fucking drummer, Keith." I felt like I should get that tattooed on my forehead. Seemed like people kept forgetting that fact.
"I know. And you're also the face of the fragrance. So make words come out of your face on TV, so you make money for the band. Does that sound simple enough?"
It was my own fault that Keith thought I was an idiot. At band meetings, I always played dumb for laughs. The stereotype of the dim-witted drummer was just too easy to play into, and it cracked the band up something fierce.
But that didn't mean I wasn't pissed off right now. "It may be. It may also be too hard for my poor small brain to handle," I seethed. "I guess we'll find out together, huh?"
Keith dropped the higher-than-thou act. "You're freaking me out, Low. Are you going to do it or do I have to cancel? Maybe I should send Rane."
I was freaking out myself. But there was the small matter of not letting anyone down. This was my job. "Sorry, no. I'm fine. I'll be fine, Keith. Everyone can count on me."
I hung up the phone and considered. Rane would know how to do this. Rane would tell me how to charm the fucking pantyhose off of Maria Whatsherface and not make a complete ass of myself on live television.
But what if you don't need him?
The thought floated in front of my brain, as fleeting and indistinct as the mist rising up from the waterfall where my father used to take us camping as kids. But the second I turned my attention to it, it solidified.
They don't want Rane, they want you.
They're asking for you.
This is your thing.
Yours.
I looked down at my phone, still clutched in my hand in a death grip.
My thumb moved on its own.
Back to the text messages.
Back to Zoe.
The last picture, her fingertip pressed into her lip, dragging it down a little, the way my teeth would if I ever got the chance to kiss her again.
Before I knew it, I was typing.
Chapter 11
Zoe
Low: Will you watch and tell me how I do?
I had to keep going back and re-reading the last text he'd sent me.
He was the drummer in the biggest band in rock 'n' roll. He was the face of an ad campaign that was swiftly going viral. Saturday Night Live had already parodied it with an ad for a fake fragrance called Listless, and the accompanying sketch had over 6 million hits on YouTube. The ad itself was blowing up the Internet, with memes and homages to it already sprouting up all over. Not to mention the small factor that the stores couldn't keep the fragrance on the shelves.
He was the hottest thing around....
And he wanted me to watch him and tell him if I thought his interview went well.
I did a giddy little shimmy as I read it again. Then I silently opened my bedroom door and padded through the sleeping house to turn on the TV.
Good Day LA was a thing I knew existed but never paid attention to in the past. The occasional blooper or viral thingie on YouTube; that was the extent of my viewership.
But now I, like so many other people around this vast city, was sitting back on my couch, coffee cup in hand, and watching the show unfold.
I drummed my fingers impatiently on the couch cushion and it occurred to me that I had never seen him in the daylight. Sitting alone in my living room, I wondered if this counted as a date. He'd set a time, and I'd shown up. Yeah, we weren't face-to-face, but I was almost as nervous.
At least for this kind of date, I didn't have to straighten my hair.
I smiled at the fluffy segment about baby yoga. I cringed through my fingers at the fear-mongering segment about tarantula migrations. Then finally the anchor announced the moment I'd been waiting for.
"And up next... If you can't be a rockstar, at least you now can smell like one. We've got Lowell Stowe, from Ruthless!"
The camera cut to him sitting on a couch in a green room somewhere, leaning forward, his elbows on his jittering knees, his long fingers laced together. He looked up at the camera and raised his eyebrows suggestively.
No, that look was more than a
"I know. And you're also the face of the fragrance. So make words come out of your face on TV, so you make money for the band. Does that sound simple enough?"
It was my own fault that Keith thought I was an idiot. At band meetings, I always played dumb for laughs. The stereotype of the dim-witted drummer was just too easy to play into, and it cracked the band up something fierce.
But that didn't mean I wasn't pissed off right now. "It may be. It may also be too hard for my poor small brain to handle," I seethed. "I guess we'll find out together, huh?"
Keith dropped the higher-than-thou act. "You're freaking me out, Low. Are you going to do it or do I have to cancel? Maybe I should send Rane."
I was freaking out myself. But there was the small matter of not letting anyone down. This was my job. "Sorry, no. I'm fine. I'll be fine, Keith. Everyone can count on me."
I hung up the phone and considered. Rane would know how to do this. Rane would tell me how to charm the fucking pantyhose off of Maria Whatsherface and not make a complete ass of myself on live television.
But what if you don't need him?
The thought floated in front of my brain, as fleeting and indistinct as the mist rising up from the waterfall where my father used to take us camping as kids. But the second I turned my attention to it, it solidified.
They don't want Rane, they want you.
They're asking for you.
This is your thing.
Yours.
I looked down at my phone, still clutched in my hand in a death grip.
My thumb moved on its own.
Back to the text messages.
Back to Zoe.
The last picture, her fingertip pressed into her lip, dragging it down a little, the way my teeth would if I ever got the chance to kiss her again.
Before I knew it, I was typing.
Chapter 11
Zoe
Low: Will you watch and tell me how I do?
I had to keep going back and re-reading the last text he'd sent me.
He was the drummer in the biggest band in rock 'n' roll. He was the face of an ad campaign that was swiftly going viral. Saturday Night Live had already parodied it with an ad for a fake fragrance called Listless, and the accompanying sketch had over 6 million hits on YouTube. The ad itself was blowing up the Internet, with memes and homages to it already sprouting up all over. Not to mention the small factor that the stores couldn't keep the fragrance on the shelves.
He was the hottest thing around....
And he wanted me to watch him and tell him if I thought his interview went well.
I did a giddy little shimmy as I read it again. Then I silently opened my bedroom door and padded through the sleeping house to turn on the TV.
Good Day LA was a thing I knew existed but never paid attention to in the past. The occasional blooper or viral thingie on YouTube; that was the extent of my viewership.
But now I, like so many other people around this vast city, was sitting back on my couch, coffee cup in hand, and watching the show unfold.
I drummed my fingers impatiently on the couch cushion and it occurred to me that I had never seen him in the daylight. Sitting alone in my living room, I wondered if this counted as a date. He'd set a time, and I'd shown up. Yeah, we weren't face-to-face, but I was almost as nervous.
At least for this kind of date, I didn't have to straighten my hair.
I smiled at the fluffy segment about baby yoga. I cringed through my fingers at the fear-mongering segment about tarantula migrations. Then finally the anchor announced the moment I'd been waiting for.
"And up next... If you can't be a rockstar, at least you now can smell like one. We've got Lowell Stowe, from Ruthless!"
The camera cut to him sitting on a couch in a green room somewhere, leaning forward, his elbows on his jittering knees, his long fingers laced together. He looked up at the camera and raised his eyebrows suggestively.
No, that look was more than a
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