I have my notebook open in front of me, and I’m trying to write a song, even though I’m queasy and it feels like my brain is being stepped on.
I bring my pen to the page, and write: You’re like a hangover.
That’s hardly fun, though. Plus I could get in trouble for referencing alcohol, given our target audience.
What Galactic Records wants is a pop smash. It needs to be sweet and easy to listen to, but can’t be too much of anything. The lyrics need to be good, but vague enough that masses of people can apply the story to their own lives. People are always so dismissive of pop, but actually writing a hit pop song? It’s way easier said than done.
I’m stuck because, as much as I want to be a renowned songwriter, I’m not really a pop smash kind of person. I never was, and even though I’m in a world-famous pop band now, I have my doubts that I ever will be. While Ruben was raised on musicals, I was raised on alt-rock. I like songs that are emotive and personal and honestly, a little weird. There’s a reason loner kids like I once was gravitate toward that kind of music. I want to be that for someone, one day. To give them the lifeline music gave me.
Someone nudges my shoulder. It’s Ruben, across the aisle from me. His headphones are now hanging around his neck.
“Writer’s block?” he asks. The plane rattles as we go over a spot of turbulence. Even when he isn’t singing, Ruben has a nice voice. It’s deep and has this kind of wry spark to it, like he’s always messing with you.
“Yeah. Got any advice?”
He holds out his hand. “Give it.”
I feel my cheeks start to warm, but I ignore that, and show him my notebook, which only has one line on it, the one about the hangover.
He laughs. “I wonder what inspired this.”
“My mind works in mysterious ways.”
“Clearly.”
I put my notebook down, and write down mysterious ways.
“Tell me you did not just write down ‘mysterious ways.’”
“No, something else came to me.”
His lifted eyebrow tells me there’s no fooling him. Not that I ever thought I could. He’s turned in his plush seat now, to face me more.
“Okay, fine,” I say. “It’s got a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”
“Listen, you’re a great writer, but no. You just think it does because you’re hungover as fuck on an international flight. You can take a second to just chill, you know.”
If Ruben is telling me to relax, I really should listen. He never stops, and is constantly trying to improve, even though he’s already one of the most technically perfect singers in the game. He even transitioned from his theater upbringing to pop much more easily than I did, seemingly through sheer force of will. Because that’s the thing about Ruben; he’s maybe the one person I don’t ever doubt being able to accomplish everything he wants. I still remember back when we were kids at camp, and we sat by the shore of the lake one night, and he told me he wanted to be a superstar one day. Right then, I knew it would happen with everything I have.
“Fine.” I snap my notebook closed. “What are you listening to?”
He pointedly looks away.
“Seriously?”
“Is there a limit to how many times someone can listen to an album, now? Have you even listened to it once, yet, Zachary?”
I have the cast recording of In This House downloaded to my phone, but I haven’t listened to it yet, despite Ruben’s constant gentle badgering. It’s become a bit of a joke between us that I keep putting it off, but I don’t have much else to do right now. I should bite the bullet, because it’ll make his day. Or, night. I’m not sure what time it technically is right now.
“I will now,” I say. “But only so you stop asking me.”
“Do what you want, Zach.”
I put my headphones on and find the album. It runs for two hours and five minutes. What the hell have I gotten myself into? There’s no going back now, though, because Ruben has asked me to listen multiple times, and I don’t want to disappoint him. That’d be like ignoring a puppy that wants to be petted. I’m not strong enough. And it’s not like Ruben asks much of me.
I hit play, then lean my head back and close my eyes.
* * *
I’m exhausted, but the flight is over.
Up ahead are the frosted glass doors of the exit. I know what’s coming, and I try to brace myself, even though I know from experience there’s no way to prepare for this.
The doors open, and a deafening scream greets us.