There is something sick and twisted about a heatwave the week after the end of a school year.
Low nineties and humidity in the upper seventies. ON THE COAST. It is a mile-and-a-half's walk to the Biscayne Bay. Over the bridge is the actual, literal Miami Beach and South Beach. The ocean is supposed to operate as a heat sink and help regulate the air temperatures, moderate the climate fluctuations. Except the water temperatures are rising and the reefs are dying and the planet is heading right for calamity.
And Ally DawsonHATES HEATWAVES.
Outside the double glass doors of Sonic Boom, she watches the endless flow of bodies hurrying from one store to the next, or to and from parking lots to shelter. In summer, the majority of the morning to mid-afternoon patrons are her age and younger. She greets every potential customer as they come in and alternates between tidying the store and dealing with people. Oh, the joys of dealing with people.
Because Sonic Boom's register counter is a circular installation in the center of the store, she can keep an eye on everything going on just in that one spot. Everything from the guitars along the extreme left wall to the much smaller display of brass and woodwinds in locked plexiglass cases just inside the doors. All of it in her immediate purview with only a quick swivel of her head.
Ally does attempt to make some sales. The mall is hosting a local talent event, and that ought to inspire those who are curious to come in and peruse. Or at least remind people that, "oh yeah, I do need a new tuner," or "maybe I will get an electric keyboard, after all." Unfortunately for the teen, most of the people in her store are merely there to browse and escape the heat while they wait for the concerts to start.
Or, worse still, want to touch and play with the instruments with nasty hands.
Dark eyes affix themselves to a group of preteens in the corner tittering away at something on their phones. One of the boys keeps eyeing an electric guitar mounted on the wall, and then her. She raises her eyebrow and he flinches and looks away. "That's what I thought," Ally mutters.
"Guess who just got fired," the doors open with a cheerful chime. The voice and cadence of speech gives her bestfriend away immediately.
"Trish," Ally rolls her eyes good-naturedly, "you aren't supposed to be excited by that."
The Latina shrugs and comes to lean across the counter. "Ooh, that's nice and cool. Anyway, I hated that job. You know that."
"I know," the brunette concurs, "but still-"
The preteens all murmur amongst themselves and head for the door. Trish's phonepings a little tune and prompts her to check it. "Fifteen more minutes until the concert starts."
"You're going to that?"
"You're not?"
Ally gestures about herself with a big arm movement, "I'm working."
"So? Just put one of those little 'out to lunch' signs in the door and lock up. Just for a half hour," Trish wriggles her shoulders, "come party."
"Party. Me." The teen deadpans, "you ever known me to party?"
"Fine." Trish concedes, "But there will be music, snacks, and hot people. What more can a girl ask for?"
Ally snorts, "everywhere in Florida has hot people today."
"Not the climate pun. Ally, you're killing my street cred," The Latina whines, leaning further across the counter and playing up the dramatics. "Maybe some damaged singer-boy would eat that up."
That makes the brunette wince. "Damaged?"
"Damaged," her bestfriend confirms, gravely, "that's the degree of pun you're at."
"Please, in what way am I 'damaged'?" Trisha raises her hands, ready to use one to count fingers on the other for each point she is about to make. Ally blanches and captures her friend's hands in hers. "Never mind!"
Trish laughs. Her phone chirps again. "Ten minute warning, Dawson."
"I'm good." They separate. Ally glances around the now empty store. "You know I love the quiet."
"Are you absolutely sure?"
The doors swing open again with a frantic rattle and thud. Both teens jump and look just in time to see a lanky redhead boy holding both doors open by their handles. Stance wide, as if poised to spring, eyes narrowed and searching. "Did a tall blond guy come through here?"
"It's the Miami Mall," Trish scoffs, "you're going to have to be specific."
The boy hums pensively and doesn't seem to acknowledge the retort. "I don't smell him." And then he trots off. Leaves the doors to slowly shut.
The girls share a confused look before Trish shrugs and hops away from the counter to make her exit. "Text me if you change your mind!"
"Thanks, I won't!" Ally waves and then sighs once the store is empty.
Her eyes drift up the metal stairs to the second floor where the office and "breakroom" are. Her dad hasn't been down for hours. She senses something amiss- beyond his usual. In the peaceful quiet, Ally sets herself to dust mopping the smooth faux wood floors and examine the guitars for fingerprints and crumbs. Once satisfied there are none, she goes back to her spot at the register and sits at the metal stool.
Outside the crowds all head in one direction. As if a ball of schooling fish following a current. Birds in migration. She checks her phone and determines the concerts must be underway.
The door chimes.
"Hello," Ally begins, and then her heart drops when she gets a good look at the figure in her doorway. Hunched, and in an anemic grey trench coat that hangs about bare shins. The coat is cinched shut by only the belt rather than the buttons. She can see the top of a light- maybe even white- tee under the collar. The man himself keeps his face tipped down towards the ground. Grey hair falls like a choppy curtain over his eyes.
Fuck. That.
"Welcome to Sonic Boom," she finishes. Her hand already sliding under the counter, fingers feeling blindly along the smooth melamine.
He nods, and grunts, and waves her off before shuffling along the wall.
