into this bullshit against my will, now, can I?”

He arches a brow at me, digging another cigarette out of his pack. I snatch one too, my hands shaking with barely contained fury. But who am I really mad at? That arched brow says everything I know Onyx isn’t going to. Things like you got yourself into this mess, and you should feel lucky that you’re not already in jail.

I’m not really mad at him or the Judge or even freaking Serge and his shitty music room and junkyard-ready instruments. I’m just mad at myself.

Onyx has got a point. I’ve got a month to do these twenty hours, and it’s probably not a good idea to start torching the bridge before I’ve even taken a step on it.

“Fuck,” I grumble, throwing the cigarette back at him without lighting it. “Fuck.”

“Yep,” he drawls, lighting his and taking a long puff.

I groan, drop my feet to the floorboard, and let out a heavy sigh. I know I can’t walk away from this today leaving things the way I did. All he’s gotta do is tell his director what happened and she tells the judge I’m being uncooperative and bam, I’m in county for the next thirty days. I shudder at the thought of it. I know I probably wouldn’t end up with the general population, I might get more freedom and nicer accommodations than most, but it’s still jail. I still wouldn’t be allowed to leave or perform or see my friends, or... take a shower in private.

“Fine,” I snap to no one, wrenching the door handle open.

“See you soon,” Onyx says. I don’t even need to turn to look at him to hear the smirk in his voice. I toss the bird over my shoulder, stomping back across the street, trying to remind myself why I’m going back to see this guy with my tail between my legs.

Because you don’t want to go to jail.

Because you like peeing without someone watching you.

Because they don’t have take-out or Netflix.

Do they have Netflix?

I shake my head. It doesn’t matter if I can watch the latest season of Black Mirror from behind bars. I’m not going to wind up behind bars.

I try to wipe the scowl off my face while I reach for the door, and as I’m walking through the community center back towards the music room, I even try a smile out, but it feels forced and fake, so I nix that before I get there.

The door’s open just a crack and I can see that Serge is still in the room, working through a pile of out-of-tune instruments, trying to get them up to snuff. I wince at a very sharp E, then knock, holding my breath.

“Come in,” he says, not looking up from the guitar in his lap. I take two steps into the room and just stand there, simultaneously annoyed that he’s not paying attention to me and disbelieving of myself that I’ve gone that far down the fame road. He’s sitting on a stool, hunched forward, his eyebrows knitted tight in concentration. I didn’t really pay him much attention before, but now that I’ve got the chance to look at him, Serge looks familiar. I think I should know him from somewhere, but beyond that he’s really attractive. I didn’t spot it under the corporate casual button-down and slacks he’s wearing, paired with the generic white-collar haircut, but he’s got classic good looks. Like a young Marlon Brando or something. That rebellious cant to his posture, the lines around his eyes that tell the story of a million cocksure grins. But he’s not all confidence; there’s something in the way his fingers move over the frets — he’s clumsy with a guitar, that much is evident though he doesn’t let it slow him down. The shirt hides most of it, but I can tell that his shoulders are broad and muscled, I can spot the grace in his movements, and as he narrows his eyes at the guitar, I spot dark swirls of ink peeking out of his sleeves, heading down his hands and up his neck.

I swallow, my throat tight imagining what the rest of his body might look like under that buttoned-up exterior. But I’m not here to indulge myself.

After he plucks another rough-sounding chord — I can’t help but wince — I clear my throat.

He looks up quickly and the concentrated scowl disappears.

“Tori,” he says, my name almost a question coming from him. His expression is neutral, maybe even irritated, and I twist my fingers together before crossing my arms so he can’t see my fidgeting.

“Hi.”

“Hi.” He nods.

“I’m sorry…”

His eyebrows lift, the corner of his mouth turning up and I fight the urge to roll my eyes.

“Don’t make a big deal out of it, okay?”

The smirk only gets bigger, but he doesn’t say anything, letting me sit here shoveling my own shallow grave.

I sigh. “Fine, if you wanna know why I’m here it’s because I have to be for community service.”

