Trish is disappointed that Ally didn't force Austin to give her the song back.
She knows that. Technically she ought to. Maybe. Ally is no expert in copyright law, but she...
Doesn't think she would have a leg to stand on.
It was a riff he wrote, a beat he played, and lyrics derived from his posts' captions. That isn't exactly original. The brunette never intended it to be. She was just chasing the rabbit of fixing his only original song. This big, up-and-coming popstar who couldn't write for shit. The one that sounds like- to use one of JJ's terms- dog-water.
Besides, she has her own ideas and compositions to attend to. She thinks about them her whole shift. Even as Trish does her very best to try and distract her from her work and thoughts.
Jimmy is on the Moon's doorstep within the same hour Ally and Trish were in his room.
Dez reclines on the couch, feet kicked up on the coffee table and arms behind his head. Pleased with himself and proud of his artistic vision for a music video shot, directed, and produced, from within the confines of a single room in mere hours. Essentially for free, notwithstanding the previous cost of the items purchased beforehand such as bedsheets and his camera. Maybe the price of a couple of broken pencils and several family-sized bags of chips. And soda.
And stale marshmallows.
Jimmy makes a move to shake the boy's hand but Dez leaps up to hug the man instead. "See! I knew you wouldn't regret this Mister Star!" The redhead declares in utter delight.
Austin almost chuckles at the sight before Jimmy shoots a completely unamused stare his way. A silent, "do something about this, Moon" written in the stern line of his forehead and mouth. "Hey, uh, Dez-"
But his friend lets go on his own. Falling back to land on the couch in his previous posture. Jimmy adjusts his sport coat and tugs his sleeves back down to his wrists. "Anyways. Boys, I have to hand it to you, this is some amazing stuff. The video, the song, we can really move on this."
"Especially during summer break," Austin agrees. No assignments, no tutoring, no other obligations besides his music. He sees an opportunity to get into the actual studio and hopes his boss feels the same.
"Exactly, and your video- and the song- is blowing up right now. It's trending big in 305 already."
Miami-Dade County is big. Sprawling and diverse with as many musical acts as there are genres and subgenres of music itself. Competition fierce, the public even fiercer. The blond almost-star should be proud. He has devoted so many hours, so much of his hard work, and his literal blood sweat and (only occasional, he swears) tears to this. To making it. Austin hasn't yet, but he feels closer than ever.
And it has mostly to do with-
His smile drops. Dez raises a questioning eyebrow at him. Jimmy backs away slightly, pivoting his stance and checking his phone. "I have to take this, you boys hang tight." And he steps back out the front door, talking even before it closes behind him.
"Should I tell him about Ally?"
Dez tilts his head in consideration. "Well, she did say you could keep the song."
"She did," Austin confirms, "but, like, she wrote it."
"She did," Dez confirms with a single nod. "Maybe you can ask-"
Tires squeal. They jump before Austin hurries to peer out the window beside the door, shoving aside the curtain. Just in time to see Jimmy's car disappear down the normally quiet and serene suburban street. The teen frowns. "Huh, maybe Kira called."
"Oh yeah, wasn't she doing a show in the stadium?"
The blond hums thoughtfully. Kira has a crew behind her music. Of course she does, she's Kira-fucking-Star. There's choreo and vocals, but he seems to remember she had one or two songwriters. "Tonight, right?"
"That's what Snippet says."
"Maybe I should text her." Dez sighs, and so he amends the statement with, "to see how she's feeling."
"About her songwriters?"
"Dez!" Then, after a pause, Austin relents with a huff, "maybe."
Trish watches foot-traffic pass right by her window. Not one person slows or casts anything more than a fleeting glimpse into Weens N' Things. Too hot for anything like a hotdog or sausage on a stick. Even the teen herself barely has the energy for an immature giggle at the "salty sausage" or "spicy sausage" menu items. The humidity is swallowed by her thick black curls.
It's hard to tie back and tame it all for food safety.
On a positive note; she has plenty of garlic knots to nibble on and some reading material. On her phone, of course. Trish tries her best to stay abreast of the goings-on in Miami, especially pertaining to music performance, especially in summer. Her alerts are set for every artist she enjoys in the local scene as well as more mainstream, broadly circulated acts.
