Disclaimer: Disney owns this ultra-cute monster.
--
Monday teaches Sonny why acting careers are hard because her room in the morning is dark dark and sleepy and quiet like cat purrs and somehow she is expected to be indisputably awake. And if she weren't serious about her career, she'd have stopped waking up on time since day one. But that's not the case because she and her mother haven't sacrificed normalcy for nothing.
She's set up three alarm clocks that play one after the other in a system that makes perfect sense only in her head. They're all set to music, for one thing. For two, her system only works assuming that Tawni, who would yell at her to turn them off, is already in the shower and Zora, who would break them when she wasn't there, falls asleep on the couch in their living area watching old movies on AMC or Myth Busters. Which is usually the case.
Jazz station first, flirty piano and Louisiana pepper voices singing about gripping love close and true and then having it slip away like chalk hearts when it rains, which eases her into the hushed morning world.
And then it's whatever's popular now, a station that makes new songs into old songs within a matter of days, but is so catchy that she finds herself humming them in between takes. These are the songs that try to speak deep, try to bury themselves into your heart but only end up under your skin and, really, they can be taken at face value. But they're honest and simple, all funky beats and audio modulated voices and moody lyrics.
The last programmed clock spouts out salsa, sensuous and turning her dreams red and ripe as apple skin, and this and her determination are the only things that can force her eyes to crack open and let the outlines and shadows of the outside world into them. Salsa is not the perfect music to wake up to, but it is the right music.
Her hips sway against the mattress in a tiny shivery move, more a tremble than anything, but on Monday she can wake up if she wakes up dancing.