“Court-ordered?” he asks, and I brace myself for the obvious next question: what for? I nod, but the question doesn’t come. He doesn’t ask me why the courts ordered me to serve my community and I’m not about to offer the information freely. It was a bad choice and shitty luck. It’s too stupid to even say out loud, so I’m really glad he doesn’t ask. A lot of people wouldn’t have let it go that easily, so maybe Serge isn’t going to make my time here completely miserable.

“Well, welcome,” is what he says instead. How do I even respond to that? I’m not used to people in Hollywood being so non-judgmental. Or so unwilling to gossip.

“So… what is it you do here? You mentioned choir practice?” I ask, taking a couple more steps into the room. There’s still a fair bit of distance between us and I want to lessen it even more, but instead I just grab a nearby chair and pull it up across from him. “Can I?” I offer, extending my hands for the guitar in his grip. He shrugs and hands it over. I’m plucking and tuning while he explains.

“We do basic music education and therapy. Specifically with at-risk youth and low-income families. All these are set aside for kids that want to join band or orchestra in school and can’t afford an instrument. We let them rent it for less than a Big Mac.”

“Why not just give them away?”

He looks at me like I might be stupid. “Well, besides us not having funds to just give things away, most people around here don’t want charity. They want to help their kids, they just can’t afford it at current costs. This way, they can save face, the kid gets the instrument, and the center gets a tiny bit of money back. Basically enough to cover my time re-tuning them.”

“I see.” Sudden memories of my mom and me huddled together for warmth while sleeping in her car come cropping up. She couldn’t afford a hotel room after we got evicted, but she wasn’t going to swallow her pride to take us to a shelter. I strum a few chords on the guitar and hand it back to him, tuned as good as it’s gonna get. He hands me a violin next. I’ve never tuned a violin before, but it can’t be all that different. I shrug and get to work.

“We also have the choir, which I think is what Joey wants you to help me with.”

“What’s that about?”

“It’s mostly about giving them a safe space to be creative, to be accepted without judgment, where they’re all equals and what you’re wearing or what kind of phone you have doesn’t matter. But there’s a competition coming up for regional community choirs. We’ve actually qualified, and if we manage to do well there, we’ll be able to go to state.”

“Impressive. What are you performing?” It’s that question that makes Serge go from guarded and cautious to relaxed and open. He gives me a little grin that weirdly makes my chest tighten, and then he goes to the piano, playing the intro to the song.

I recognize it right away, but his piano skills are… not great. Not that mine are any better, so I can hardly criticize him. His fingers are clumsy, pressing extra keys and skipping keys here and there, dissonant chords reverberating around the tiny empty room. For someone in charge of a music program, I’m not really sure what musical ability he has. Then again, I suppose the community center here doesn’t exactly have the budget to be hiring professionals.

“And after that one, the arrangement flows right into this one,” he says, still playing with his left hand as he hands me sheet music.

“You’re singing it just like this?” I ask, sitting at the bench with him. I wait for the next measure and start singing along with the music. He doesn’t say anything, but his fingers seem to fumble even more. I don’t know if it’s because my singing is throwing him off, or if my sitting next to him is making him uncomfortable, or maybe he’s always this bad.

“I think if you pick up the pace a little here on page three, when you get to the tempo change on page five, it’ll have even more impact.”

He thinks about it for a second before jotting my note down. “We’ll try it,” he says. I grin, forgetting for a moment that I’m here against my will. Because I don’t know Serge, but I’m getting the feeling that I want to. Which is crazy. I’m probably just looking for some way to entertain myself while fulfilling my court orders.

“Do you really hate kids?” he asks, his eyes going dark, the thick lashes both beckoning me forward and blocking me from looking deeper.

“I don’t know. I’ve never really been around any to be honest.”

“Well, my kids are great. You’ll love them. They’re always making me laugh. Especially Kamala. She’s kind of the class clown. Bit of a teacher’s pet too, if I’m being honest. She’s got her own section in the gallery,” he says, grinning.

“The gallery?”

He gestures around the room and I notice for the first time all the drawings and colorings posted up on the wall.

“Kamala’s are over here,” he says, gesturing to the place of honor above his desk. The drawings are full of colorful scenes of things happening in the music room, singing and playing instruments. Most of the other drawings are drawings kids have done of their house, their pets, their family, but every single one of Kamala’s is of the music room.