The tickets are too expensive, but she would have liked to go to the stadium later. To see Shinny Money, Kira Star, and Doctor Beat live in concert. She does, in fact, have some money saved for her extracurricular interests. But only just. It's hard to make any forward progression on her "fun fund" when most of her cheques are on-time-payments from her one-time-jobs. Usually barely representative of one day of part-time pay.
Maybe Trish would have dragged Ally along too. Possibly.
Even if it is nice seeing her friend inspired and writing again. It's been a long time. Too long.
There was a time when Ally used to sing and play some of her tentative creations for her. When she was slowly overcoming her stage fright, Trish caught her bestfriend singing frequently. Random songs she had heard on the radio, portions of her own that she was "ironing out," even jingles from commercials would drift quietly out of her mouth. Even the damn bird would chortle and squawk along.
Trish even got her own custom riffs to sing when she wanted.
And then-
Progress, Ally says, is never a continuous diagonal line. As if on a graph, the Y axis being "progress" (in any measure) and the X axis being time. It's more like a child's drawing of a lighting bolt. That moving forwards also means sometimes little slides back. The slides even and lessen so that each drop's lowest point is still higher that the previous one. The rises spike high and jagged. Trish fucking hopes so.
For both their sakes.
Dez has always liked Kira.
She is sweet if not a little... well, lacking in her artistic vision. As far as visuals go. Before Jimmy set her up with an actual team, Dez pitched dozens of concepts at her for music videos. Her first single Spin (With Me) was perfect for a vibey, low key carnival theme. Austin would play the stranger her character constantly runs into on the bumper cars, the hoop toss, and finally, the Ferris wheel.
He promised to minimize props to stuffed animals and large, old-timey lightbulbs only.
She declined Dez's offer, but took Austin up on his to go out to the carnival.
Which he knew was an amateur move. Dating the daughter of one's own boss or the fresh-faced, newest sign-on for one's father's label. Both equally cliché and doomed. They don't call Dez the Love Whisperer for nothing.
Even if Austin used to swear no one calls him that.
But it all worked out. Kira is a good friend (and only that) to the boys. Dez stands in the space that will be the pit in a few hours' time and watches her sway in peace on a metal stool. Eyes closed, hands resting on her lap, headphones over her ears. In the full light of day and in no hair or makeup, she is stunning. Her skin radiates the light it consumes. He will forever be frustrated that he didn't get to be the first to carry out his vision.
Austin trots ahead and takes big, leaping strides up the makeshift steps to the stage. The whole thing rattles. Kira wobbles and opens her eyes. "Huh?"
Then she rolls them to Dez, who waves. The Austin who draws his arms in to his sides and grins sheepishly.
"Hey guys," she pulls her headphones off. "What are we thinking, is tonight a wig night, or no wig?"
"What did you have in mind?" Dez asks.
"I'm opening with Stars Burst and closing on Skipping. So, I was kind of picturing a," Kira gesticulates with her hands in the open air, as if hoping to literally grab the right word out of the ether that surrounds them. "Cute pixie moment. Either that, or I was feeling like a long, straight-haired moment."
"Not a colored hair vibe?"
She shakes her head, "I keep getting accused of copying other singers so I have to tone it down. You know, there can be more than one black artist to feature a marching band on her album."
"It sounded good-"
"Can I ask you a question," Austin finally blurts. Kira laughs.
"I was wondering when you would lose your patience. Shoot, Moon."
"It's not like that," the blond pouts. Dez can tell just by his shoulders' downward droop. "We're friends and-"
"Speak now, or forever hold your peace," Kira crosses her arms, "you got ten seconds."
"You know I hate-"
"8... 7..."
Dez joins in, "6... 5..."
"Alright!" Austin shouts, "Kira, I need a songwriter or, like, a songwriting tutor. Can you help me?"
She draws back, sitting further upright on her stool. Puzzled, "but, what was wrong with the one you just wrote?"
"I- I didn't. I kind of borrowed it."