Ally's fingers find the cold, cylindrical shape she was hunting for. She draws the bear spray into her waiting palm, finger ready over the plastic trigger while her mind records as many details of this flasher to memory. Then she ponders how he got passed so many people. He stands out like a sore thumb. A trench coat? In Miami? In June? She calculates his rough height based on where his head lines up with features on the wall, then mentally guesses Caucasian by his shin color. Tan, though. Athletic and possibly difficult to apprehend.
At one point on his orbit, he shakes his head as if to flip his bangs out of his eyes, and she watches his hair shift completely. A wig. So, could be bald or balding.
Caucasian male between 5'10 to 6'1, fit, with a lean build. She wishes she saw what direction he came from. "Can I help you?"
If he's going to flash his junk at her, he better make it snappy. Also, what a moron for not equipping himself with sunglasses. He is well within range of her mace and she has deadly aim. Ally shifts to try and subtly bring her hands up to hide them from his view behind the counter display of C batteries. The safety disarms with a barely audible click. He makes a noise that indicates nothing in the affirmative, nor the negative.
Then he stops his pacing. She holds her breath.
"Okay, look," he sighs and turns to fully face her.
"Freeze," she draws. "Keep your penis where it is!"
The guy jumps violently, both hands raising above his head and brown eyes wide. His wig flops askew, revealing his ear and tufts of blond hair. His voice spikes in volume and octave. "Jesus! Wait, what did you just say?"
"You heard me, you weird... flasher man," the hairpiece completely falls to the ground allowing Ally to get a better look. Young Caucasian male, blond with brown eyes, around (now she guestimates) six feet tall. "Flasher... boy."
His face draws up in disgust. "Are you nuts?"
The doors plink open again. The redheaded boy from before trots in. "Dude, there you are I've been," he trails off slowly, taking in the scene before him. As bewildered as the other boy. Slowly, he stops and raises his arms too. "Red Light, Green Light? Or Mother May I?"
"What," Ally asks.
"She thought I was a flasher," the blond replies indignantly.
His friend sucks air through his teeth. "Yeah. We should have gone with the other disguise."
"But, but I thought the grey-"
"Disguise?" Ally repeats. "What?"
But now, looking at him, he does look familiar. In a vague, insistent kind of way. Like, she has seen him either multiple times or relatively recently. Her mind tries to think up a name. The stranger notices her gaze and takes another step back.
"Forget it. You're on in five," then the redhead drops his arms to fish a phone out from the pocket of his shorts. "Actually, three minutes. Lets go!"
The brunette lowers the bear mace from his face but keeps it generally aimed at his body while he quickly sidesteps back to the doors. He babbles an apology before both boys dash outside into the sun and heat. Ally exhales a shaky breath. "What?"
"Was that Austin Moon?" Her dad's voice makes her nearly jump out of her skin with a yelp. He leans on his elbows against the metal railing. Looking just as dumbfounded as she feels.
Again, for maybe the fourth or fifth time, Ally repeats. "What?"
"You know, the" her dad does a little shimmy for demonstration, "the one from the video where he does the spin? Like, 'ooh baby, got me saying maybe, dah dah bow,' that one?"
The teen blinks slowly and shakes her head wordlessly. The man's face draws up in concentration as he continues mumbling and shimmying at the rail. Mortification and relief crash onto Ally's shoulders like lead weights. Fatigued and in need of an NSAID or something she decides, "I'm taking a break now."
Dad is snapped out of the trance he lulled himself into. He clears his throat and nods. "Of course dear, I'll take over for a bit."
It takes less than a minute to find this Austin Moon on ViewTube. Minus the time her laptop stutters to load the short video. From a cursory glance his account, he has been uploading for years. Mostly minute-long clips of himself singing covers of what seems like requests. Either that, or his taste in music is broader than she might have guessed by looking at him.
Nothing that she would typically watch.
Just a day ago he did a song and accompanying dance. Neither of which she recognizes and he doesn't name it in the description. Ally deduces it'san original song. The same one- with the spin Dad mentioned- with bum lyrics. Nothing but word salad of variations of "ooh girl," for forty seconds. They would be fine as adlibs that accompany actual words. On their own? Not so much.
Ally has the time. She digs a little more into the public profile of the guy she almost maced into oblivion to figure out why he looks familiar. His most recent Snippet post is a picture from the Miami Mall concert. He has a guitar and is in a beach-themed outfit from what she can tell. Surfer or life guard of some sort. About to begin my set! The caption reads. I'm going to flip a switch and turn on the lightning! He closes with the flexing emoji.
The brunette rolls her eyes. He's got energy, she'll give him that. Austin's whole account is oozing confident captions like that. She wonders why he doesn't put that same thought into his- probably- own original song. Curious, she listens to it again to get a better sense of the lyrics. Copying them into the search bar populates no other results besides Austin Moon. Ally listens a third time.
She... kind of hates it.
Only a little. The beat is good and suits his overall energy. Part of her wonders if it is a sample, then if he made it himself. Struck suddenly by inspiration, Ally trots back down the stairs to retrieve her book from under the register and relieve her father from supervising the still-empty store. Time, boredom, and the residual adrenaline of their previous encounter stirs under her skin and compels her hand. The .05 point of her pen scratches soothingly over the thick page.
Unsure of what to call the song (as usual, she doesn't have a talent for naming) she titles it with one of many captions that inspired the lyrics. Double Take.
With the words out of her system, Ally sets her book back in the drawer and goes back to waiting patiently for her day to be over.