“Looks like she really enjoys your class.”

Serge smiles, but there’s something sad behind it that I can’t place. “She does, yeah.”

It’s obvious that this guy cares a lot about these kids and his program, as rundown as it may look on the outside. So of course I feel even shittier about being a mega-bitch earlier. But I can’t change the bad attitude I had coming in. I just have to make the best of things moving forward, right? I’m going to be in this room, with this guy, for at least twenty hours. I owe it to myself to not make every last one of them miserable.

The silence stretches between us and I think about saying something else to break through it, but I’m at a loss. I don’t know what to say. But I also don’t really want to leave. I want to keep talking to him about his program and “his” kids, just to hear the pride and satisfaction in his voice. I can’t remember being that content with anything in a long time. Yeah, I’m proud of my career and what I’ve achieved, but it doesn’t make me feel fulfilled. It’s just what I’ve always wanted to do. I always wanted to be on stage singing for people and I couldn’t ever imagine doing anything else.

But being on stage singing for people isn’t helping the world like what Serge is doing. It’s not changing lives. It’s not saving troubled kids. I’ve never really thought that I wanted more than fame and fortune and touring with the band, but for the first time, thinking about it all leaves me a little… empty.

“Tori? Tor?” Onyx is calling for me from outside the room and I perk up just as the door opens.

“Oh, here you are.”

“Here I am,” I answer with a shrug.

“You ready to go? We’ve got a show tonight and you don’t wanna be late to sound check. Remember what happened last time?”

“When we got that feedback squeal that nearly emptied the place? Yeah, I remember,” I sigh, taking one last look at Kamala’s happy pictures. I turn to Serge, not sure why I feel like I need to explain myself. “Sorry… we’ve got a—”

“A show, I heard.”

“Right.”

“Break a leg,” he says, giving me little smile that makes my heart flutter.

“I’ll uh… see you soon?”

He nods, looking amused. “I’ll be here to sign off on your hours.”

Of course he has to remind me of that. Reminding me that this isn’t just some pleasant run-in or a normal encounter between two people who aren’t being forced into anything by the American justice system.

“Come on, Tor,” Onyx says, bouncing on his toes in the doorway. I leave with him, resisting the urge to look back at Serge over my shoulder, resisting the urge to commit his confident stance and cocky grin to memory. I don’t need any more incentive to try to imagine him with his shirt off than I already have.

I don’t even know where it’s coming from. I’m a rockstar — far from chaste — but I’m not normally this single-minded. It’s gotta just be the weird power dynamics or something. I’m a girl used to being in charge, maybe being at someone else’s mercy is novel enough to trigger something inside of me.

But somehow, that doesn’t seem right. Somehow, I don’t think it’s just anyone in that position that could make me obsess over him. Somehow, I think it’s something unique to Serge.

Once we’re in the ratty van and Onyx has coaxed the engine to life, he blows out a long breath. “There, a whole hour down. Did you hate it the whole time?”

An hour? I look at the time, and sure enough, it’s been over an hour since I was last in this van ready to get the hell out of here. I don’t know how it went by so fast without me noticing, but I hope the remaining nineteen are just as smooth.

I shrug, not wanting to give too much away. The last thing I need is Onyx teasing me endlessly. One whiff of anything he might deem a crush and I’ll never hear the end of it. He’ll tell the whole band, and even the roadies will start leaving explicit ‘jokes’ in my dressing room and shit. No thanks.

“I guess it’s not too bad,” I say, trying my best to sound nonchalant about the whole thing while my mind’s filled with Serge’s knowing smirk, teasing me without a word. Jerk.

Onyx looks over at me, his eyebrows raised, a knowing expression of his own. But if he’s got something to say, he’s smart enough to keep it to himself.

“Glad to hear it won’t be total torture. It’ll be over before you know it.”

“Yeah,” I say, tucking my hair behind my ear, leaning my head against the window. I know it’s kind of crazy, but all of the sudden, I don’t want it to be over so soon.

Luckily, I’ve still got nineteen hours to change my mind.