"Without asking," Dez adds, and then raises his hands in surrender when Austin glares at him, "but she gave permission after the fact."
"What do you mean someone else wrote it?" Kira slides off the stool and to her feet so she can get her phone out of her pocket. "The opening lyric is literally from your Snippet page."
"Huh?"
Dez trots up the steps while Kira scrolls to the song. "Look, you literally captioned this picture with 'flip the switch and turn on the lightning.'"
Austin scowls in silence as the song continues.
Ally finally sells the last of the duduks.
Dad was the one who ordered them, but it was on Mom's recommendation. She had come across the instrument and the music it produces because one of her fellow researchers played. Her father was- and is- always on the lookout for the next big thing. Something that will help them stand out amongst their competitors and draw as many customers in as possible. Inspired, he ordered a handful. Five total.
As many years ago.
Which might have factored out to selling one duduk a year, except they sold three the first year they had them. One to a customer, one Ally bought to learn how to play, and one purchased by a theater production. The fourth sold a year and a half ago to a very excited Armenian grandpa.
But now she finally sold the last one and plans to shuffle an oboe or something in its place so Dad does not order more. Every space, every peg hook, costs money on top of the cost of merchandising. She has run the numbers before- back before Dad changed the password to his computer- and calculated cost per square inch based on their rent. It's why the practice room is crammed with junk at the edges. They legally must have a break area, but they also must make every penny count.
So, until they stabilize, no more duduks. Even if Ally thinks they sound pretty.
The happy MUNY student- since the world is small- also buys the beginner booklet and some additional reeds to take with her back up north. The girl leaves and Ally begins eyeing the empty space in the case when the door swings open. "You!"
She jumps. Austin stalks in far enough to allow the door to close behind him. He looks very displeased. "Me?"
"You, didn't write the song. You- well you did. But you also didn't," he levels an accusatory finger at her, "you might have reworked the bassline, and added actual lyrics, and-"
"Is this going somewhere?" Ally snarks, raising her hand as if in class, "or can I be excused to finish my work?"
The blond looks taken aback. He lays his hand on his chest in mock offence. "Why, Allison, are you sassing a customer?"
"Don't full-name me. And also, if you don't buy anything can I even count you as a customer?"
He rushes the counter in long, bounding strides to set both his hands palm down on the freshly cleaned surface. Leaning forward, expression flat and unamused, he evaluates her again like he did in his room. "I want to understand why you rewrote my song."
"Because it sucked," Ally mirrors him on her side of the counter. To her extreme irritation, he blinks rapidly in confusion before hunching down enough to be mostly at her eye-level. Her eyes narrow. "Don't disrespect me like that, Moon."
"You just said my heartfelt expression of artistic creation sucked."
"It wasn't unsalvageable," Ally replies, "when I arranged the music, I kept your guitar riff and drumming the same. No notes."
"Thanks. To be honest, I knew those were the best parts of the song. Besides, you know, me taking my shirt off and dancing."
"Yeah, what is that?" She noticed he does that more often than not. "Why do you do that so much?"
"I look good," he shrugs and switches his stance so he can lean on his elbows, "Jimmy- my boss- needs me to sell 'presence' and I don't know what sells better than sex, honestly."
"Music." Ally deadpans, "didn't your most recent upload crush all the previous ones? You were fully dressed in that."
She regrets saying it in the next second. A smile spreads across his lips just as a groan falls out of hers. Eyes alight and enthused he asks, "you saw my video?"
"How else would I have known you stole my-your song?"
"Right, sure," he nods, but his joy is not diminished. "What did you think?"
"Dez is a genius with the camera and editing."
"And me?"
"What about you," she jokes. "You did fine performing my lyrics."
"You mean, my captions?"
"I'll have you know I used, like, three-"
His phone rings and he sighs heavily. "My boss. I have to take this."
"Well, just holler if you ever want to, you know, buy anything. At my store. Which is for buying stuff. Not, like, accosting me every day." And with that Ally leaves the counter to go work some rearranging of the woodwinds case.
"We'll see," he scoffs, and puts his phone to his ear, "gotta keep you on your toes. Jimmy?"