Austin cannot, for the life of him, let go of the interaction he had with the Music Store Girl.
He doesn't even remember the name of the place now, that's how derailed his train of thought was. The original plan was to quickly go in and buy a baggy of extra guitar picks just in case. Because the extras he normally keeps in his guitar case have magically all wandered off. One day, he envisions having dozens on hand to sign his initials on and give away to fans. One day.
But he can't have his reputation tainted because some girl thought he was going to flash her. Dez waves the interaction off. A silly misunderstanding and nothing he shouldn't have worn a trench coat, but what flasher picks grey? Don't they do black or brown or something? An obvious "I'm doing something nasty, vile, and illegal" color?
Austin is able to turn off those thoughts during his actual performance. The lights, crowd, and the thrill eats up his mental bandwidth and devours any anxiety he had about Music Store Girl. Afterwards, however...
It's on his mind for the rest of the day. Jimmy misses the performance, but he does send one of his assistants to watch along with the copious amount of film Dez captures. They linger in the crowd and backstage so he can get b-roll footage and "establishing shots" of the venue. Austin ponders potential consequences of his earlier encounter through all of it. He waits until Dez is packing his camera away in its case to float the idea aloud. "I should go talk to that girl."
"Which one?" His friend peers ahead to the audience. Light and sound thrum from the gathered masses. "The one with-"
"The one from the music store."
He scoffs, "yeah, okay. Did you see the size of that pepper spray?"
Of course Austin saw it. He barely saw the girl holding it because he was so focused on the damn thing. "Well, I want to set the record straight. I can't have people thinking I'm some weird... pervert or something. That'll crush my career. Jimmy will have my neck if I screw up again."
Dez hums thoughtfully. They both silently acknowledge Kira as being strike one and two with Jimmy Star. Dating his boss's daughter was- in hindsight- unwise. The first time they broke up, they chalked it up to teenage frenzy. A normal, understandable mistake made between two people attracted to each other. Bound to happen. No harm, no foul. It was probably their second round of dating and breaking up that could have and should have been avoided.
"Fine. But we don't know if she'll be at Sonic Boom still."
Sonic Boom. Austin will have to remember that. "Then we can keep trying until-"
Dez raises a skeptical eyebrow. "You mean, stalk her place of work?"
Austin winces and then concedes, "probably not, right?"
The redhead nods sympathetically and pats his shoulder. "Yeah, buddy."
Not completely deterred, Austin tries again. "But I didn't end up buying guitar picks and I'm down to my last three."
"Oh! Dude, you could use that as an excuse to go back to the store and see if she's there! That's not creepy or weird!"
The blond rolls his eyes good-naturedly. That was exactly what he was suggesting. He slings his softcover guitar case over his shoulder and nods in the general direction of the stores. "Good thinking, bro. Let's do it."
It takes them some time and wandering to find Sonic Boom. Austin is surprised. As a child, he used to explore the grounds often. While his parents tended their store he was allowed to go anywhere so long as he stayed within the boundaries of the interior perimeter. The Miami Mall is vast and chambered in five parts. The center plaza is big, with an enormous fountain and planters containing growths of palms and bushy palmettos. Concrete benches and broad, smooth walkways in which he learned to skateboard.
The other four branch off from the center through wide breezeways populated with stationary kiosks or rolling snack carts with churning heating racks. Moon Mattress Kingdom is in the Northwest corner of the Northwest plaza. It's smaller and quieter. There are no restaurants to scent the air with fragrant foods and their next door neighbor is an interior design firm. He always found the section boring even as he was forced to spend the most time there.
But he hasn't had time in the past few years to truly enjoy the mall. He and Dez might swing by for a quick meal in the Southwest lobe or meet at the Tech Town right at the South Gate's entry on their way to go shoot footage, but gone are the days of purely walking the place. He accidentally found Sonic Boom once, and has to trust they will do it again.
They momentarily halt their expedition for a corndog stop. Austin wolfs down his first one and then decides to buy two more before setting off again. Dancing really makes him hungry and he had been too excited to eat much of anything after breakfast. The sunset approaches and they are running out of time.
Only to round the corner and find Sonic Boom. Southwest Courtyard, Austin makes a metal note to remember that for future reference. He also nearly loses his nerve entering. Internally, he wonders how crazy this would look on top of the trench coat thing. There is a man at the counter now. Older, maybe around his own parents' age. Dez crashes into him, and both boys stagger into the store. Not that the man notices. He is busy consulting a female customer, holding a pack of guitar strings in either hand.
"I don't think she's here."
Dez looks the place over, floor to ceiling, and shrugs. "Nice place, though."
Austin nods. He would have loved in a store like this had opened next to his parents'. "Yeah, check out that drum set."
They quickly glance back at the register. The woman- of similar age as the employee- gesticulates to a child-sized acoustic guitar lying across the counter. Whatever she is says prompts the man to lead her to the wall of guitars. Facing away from the teens and the drums.
"I've always wanted real drums." Austin slings himself onto the stool immediately. "The synths don't hit the same."
"That's probably why your parents bought them. Hey," Dez nudges the hi-hat with his fingers. "Why not buy them? You have money."
"They don't have any drumsticks with the display," the blond turns a full rotation on the vinyl cushion, "how is a customer supposed to try before they buy?"
And then he remembers the corndogs clenched together in one hand.
