good hearing someone say that last sentence out loud.
“Listen,” Meg told her, “I have a friend in LA who
needs a roommate. Her name is Ashley and she’s a musician. And get
this—she just signed with Scott’s label. She knows where Scott is,
Summer. And she’s more than willing to help. I think you’ll get along really
well.”
“But
I can’t…” Summer started.
“You can’t what?” Meg interrupted. “Can’t quit your
mediocre job, can’t leave your lousy apartment, can’t pack your bags and go
after the love of your life?”
“I
don’t even know how Scott feels about me, exactly,” Summer said.
“Then
you’ll go there and ask him face-to-face,” Meg said. “Don’t give up. You know
you want to go. You know you don’t belong here.”
Summer found it strange that Meg could tell exactly what
she had been thinking, exactly which options she had been considering. But
maybe Meg knew her better than she gave her credit for, after all.
“Okay,”
Summer said. “Give me her number. I’ll get in touch with her.”
And now here she is, catching the water bottle Ashley
has pitched from across the room, right before it smacks her on the nose. That
night, they sit on Ashley’s bed in their pajamas, munching on cheddar caramel
popcorn and chocolate-covered almonds and looking at Scott’s blog. When they
finally hatch a game plan for the following day, Summer raises her Coke glass
and clinks it with Ashley’s. As the cold, sweet liquid touches her lips and
tongue, she actually feels like there is something in her life worth looking
forward to. For the first time in months, Summer feels like there is something
in her life worth celebrating.
Summer and Ashley are camped out in front
of the building housing Scott’s recording studio on a cloudy Sunday morning, armed
with a box of assorted jelly donuts, a pot of Turkish roast coffee, and “Eye of
the Tiger” on the car radio. Their windows are half-open, and the air smells
like a mixture of rain and urine and chicken noodle soup. Summer gobbles up a
donut in two bites, feeling like she and Ashley are two potbellied, balding
cops on a stakeout. Every five minutes, Ashley asks her if she’s ready; every
time, she tells her, “No, not yet, give me five more minutes.” They’ve been
parked in this spot since six AM . It
is almost nine-thirty.
Summer
asks Ashley for the twenty-seventh time, “Are you sure he’s coming?” She chews
on her fingernails, which she had painted a bright blue the night before in the
hopes that she’d find them so pretty it’d be a shame to chew on them. “Maybe
he’s not. Maybe he’s not even thinking about coming. Maybe he woke up today and
went, ‘Oh, I feel like skipping my recording session today.’ Maybe he decided
to go back to bed and stay there for the rest of the week.”
Ashley
pauses mid-bite. “You saw him come in, Summer.”
Summer
giggles nervously. “Yeah, but I don’t know, it didn’t really look like him,”
she says. “I mean, I haven’t seen him in so long, so maybe I’ve forgotten what
he looks like, you know?”
“Will
you cut it out?” Ashley snaps, finally losing her patience after more than
three hours of keeping her cool. She hurls the box of donuts into the backseat,
slams the pot of coffee down on the dashboard, and puts her hand firmly on the
door. “We are going in there, and we are doing it now.”
“Now?”
Summer asks, licking powdered sugar off her lips. “But I’m not ready.”
“I don’t care,” Ashley says. “Out of the car. Now.”
So
Summer finishes her donut, wipes her mouth, and gets out of the car.
“Satisfied?” she asks Ashley as they walk up the stairs towards the building
lobby.
“Very,”
Ashley says, smiling good-naturedly now. They pull open the heavy glass door
and step inside.
“I
have an appointment with Scott Carlton,” Ashley tells the receptionist,
sounding confident and credible and mature. “This is Summer and she’s
“Listen,” Meg told her, “I have a friend in LA who
needs a roommate. Her name is Ashley and she’s a musician. And get
this—she just signed with Scott’s label. She knows where Scott is,
Summer. And she’s more than willing to help. I think you’ll get along really
well.”
“But
I can’t…” Summer started.
“You can’t what?” Meg interrupted. “Can’t quit your
mediocre job, can’t leave your lousy apartment, can’t pack your bags and go
after the love of your life?”
“I
don’t even know how Scott feels about me, exactly,” Summer said.
“Then
you’ll go there and ask him face-to-face,” Meg said. “Don’t give up. You know
you want to go. You know you don’t belong here.”
Summer found it strange that Meg could tell exactly what
she had been thinking, exactly which options she had been considering. But
maybe Meg knew her better than she gave her credit for, after all.
“Okay,”
Summer said. “Give me her number. I’ll get in touch with her.”
And now here she is, catching the water bottle Ashley
has pitched from across the room, right before it smacks her on the nose. That
night, they sit on Ashley’s bed in their pajamas, munching on cheddar caramel
popcorn and chocolate-covered almonds and looking at Scott’s blog. When they
finally hatch a game plan for the following day, Summer raises her Coke glass
and clinks it with Ashley’s. As the cold, sweet liquid touches her lips and
tongue, she actually feels like there is something in her life worth looking
forward to. For the first time in months, Summer feels like there is something
in her life worth celebrating.
Summer and Ashley are camped out in front
of the building housing Scott’s recording studio on a cloudy Sunday morning, armed
with a box of assorted jelly donuts, a pot of Turkish roast coffee, and “Eye of
the Tiger” on the car radio. Their windows are half-open, and the air smells
like a mixture of rain and urine and chicken noodle soup. Summer gobbles up a
donut in two bites, feeling like she and Ashley are two potbellied, balding
cops on a stakeout. Every five minutes, Ashley asks her if she’s ready; every
time, she tells her, “No, not yet, give me five more minutes.” They’ve been
parked in this spot since six AM . It
is almost nine-thirty.
Summer
asks Ashley for the twenty-seventh time, “Are you sure he’s coming?” She chews
on her fingernails, which she had painted a bright blue the night before in the
hopes that she’d find them so pretty it’d be a shame to chew on them. “Maybe
he’s not. Maybe he’s not even thinking about coming. Maybe he woke up today and
went, ‘Oh, I feel like skipping my recording session today.’ Maybe he decided
to go back to bed and stay there for the rest of the week.”
Ashley
pauses mid-bite. “You saw him come in, Summer.”
Summer
giggles nervously. “Yeah, but I don’t know, it didn’t really look like him,”
she says. “I mean, I haven’t seen him in so long, so maybe I’ve forgotten what
he looks like, you know?”
“Will
you cut it out?” Ashley snaps, finally losing her patience after more than
three hours of keeping her cool. She hurls the box of donuts into the backseat,
slams the pot of coffee down on the dashboard, and puts her hand firmly on the
door. “We are going in there, and we are doing it now.”
“Now?”
Summer asks, licking powdered sugar off her lips. “But I’m not ready.”
“I don’t care,” Ashley says. “Out of the car. Now.”
So
Summer finishes her donut, wipes her mouth, and gets out of the car.
“Satisfied?” she asks Ashley as they walk up the stairs towards the building
lobby.
“Very,”
Ashley says, smiling good-naturedly now. They pull open the heavy glass door
and step inside.
“I
have an appointment with Scott Carlton,” Ashley tells the receptionist,
sounding confident and credible and mature. “This is Summer and she’s
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