Austin's voice drops in volume by a substantial amount. A borderline whisper. As if he were worried she was listening in on his private call. That might be a thing, Ally supposes, for famous people to worry about, but she has much better manners than that. Also, well, she doesn't really care about any of what might be talked about.
"Awesome! I'll be there in... fifteen minutes. Yeah. For sure. Thanks, bye." He jams his phone back in his pocket and runs out the door. "Later!"
"Don't come in here if-" she calls after his retreating form, but then stops herself, "and he's gone."
Ally would put up a "no loitering" sign, but he probably wouldn't read it.
Austin gets to the studio in record time.
Which means, yes, he did violate several traffic laws pertaining to speed limits. He does feel bad about that after the fact and knows that is the whole reason his parents got him a late 90's Camry versus the car he actually wanted. He's loathe to admit his parents are right about anything, but in this case... well.
None of that matters because Jimmy has an assistant hurry him inside to gussy him up for his first ever non-locally syndicated television interview. A big one, too. A spot on the Helen Show. Austin texts Dez to meet him at the address Jimmy's newest assistant gave him for the interview and takes a lanyard pass to make sure his best friend can get in. He's earned it just as much as Austin has.
He gets hair and makeup- like, for real- and shoved into a big black car with tinted windows. The blond's heart pounds against his ribs the whole time. Excitement and anxiety roil in his gut. Conversely bouncing his leg in anticipation of hopping out while white-knuckle gripping the car door handle. A woman he has never seen before gets in the car with him and the assistant and gives him a speech on media training.
Austin has forgotten everything about it.
But it will be him, the host, and the stage. He can handle that. Besides, from what he is learning about the industry, it is unlikely he will be bowled over by questioning. Anything Helen asks will have been approved by Jimmy ahead of time. The only thing Austin has to remember is his own song.
The car pulls up to a gate and uniformed security waves them in. Through heavily tinted windows, he watches as they pass unassuming buildings in the "back stage" lot. Another gate, another guard, and they are stopped at lot three, building four. Dez is standing at the back door waving behind an extremely large man in all black with a badge. "He's with me," Austin tosses the lanyard to his friend.
The tilts his chin up and sidesteps out of the way so both boys can rush inside. "We have five minutes," the assistant shouts.
Nerves shift and tingle. He isn't sure if it is extreme trepidation or he actually has to pee, so Austin excuses himself to the men's room. "I'll guard the door," Dez declares.
"It's just a regular men's room, dude," the blond chuckles and picks the furthest urinal. "I think it's fine."
"You never know."
After washing his hands, Austin rereads his lyrics in the hall until someone with a clipboard half-drags him by his blazer's sleeve. The half shoved out from the recesses of the walkway into the scalding stage lights. Austin takes it in literal stride (not like there is another option) and trots out waving, smiling. Helen is doing a semi-awkward shimmy that does legitimately make him chuckle.
Maybe that's why she does it, he thinks, to put guests at ease.
She sits in her arm chair and he sits on the couch. "Ladies and gentlemen, Austin Moon!"
"Hey guys! Great to be here!" His heart is actually full to bursting.
Because it is already more than he dreamed it would be. All at once it hits him; the cameras and crew, the audience, and he's so much closer to making it than he realized. His parents are going to freak (maybe). His leg shakes so he reclines back and pins it down by crossing his other leg. Confident and relaxed posture while his insides are a firework show of "good feelings" neurotransmitters.
He is so caught up, he almost misses the first question, "so, I knowing all that, I have to ask; what was the inspiration behind this hit? What made you pivot from the old version to this one."
Oh shit. Mouth dry, Austin grins and smiles through it. "Well, I just went for a walk around Miami-"
Trish could kill this guy.
Could. Would is a different question. It's Miami, lots of folks go missing through various methods and means. Some never return. No one saw nobody, know nothing, kind of situations. Her uncles run their own nightclubs and she isn't naïve.
But Ally- for reasons incomprehensible to Trish- let it go. Waved the whole song-theft-thing off. "Look, he's on his own from here on out," the brunette said, "sink or swim."