Ally hasn't been inspired like this in a long time.
Her foot keeps time while her left hand creates a bass line on the low keys of piano. She's torn between a staccato and legato pattern. Staccato would punctuate and match the percussion, but legato would blend and weave between the beats. It matches more closely with the existing guitar riff, she thinks. Ally decides to settle the argument inside herself by heading downstairs to borrow one of the bass guitars. It's easier to hear the contrast between both if she can actually mute the strings with her palm.
It feels good, writing again.
Maybe once she gets out from under this song she can reevaluate some of the others in her book. Incomplete segments and fragmentary arrangements she neither had the time, nor energy, nor motivation to finish in months. A year, perhaps. Ally has an extra spring in her step as she exits the breakroom and walks to the top of the stairs and-
Good feelings gone.
A beat meets her ear and confounds it. It's strangely dull but the hiss of the cymbals are clear and sharp. Like she is hearing some of the rhythm muted through a stereo, and some in the same room. The kick is loud enough that she feels it through her feet. Through the rail clenched in her hand. Blinking, puzzled again, her eyes immediately search the store. Her dad isn't anywhere to be seen.
But two strangers are. One at the drum display, the other orbiting him with a camera. "Hey, uh, you can't do that."
Neither seem to hear. Fair enough. The blond is playing loudly and her instinct to not yell at people in her place of work conspire against her voice. Ally tries again, trotting down the stairs. "Hey! You can't-"
Realizing she is likely wasting her time, she puts her fingers to her lips and whistles instead. The sharp pitch and volume cut over the noise immediately. The redhead lowers the camera away from his face and smiles. "Hello, again!"
"Oh, fuck," the swear falls out of her mouth immediately. Trish would be proud. Luckily Dad isn't around to hear it. "You two?"
The blond one- Austin- visibly tenses and pivots on the stool. "Um, so-"
She rolls her eyes and approaches. "The sign says 'please don't play the drums,' can you-" in his hands, resting against the rims of the snare and low tom as one would do with, say, drumsticks. There is residue on the taut surfaces and damage in the breading. Stupefied, Ally asks, "are those corndogs?"
He nods, relaxing. "Yup, and they're good."
As if to illustrate his point, he takes a bite out of one of the battered dogs. She nearly gags. She watched them be unloaded by the freight company and set them up herself. In the time since, she has watched dozens of strangers touch the surfaces with their (unwashed) hands despite the sign. "Ew. Do you know how dirty those are?"
Austin freezes, his chewing abruptly stops. Both him and his mysterious friend shake their heads.
"There's no food allowed in here and-"
"Oh, for God's sake," the redhead boy huffs. Using his camera as a pointer, he gestures between the two. "Austin wanted to come back here to make sure you didn't think he was a creepy flasher-"
"Dez!" Then he coughs pounding his closed fist against his chest. Ally is suddenly worried she is going to have to administer the Heimlich.
"-and to buy some guitar picks," Dez adds, completely unaffected by what is happening before him, "and then we'll be square."
Austin looks mortified but gets himself back under control with a heavy swallow. Dez gives her an expectant stare, blue eyes focusing on her while the other boy completely looks away. "Huh?"
"Austin wanted to-"
"No, I got that," Ally waves her hands to stop him, "trust me, I got it. But, I'm not sure, like, why?"
"Because it would be bad if people thought I was a creep," Austin's voice is rough. He clears his throat and rubs the heel of his hand into his sternum. "Wow, that corndog fought back."
Again, looking between both boys, she states. "You didn't flash me, so we're good. I don't know why you came in here looking like that and I don't want to."
Dez beams, transparently delighted by the news.
"But I'm not working," she informs them, "so you'll have to wait on the picks until my da- uh, boss can ring you up."
The bass can wait. She'll put together what she can on the piano and let good enough be good enough. Especially for a song that doesn't belong to her.
Austin is not comforted or relaxed by Sonic Boom Girl's assurances.
It's hard to trust someone he doesn't know. There is some level of advantage over him that she has in her anonymity. He used to not think like that until he started getting enough traction online to get haters. Even then, it took Kira Star blowing up and getting scrutinized on a national level for him to see it. Anyone anywhere can make up anything. People will believe it or not based on so many factors.
He already had a close brush with scandal. He isn't going to do that shit again, if he can avoid it.
Following her up the stairs is probably not a good idea, right? Dez finds his way around the store and flits around some freestanding shelves to pick over the products. He decides to go search for guitar picks and wait for the clerk to return.
Tries not to worry.
But he is on edge already. Jimmy wants a song and Austin, for the life of him, cannot come up with anything. His most recent effort was not well-received. It did numbers online and pulled in some new viewers, but he knows that owes to his choreography. And looks. Both of which will help forgive many sins in the eyes of girls online but professionally? Not so much. Not when he is serious about music and would prefer to be taken seriously.
It just sucks he can't come up with lyrics and Star Records isn't willing to risk losing an investment.
Which feels really, really nice to be told that to your face about your dreams, Austin thinks to himself, sarcastically.
He dumps the corndogs in a trash can by the door. The clerk returns. "Oh, I'm sorry boys, were you waiting-" and then he gasps, eyes wide. "You're Austin Moon."
Which was exactly the reaction he thought Sonic Boom Girl would have had earlier. Instead, she quickdrew mace from nowhere like a gunslinger. The blond smiles, "yup, me and my buddy were looking to buy some guitar picks, please."
