Redesign
Ember tossed the pages onto the coffee table. "These new songs are weird, Poet," she said. She grabbed his glass of bourbon as it was half-hoisted to his lips and drained it for him.
Her poet glared at his empty hand and then at her. "You could get your own drink," he suggested.
"And you can get me another," she countered. "But really, Poet, this is weird stuff. I mean, acoustics? A cello? Where are we gonna get a cello player around these parts? Who ever heard of a cello in a rock band? I play rock and roll, Poet! Not this orchestral boring crap half the ghost zone favors. Ugh!"
"Clearly you have never heard a cello cut loose," Lancer said, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms. "Look. You contracted me as your poet because, in your own words, poets in the ghost zone only write about their deaths or their obsessions. You said you wanted variety. You said you wanted a re-imagining of what you could do with your music. You said you wanted to redesign your genre."
Her hair flamed higher in annoyance as he merely sat there and glared at her. "Fine, fine, I'll try the frickin' cello," she snapped. Her flames died down a little, falling back to her normal fiery level. "But this is a huge favor I'm doin' you, Poet. I don't like doin' favors unless I get something in return."
"You get the music," Lancer said. He gulped at the look on her face. Clearly the music was not going to be enough. Not this time.
-00000-
The music wasn't enough.
Explaining himself to the other teachers was as easy as claiming he'd lost a bet. His students were not likely to be as understanding. Still, there was nothing else he could do to put this off. And it was only for one day...
Lancer took a deep breath and walked into his classroom, pink sundress swishing around his stockinged knees. The room went dead quiet right before the whispering and the sounds of cell phone cameras began.
Today was going to be a long day.