There he is now, on the Helen show, floundering his way through an answer about writing yet another original song to perform. The woman's enthusiasm and cheer catches with the unseen audience like wildfire. They chant and clamor for more. An encore. Trish has to hand it to the guy, he is holding it together. Mostly. There is some tension in his shoulders and his mouth definitely dropped when initially asked. Both could be played off as interview nerves or general excitement, however.
"Sure," he eventually answers with a- probably- genuine smile and shrug. "I think this is the part where my people call your people."
"Why not tomorrow? You said you and the director, Dez, made and shot this all in one night. You gotta have something else up your sleeves," and then Helen addresses the audience, "what do you guys think?"
The panic and shock that flood Pretty Boy's features isn't quite as easily explained away the second time.
"Oh- oh wow. Uh," Austin shakes his head and dumbly replies, "well, yeah. I think I can swing that."
Trish guffaws and then glances around to make sure her lead wasn't around to hear it. Once satisfied she is alone, she continues watching, huddling her phone closer to her body.
Not that it really matters. She's never clocking back in at Weens 'N Things after today.
Why are you so dumb, Austin? From Kira.
By now, the backstage area is loud. Even if she were in her dressing room, she might be doing vocal warmups or actively getting dressed up. Otherwise, he'd call her. But now he is relegated to texting and it's fortunate that Dez is the one driving them in his car. Dez's air conditioner works better and they'll need it with the scorching weather.
Kira :( you know I dont know why.
He silently prays- hopes against all hope- that she is going to deliver him some good news after this newest round of razzing.
Her debut album had a few writer's on it. Two in particular were the ones mostly in charge and worked most closely with Kira. All ghosts, of course. The artist herself is but only a minor (for three more weeks) and they were on her father's payroll. She made no promises but... Austin sure would love if she found one of them. If he hadn't agreed on going back on Helen tomorrow- like an idiot- this would be less dire.
In fact, he could have probably wheedled something out of Jimmy now that Double Take is still on the rise. Proof of concept and execution, he just needs help writing.
But now he has less than twenty hours. A self-imposed deadline. "This fucking sucks."
"Blows," Dez agrees. "What sayest madam Kira?"
The blond shakes his head and averts his gaze out the window and to the streets and cars they pass by. Fist pressed into his chin.
Austin, you know I'd love to help. I would. I won't have time to. I'm sorry. The only writer I know is up to his eyeballs in some other project. I'm sorry.
The only other-
"Hey Dez, I just had the craziest idea!"
"Way ahead of you buddy," the car thump-thumps over the dip at the bottom of Miami Mall's driveway. The parking lot choked with cars and pedestrians. Every space seemed to be filled. "We don't have time for this. You go on ahead and I'll loop around here for a while."
"Are you sure?" Austin's eyes scan for a any opening anyway. Reflexively. Maybe a little out of nerves. "Dude-"
"Clock's ticking," Dez unlocks the passenger door and rolls to a halt. "Just... don't get maced."
That makes him grimace as he hops out. Grateful for the sneakers, not so much for the blazer and dark jeans. Looks good in a studio, feels bad in the heat and humidity. Austin runs.
And prays.
Dad takes off. He says he'll be back in a few minutes and Ally just nods and pretends she isn't worried about where he keeps going.
Today he looked especially forlorn. Despite making a few sales, she knows they are behind on an already behind payment. It sucks being in the CC's for The Mall Association emails and seeing the constant threat of rent price changes and leasing agreements being reviewed.
And Sonic Boom is empty again.
Ally has the last three days of transaction receipts printed and laid out before her. The end-of-day, close-of-till long ribbons. They are unimpressive but not completely hopeless. Perhaps. She hand copies them in her notebook- a composition she keeps around for just such occasions- and then tries to do expenditures off memory.
Tries to.
The doors open with a violent shove. She jumps and yelps, slinging her work off the counter with one hand while flailing with the other.
"Oh, God," Austin pants, and doubles over to rest his hands on his knees, "it's so hot out there."
"Are you crazy?" He looks it. Formally dressed and red in the face from heat. Chest drawing deep, heaving breaths. "Why are you here again?"