The nametag identifies him as Lester. The Manager. He's shorter than either him or Dez by several inches- even by a head- and his eyes are a deep dark brown. His eyebrows indicate that, before the grey set in on top of his head, he must have had a dark hair color. Lester holds his hand out to shake both boys' hands in succession. "Well, you came to the right place."
Austin isn't famous-famous yet, but he is by local standards. As such, store owners and managers who recognize him try extra hard to ingratiate themselves with him. His parents even rerun old commercials he was in with them from years ago. Celebrity advertising. How his face might sell mattresses is unclear. A music store would probably be a better fit.
If his contract would allow. Currently, he does only what Jimmy signs off on and nothing else.
"The girl who was here earlier, that's your daughter, right?"
Austin shoots Dez a look. A "dude, what the hell," kind of glare.
Lester pauses in the middle of showing all different manners of guitar picks they sell. The glow-in-the-dark one seems like such a brilliantly simple solution to some of the reasons why he loses so many of them. "Ally?"
Ally. Sonic Boom Girl. Unless there is another-
"I'll be honest, she probably didn't recognize you," the man continues, "but she's a bit of a musician herself."
"Oh?" Austin shouldn't be surprised, given her job. He also shouldn't get too excited either. She might be a musician in the sense she plays an instrument as a hobby. Maybe she performs cover songs for her friends and family because she can't write her own music. Like him.
He's so fucked.
Lester smiles. Suddenly he sees Sonic Boom Girl in him and understands Dez's question. They have the same eye and eyebrow shape. "Yeah. You all might get along. I always want my daughter to make more friends. It's good for you, you know?"
Is this a universal thing? Parents embarrassing their children by divulging too much information to their peers? Was there a time when this man was a teen himself and he also had to police his parents' mouths? If Austin thought about it enough, he would shudder over all the things he knows his parents have told his friends and acquaintances. Kira used to text him whatever Mom had told her about him.
Instead, he smiles, "it is. Um, I need to get going soon so can I?"
"Right, right," Lester nods, "back to business."
Austin buys the glow-in-the-dark picks.
It takes a full day to get the stupid song out of her system.
Not that Ally worked on it for a full twenty-four hours. In actuality, it took her closer to eight. With breaks to work, eat dinner, read, sleep, get ready, and work again. Trish calls to debrief post-concert. Then swings by Sonic Boom with breakfast smoothies for both of them in the morning. "You're up early," the brunette notes.
"I went to bed early," Trish shrugs, "it was too hot to stay up."
"I miss the pond." It was so nice and peaceful. The temperature difference was at least ten degrees cooler. At least, in Ally's memory it was. "We should go see a movie later."
"Or go to the beach," her bestfriend stirs her straw.
Ally considers- heavily, heavily considers- rejecting the suggestion outright. Trish means South Beach (she always does) and that Ally should drive them there because she is a better driver and Trish hates the crowded streets but is happy with crowded sand. None of which is particularly her cup of tea but...
She's already lying to her bestfriend by not telling her about meeting (sort of) Austin Moon. A lie of omission.
"Fine," Ally sighs, "lets see how we feel by then. What time do you get off?"
"I didn't tell you I got a new job," Trish remarks. At her friend's flat look, she rolls her eyes good-naturedly, "but you know me too well. I start at noon and am off a five. What about you?"
"Whenever." Which is the truth. "Where are you working?"
"The corndog cart."
Ally sputters a cough. Trish flinches. "Sorry, I'm fine. Must have been a- the weather or something."
Now it's her turn to be fixed with a flat, unimpressed stare. "Uh huh."
That's the trouble with being friends with someone for so long; it gets harder and harder to lie. To keep secrets. So Ally uses the art of misdirection. "I think I'm going to start writing songs again."
And it works. The Latina lights up. "I'm so glad to hear that!"
"Yeah, I think it's been long enough and, I don't know. I want to at least try."
"This is going to be a summer of bangers, I can feel it," Trish declares.
Ally laughs, buoyed by her best friend's cheer. "Don't get too excited, just yet."
Sonic Boom Girl.
Ally.
A bit of a musician herself, so said Lester. Austin chomps his way through a quick breakfast while mulling the events of the past forty-eight hours in his mind and the consequences they might have for the next- well- however many hours his lifetime might contain. His first original song sucks, his credibility as an artist has already taken a hit, and Jimmy is pissed. Then there is the issue of his back-to-back encounters with Sonic Boom Girl- Ally- and what that might mean for his image.
Dez was editing early into the morning. He is upstairs, undoubtedly still splayed across the couch in Austin's room like a starfish.
Which means the blond's paranoia and impulsiveness cannot be policed or witnessed.
His idea makes sense, the more Austin thinks about it. When he briefly dated (if that could even be considered the right term) Cassidy, they commonly discussed music with each other. Critiquing and reviewing in turns. He might not be a lyricist, but he is a damn good performer. He excels in it. Cassidy never did quite help him make a breakthrough with his writing.
Austin continues his nervous eating while he scrolls around on his phone. Too scared to linger on his own profile and the comment section, he immediately starts looking up Sonic Boom Girl.
Ally. Ally of Sonic Boom. Because if she is in the same boat he is, then he'll need to seek help elsewhere.
