Carl is flat-faced and soft-bellied, with a shock of orange-red hair that pokes out of his head in tufts over his headphones. He reminds me of a blustery horse, the way he punctuates everything with a raspberry or a noisy, hawking yeehaw.
If such is possible, Reggie is worse. Even sitting down, I can tell he’s tall the way he curls over his mic. His eyes are beady behind thick frames, and he leers at anything with a vulva. Marissa’s conservative clothing choices are making more sense by the second. This guy looks like someone Taylor Swift would sue, and I mean that exactly how it sounds.
Jen wants me to apologize to these two? Not fucking likely.
But I have to try, because the alternative is touring with my ex-fiancé for an entire winter while people watch my belly to play the game “Is it deep-dish pizza or baby Drake Jr.?”
The commercial break ends, and Reggie takes the lead in my interview, introducing me on the air with a crass summary of my past discretions, which he’s ever so creatively dubbed the Neil Young Debacle.
（I want to correct him and let him know that Crosby, Stills, and Nash were also present the day they produced “Ohio,” but I figure that’s not the point and also I remember just in time I’m not supposed to be smart.）
“Lorelai Jones, forced retirement suits you. Where’ve you been these last few years?”
“Oh gosh, here and there. I spent the majority of my time in Michigan teaching third grade, if you can believe. Hi, class,” I say into the mic, waving at my invisible students as if they’re listening. “Make sure you’re doing your homework.”
Carl raises a brow. “You mean to tell me you had students?”
“Thirty every year.”
“Now that’s something I wouldn’t mind seeing,” Reggie says. “Gives a new meaning to the words hot for teacher. I bet those boys had a hell of a time paying attention with you strutting around.”
Carl gives a honking laugh and in a breathless falsetto says, “Now, class, today we’re going to learn about sex ed…”
I don’t cooperate. “Yes, well. Again, third graders, so not exactly.”
“So the dads, then,” Reggie says to Carl. “Plenty of parent/teacher conferences happening after hours, I bet.”
I press my lips together, controlling my breathing. “Not really, but I’ve recently moved back to Nashville and am hard at work on a new album.”
“Right, right.” Reggie clears his throat. “Well, I’ll be honest with you folks; Lorelai looks as incredible as ever. That northern air did a body good. But has it improved your atti tude, young lady?” he asks in a fatherly tone, and my throat fills with acid.
“Well, if you mean, have I stopped playing protest rock, sure. I’ve been focusing on my own music.”
“Something lighter and little happier, I hope? None of that fuddy-duddy depressing social awareness crap?”
I hedge my answer. “Certainly more mature, yes. I’ve grown into my vocals and have had the priceless opportunity to step out of the spotlight and into real life for a bit. In some ways, I’m more socially aware than ever. Hard not to be after the state of things over the last few years.”
Carl blows a fat raspberry and Reggie cackles. “Blah-blah, that sounds boring. People want to escape their lives, Lorelai. They want a pretty voice to listen to and a pretty face to look at while they’re listening.”
I press my lips together to keep from spewing any words I can’t take back and grin. “Well,” I drawl, “I can certainly provide the people with what they want.”
“Can you sing a little something for us now? Something new you’ve been working on?”
Jen hadn’t mentioned this, but I’m perpetually ready to sing, and have been since I was born, so I agree. “I don’t have my guitar, so I feel a little naked,” I say coyly, knowing exactly how I sound and hating myself for it.
Reggie winks and I suppress a shudder. “That’s all right by me, darlin’。 You all right with that, Carl?” Carl makes one of those cartoon ayy-ooga noises and I deserve a million bucks for not vomiting.
I press forward in my seat, closing my eyes against the room and the pigheaded men in front of me, shutting out their leers as I sing a few verses of “What They Have,” the song I wrote about Shelby and Cameron, picturing my friends and ignoring the pang of homesickness.
When I’m finished, I settle back, opening my eyes, and to their credit, Reggie and Carl look almost gobsmacked. I honestly don’t feel cocky at their expressions. After all, like I said, I have it.
But I can’t help but feel the steady sinking in my gut, because I know this wasn’t enough to soothe anyone’s opinions of me.
19
LORELAI
MY GIVE A DAMN’S BUSTED
The rest of the week is much the same, and it’s pretty clear by Friday afternoon that the overall result was underwhelming and ineffective.
Even Jen’s early return from L.A. on Wednesday morning could do nothing to curb the intense dislike reflected on the faces of the gatekeepers of country music radio. In the beginning, I really did make an effort at earning their good favors. Not everyone was as despicable as Reggie, but the disapproval was clear. No matter how demure I pretend to be, no matter how self-deprecating, no matter how fucking charming （and I’m charming as hell when I want to be）， it’s not enough. The best I can figure is because what I stand for, what I’m about deep down in my center, still remains, and they have to sense that.
They aren’t ready for that version of Lorelai Jones.
“They feel duped,” Huck tells me over the phone after a particularly shitastic interview with a popular conservative deejay on iHeartRadio. “You made them fall in love with you and shower you with praise. You were everyone’s pliable darling until you showed your claws. You pulled the wool over their eyes and made them look stupid. Not only that, you made the rest of the country stand up and take notice of the more backward traditions in this industry, and they’re slow to forgive that.”
“I’m not the only one, though. Look at Kacey Musgraves and Annie Mathers. Miranda Lambert. The Highway Women. Mickey Guyton.”
“Would it make you feel better if I told you that I think what happened to you opened doors for others? Jefferson said Annie sent him to me because of you. Because she admired you and never thought what happened to you was right. I’ve heard she has a clause in her contract that says she can speak about whatever she wants, and her label can’t legally drop her for it?”
After that, the apology tour was pretty much a joke. I went through the motions twice on Thursday and three times this morning, but I shouldn’t have bothered. At the last, disastrous meeting, the deejay, wearing a T-shirt that read GET YOUR HANDS OFF MY SECOND AMENDMENT, had cued up a bootleg recording of my performance of “Ohio” before my ass even touched the seat across from him.
“How do you feel about the Second Amendment now?”
I can feel my agent’s eyes boring holes into my skull as if to give me the proper response, telepathically. Don’t mess this up, Lorelai. Be vague. Polite. Play stupid. Anything but the truth.
Fuck it.