"I- I," he pants and stands upright. "Fuck me, dude. It's too hot for this."
And he begins struggling to peel the coat off his body. Ally watches on in bewilderment and cautiously uses his apparent distraction to stoop enough to gather her things again. She tucks the receipts in the notebook and slides it in the same drawer as The Actual Book.
"I just got back from The Helen Show-"
"Where you promised to have another song ready. I think you said something like," she squints her eyes and leans her upper body back as if on a couch. Ally chucks up deuces on either side of her head and does her very best "bruh" voice, "'like, yeah totally, Helen-"
Austin's jaw drops at the same time he hucks the offending blazer towards the benches. "I do not sound like that! Or look like that!"
She blinks. Then continues, exactly as before, "'for sure I can have another song for you tomorrow dog! I have like, mad writing skills, and take off my shirt like, all the time.'"
"I did not sound like that!"
"You're right," she relents before fixing him with a glare. "You sounded like a liar."
"How do you know," Austin crosses his arms. Defensive. "Did you tune in to watch me?"
"So what now, Popstar? What're you going to do about a song in less than twenty-four hours?"
His mouth opens and closes. A frustrated huff falls out of him. "Alright, look. I'm in a tough spot."
The nerve of this guy. Ally rolls her eyes and almost- almost snarks, "welcome to the club," but she doesn't. "I guessed that."
"I need a song. The problem is that I suck at making them. But you," he gestures to her with both hands and then lets his arms drop to his sides. Like weights. Like it took way more energy to move than he anticipated. "aren't. You're good. Super, actually, crazy good."
The brunette crosses her arms, and tilts her head. "Uh huh. So, you want me to ghostwrite another song for you to keep your fifteen minutes going. Do I have that right?"
"Yes and no," Austin replies.
"What is the former, what is the latter?"
"You talk too fast for me," the boy shakes his head and rubs his temples. "My brain melted on the run over here."
"Yeah, well, figure it out." Ally's tone is sharp and stern even to herself. "I'm all charitied-out as far as internet crooners go."
She collects her books- both of them- from the drawer and decides to take them upstairs for safekeeping. Austin's eyes widen and again his mouth moves to speak at a speed faster than he can come up with words for. Ally keeps her head down as she goes up the metal steps. One hand clutches the rail (three points of contact) and the other grasping her belongings. For safety.
Recently, she had taken up wearing heels to work. Nothing crazy, and the shoes themselves are mostly little ankle boots, but it gives her an extra couple inches standing behind the register.
Though sometimes her balance-
"I'll pay you."
Ally stops, leaving both her feet still on the same step.
"You're right," Austin continues, "that was- I should have given you credit or bought the my-your song off you. I just got so in my head about the whole thing and was kind of..."
"I get it," the brunette doesn't turn around or raise her head. "You were probably a little over the moon, so to speak."
He groans, but she also hears him snort a little beforehand. "Was that a joke?"
"An awesome one."
"I can't promise you half. That's... if it were just two that would be the split but-"
"You have to factor Dez in. He gets his cut."
"He does."
"So, thirds then?"
"Thirds," Austin confirms, "I- I can show you the ballpark."
Ally raises her gaze. Eyes nearly level with the second floor. The wall above it is painted Navajo White, a cream, almost manila color Dad used because it was the cheapest he could find. "Just say it."
"I'm scared to." He admits, "Jimmy said I shouldn't tell people, but he never said I couldn't screenshot and show them later. I haven't run the numbers yet but it'll be higher than what's in my phone. That's based on videos with, like, less than half the views at this point."
"Thirds?"
"Thirds."
She sighs, resigned, and walks back down. Her steps land with a dull thunk. Austin pumps his free hand (fist) in the air while his other scrolls around on his phone. "Don't get too excited," Ally warns.
But then he sidles up to her side and tilts his screen for her to see. "What do you think?"
Woah. "For a video? That much?"
"For a song, remember?"
"Right." Ally blinks, stupefied. "Right."
"So," Austin nudges her with his elbow. "What do you think?"
"I think we have our work cut out for us."