He finds the official page for the store. It features only a picture of Lester. Lester Dawson, smiling in a button up and surrounded by an array of instruments. The place opened up only a few years prior. Austin sees that there is an "Who We Are" tab and taps it. Lester is a classically trained concert pianist and guitarist. At least one other employee also plays those same instruments. The wording is vague, but there is also a potential bassist and at least one person who plays violin and harmonica.
Makes sense, for the staff of a music store to be musically inclined.
No mention on songwriters or someone who teaches songwriting.
"Fuck it," Austin finally decides to himself. He needs help and there is no point wasting time on uncertainty. He grabs his keys off the hook by the door and quickly jots a note for Dez should he wake up before he returns. Phone, wallet, shoes, and out the door he goes.
Ally takes a midmorning break to get started on some other songs.
She has the budding idea for another high-energy, Moon-adjacent one. Not her usual fare but the inspiration lingers nonetheless. Besides that, she has two other ideas born from a combination of old notes in her Book and her summer reading. They keep dying there. At the idea stage. Fingers dance across the keys, skipping from chord to chord while her mind boggles over word choice.
Like, would the line meter out correctly if she decided to keep the word "pitiful?" Should she just swap "painful" in instead. Does the metering even matter if she doesn't have the composition yet?
Quickly hitting a wall with little else but a few tentative lyrics, Ally rolls her neck out. Stress clenches like a fist in her chest. Her middle finger drifts to the bass notes selected for Double Take, legato, she ended up deciding. Staccato didn't ultimately fit with Austin's existing guitar riff and that was one of two good things from the original music.
She runs through the song again. Plays it all the way through on the piano and quietly sings along. In her mind, she is completely... nowhere. Joyfully blank. The constant chatter ceased and silenced.
At least, internally.
Externally is another story.
"Why does that sound familiar?"
Ally jumps so hard she nearly falls off the bench. Austin jolts and goes rigidly still watching her scramble to her feet with wide eyes. Embarrassment and anger flare together in her face and chest. Heat and panic prickle her eyes. "What the fuck?"
"Uh," he points his thumb over his shoulder, "I heard something through the door."
"The-" she looks around his shoulder and, indeed, it is wide open. She knows she closed it when she entered. And Dad said a lock was unnecessary. "The one that has a sign about not entering? At the top of the stairs with a sign that says employees only? Do you have some kind of allergy to following rules?"
"Ah..." he shrugs, bringing his hands up to his shoulder level, "we were waiting for a while?"
"Who the fuck is we?" Ally quickly paces past him and out to the rail. There is an elderly woman waiting at the register. Frowning and mildly horrified, the teen checks her phone and discovers no messages from her father. "What on God's green Earth?"
"So," Austin begins. The brunette rolls her eyes and locks a hand around the back of his neck like one might carry an unruly puppy. He goes tense, arms drawing up and folding towards his chest, but complies with being lead back down the stairs.
"Be right with you ma'am!"
The customer is taken aback, pulls her glasses off to clean the lenses with her shirt, and then places them back on her nose. In the interim Ally leaves Austin on the opposite side of the counter with a stern command, "stay."
"I was looking to buy a harmonica," the woman says, "for my grandson's birthday."
Austin huffs impatiently.
"Well, you are in just the right place for that, ma'am. I have no shortage on models and brands." Maybe he'll get bored and go away. Or her dad can help him if he gets back from where ever it is he has gone off to. "Has he played before?"
Ally's face almost falls when that prompts the woman to tell both teens stories about times her grandson has done anything remotely musical since the day of his birth. Including playing a silent tree at vacation Bible school. The girl's poker face is good. Years of practice and tempering in the flames of customer service since her early teenagedom have forged something of a professional out of Ally.
The boy behind them is not the same. He audibly loses patience little by little. Good, Ally thinks, go away.
He drums on the countertop with his fingers instead. Contrasting beats by using the sharp rap of knuckles and dull thud of the side of his fist. She doesn't see him do it, but Jesus H Christ, does she hear it. Dad returns and greets the boy with a merry, "hello," that is returned with a matching, "'sup Mister Dawson?" Ally nearly crushes the poor harmonica she is trying to ring up. The elderly woman continues her ramblings.
Even as she jams it into her purse and shuffles away.
"What song was that? That you were singing?"
"You were singing?" Dad sounds absolutely ecstatic. "Down here?"
"Upstairs," Ally and Austin answer in synchronous. His tone casual, hers a mutter. She whips around to face the pair behind her. They flinch. "Where there is a sign that clearly says-"
"Well, there was no one down here to-"
"Woah kids," Dad interjects, "that's enough."
Austin apparently agrees. His eyes flicker between the father and daughter, licking his lips and then moving them as thought to speak. Whatever he was going to say dies right then and there. Instead, he sighs in frustration and again raises his hands- as if to both surrender and drop the whole situation. "Look, alright, I'll come back later. I kinda forgot what I needed in the first place."
And with nothing further, he strides out and into the blazing sunlight.
"Allison."
The teen squeezes her eyes shut. The disappointment in her dad's tone of voice is palpable. Scolding is sure to ensue and then they are going to have the same conversation they have been having at least every four months for the past two years. "Dad-"
"Allison," he repeats more sternly, "I can't have you yelling at customers like that. Image and service is everything when-"
"Dealing with the public. Reviews make or break a local business," Ally finishes the line for him. Energy-less and eager to skip to the end. To skip over the thesis and closing argument. "I know. I know. But he did break into the practice room."
Dad counters with, "that's my fault. Don't take what I fail to do out on a celebrity customer."
She thinks of the all-too-easy rebuttal of, "so any celebrity should be able to help themselves to my practice room as they please?" Then decides against it. "I'm sure it will be fine. It looks like you two got along great."
He relaxes considerably. "You think? Do I come across as 'hip?'"
Ally nods and gives him two thumbs up. He beams.
Dez wakes up and knows, without so much as moving or opening his eyes, it is late.
Austin's couch is crazy comfortable. When they first started pulling all-nighters, Mister and Missus Moon willingly sold their son the pull-out for a steep discount. Still, that was before Austin was making decent money. It took months to pay the thing off.
And Dez never pulls the seat out for a bed. Too tired and worn out to remember or have the strength to do so. He sleeps on the couch as is.
The redhead yawns and stretches out, arms over his head and hanging over the arm of the couch, legs straight and toes pointed over the other. Sleeping in his shorts was the wrong move. Dez can feel the burn of irritation from where the waist digs into his skin. His keys mush into his thigh since he never removed them from his pocket. "Austin?"
Bleary eyes gaze around the room. It's dim, not dark. The bed is empty and sheets still tidily made because it was too hot to sleep under any blankets. He turns his to look over his shoulder and the back of the couch. Through the slim gaps in the blinds sunlight beams bright and intense. Late-late in the morning or, possibly, the afternoon. Dez sits up with a grunt and searches for his phone.
Between the cushions. Where else? Low battery mode.
The light of the screen hurts. He squints to shield his eyes as he checks the time. Lots of notifications. No texts. Afternoon. "Well," deep breath in and then out. Austin showered, changed, and put on cologne this morning. He went somewhere. Dez has a pretty good guess at where.
"Brunch it is."
The Moon's house is something of a second home to him. Not that he necessarily needed it to be, but it is. Him and Austin have been a package deal for so long Dez can only barely remember a time from before their friendship.
He uses the upstairs hallway bathroom (technically Austin's, but also a guest bathroom) and continues down the stairs. Light pours in the parted curtains and open blinds and spills out on the hardwood floor. The room is flooded in sunlight. The vibrancy off light walls and furnishings scalds Dez's tired eyes. He sets about drawing the blinds shut. Mimi always opens them in the morning while she and Mike get ready for work. It's typically the boys' job to shutter them before it gets too hot.
Oops. But what the folks don't know won't kill them. The panes are insulated enough that the AC will quickly cool the room anyway.
In his hunt for breakfa- brunch, he finds a note addressed to him in Austin's sharp lettering. Went 2 Sonic Boom. B back soon.
Dez snorts and digs through the refrigerator for some milk. Or orange juice. Or both. That explains the cologne, he thinks. His bestfriend is probably in the process of sweettalking Miss Sonic Boom Girl into... something. Help with his career, her number, whatever.
He figures he will hear all about it as soon as Austin gets back. In the meantime, he uses the toaster oven to make himself a tray of the last remaining tatter tots from their most recent sleepover and some other frozen thing he found in a sandwich bag. Dez knows he is the one who put it there, he just can't remember what it was. He scrolls through his notifications while he eats. Some from his personal accounts, some from his videography one.
The living room door rattles and swings open with audible force before slamming shut. Keys jangle. Footsteps storm fast.
"Did it go well?"
"No, but yes," Austin's voice is muffled. He hears a twin pair of thunks that could be shoes being tossed and then rapid pounding up the stairs. "I have an idea!"
"'Kay." Above his head, from the second floor, he hears more thumping. Dez finishes eating before joining him. Whatever it was, it was sweet and sour. Somehow, he gets the sense it was not supposed to be sour. Or soft in the middle like that.
But does it stop him? No.
Trish was beyond pleased when Ally kept her word and drove them to South Beach. Even more so when they stayed a few hours and got some time in the water.
To be fair, it was too hot to not go in, but Trish is not in the habit of looking a gift horse in the mouth.
They get dinner at a sandwich shop nearby and Ally drops her off on her way back to the mall. Lester's car is on the fritz still. Needs more in repairs than they can afford or have time to do themselves. Trish nods along and makes a note to buy them both breakfast again the next morning.
But for now, she lays in bed. Showered, moisturized, and scrolling. And scrolling.
Videos from the Mall Concert are continuously uploaded (and reuploaded if stricken). Some are from the official pages from the acts themselves but the majority are crowd-view. Solo acts and duets and groups all performing their short sets and hurrying off for the next one. Seeing Trent on stage wasn't surprising. He is constantly circulating the On The Rise section of Snippet. Tall, dark and handsome with a great voice and even better moves.
What isn't to like?
Austin Moon was a blast from the past. The boy who disappeared between freshman and sophomore year. He obviously didn't vanish and next to no one believed that was true save for the random dipshit here and there. In reality, he was starting to get some traction on social media with his performing. Enough that- so say the rumors- his parents allowed him to do one year of homeschooling to really make a go of it. To really push with the momentum he had.
Trish thinks he's hot. Thought it before, thinks it now.
That was the whole reason for following him. Besides the fact his covers are good and he dances well. That's all the feeling she has for him. His views are decent on Snippet.
Better than her own. Not that she posts anything for general consumption. Particularly good outfits, places, and the occasional bored-out-of-her-mind "Zaliens 3 was the best. Fight me in the comments." post. Ally replies with comments or emojis every time. Trish thinks that's the only reason she has Snippet. The girl doesn't otherwise like social media.
Sometimes, it seems her bestfriend would be happier with aflip phone.
Her room is cool and quiet. The AC stirs a peaceful hum through her bedroom's external wall. Not enough that she is at all willing to climb under any blankets. Somewhere on the other side of her house, Mom and Dad are watching their show (some hideous reality one they mock together as a team sport). JJ squawks are muffled by her closet, but it sounds like he is getting his ass beat in whatever computer game he has become obsessed with as of late.
Trish sighs and decides to call it an early (for her during summer break) night again. She is reaching for her light's remote when her phone whistles. Mildly annoyed with herself for forgetting to turn off sounds, she checks her notification. Someone she follows has just posted.
Well... one more video can't hurt, right?
Sonic Boom might open at 8am, but the staff- also known as Ally and Lester Dawson- are usually inside well in advance.
She is a neat, orderly person. Professionally and personally. Chaos and messiness in her surroundings breeds the same environment in her head. She read once that hoarders hoard, in part, to create surroundings that match their internal feelings. It's why they tend to have masses and masses of junk, but all the empty Ritz boxes are together in one room while old VHS tapes might be scattered in a separate pile. When she was sick, she had the damndest time generating the energy to tidy her space.
Back in Miami, back in school, back at work, but her bedroom was a nightmare clusterfuck that even Trish wasn't allowed to see. Partly due to exhaustion. Mostly it was the deep, dark depression.
That she categorically refuses to go back to.
Ally wipes down the plexiglass cases and the countertops. She sweeps again and begins her chore routine. Yesterday she cleaned the drums of corndog residue (and was disgusted by howdirt-black the rag was after) so today she will delicately clean and dust the string section. It's dwindled to the off-season as far as these types of instruments are concerned. One on display and one safely tucked in storage. Violin, viola, cello, and bass. The keep three fiddles, however.
Strangely, people in Miami will suddenly decide to try and take it up. They also have a back up banjo. Every two-ish months they sell in pairs. Like clockwork.
Ally is halfway through her task and cleaning the plastic holds that keep the viola in place when there is a rapid knocking at the glass doors. She jumps but maintains her grip on the instrument. Then she rolls her eyes. "We're closed," she says, hopefully loud enough to be heard through the door, "we open at-"
"Don't make me use your fucking middle name in public!" The doors practically shiver. Trish has one hand cupped to one side of her face, the other rapping a staccato rhythm on the clear glass pane. Dressed for her day with a big brown paper back situated beside her legs.
Ally rolls her eyes again. "They aren't locked. You can just-"
In a flurry of movement the knocking ceases in favor of the doors being spread apart by eager hands. Once wide enough for Trish to side step in, she stoops to grab the bag and enters with a, "I got breakfast!"
"You pounded on the door for breakfast?" Black curls bounce with every eager stride. She enters in at nearly a cantor (unusual for Trish) and slings the food carelessly on the freshly cleaned register counter. "What's got you all-"
"I know you don't normally like this stuff, but check this out." Trish wrestles her phone out of her purse and holds it between them. Ally waits for the phone to be unlocked and watches as excited fingers open Snippet and tap the Liked Videos button at the top. Her heart drops immediately. Austin Moon again? "He just posted a song he's been working on and it's actually good."
His tinny voice breaks over the otherwise quiet store. Reflexively, the brunette quickly surveys the surroundings for customers.Hey guys, just wanted to play for you the beginning of a song I've been working on. I post another update when it's done but for now, here is what I got.
And then- to Ally's extreme shock- he performs her song. The one she forged from scavenged parts of his shitty one.
"That son of a-"
Trish jumps, startled. "What? He's not that bad-"
"He stole my song!" She's too angry to contend with the fact he did write the original riff and the beat. Incensed that the weasel just so happened to "forget" what he needed the second he heard her play. That's why he listened to the whole song.
But it isn't perfect memory and he has no way of knowing what bass progression she came up with or adlibs and modifications to the actual backing tracks she was thinking up. Because all that is in her head or Book that he has no access to.
Dark eyes gaze into her own questioningly, head tilting and brows furrowed. "Huh?"
Trish isn't going to like this story.
Austin sleeps in.
Finally.
It is a rare day he can do such a thing. When he first convinced his parents to let him begin a homeschooling course, he very much so thought it would be easy. That it might be an adjustment but he would get used to it. His social needs were already met (and then some) by Star Records dragging him here, there, and everywhere. Constantly performing or doing interviews with just about any publication or blog that would have him. Stage Bootcamp and everything else.
But his parents did not agree.
They put him in the most intensive program available. He has more homework, reading assignments, quizzes, and tests than ever. Austin misses regular school on most days. Not that he can go back, now. His job requires his schedule to be fluid. Marino High can offer no such thing.
Dez is the one with the brilliant idea to have Austin play each member of the "band" performing his song. Neither has access to green screen, and by the time they are shooting the video it's curfew hours. Luckily, bedsheets will work. He changes his clothes twice to find an outfit of a different enough color from the navy blue background so he doesn't get keyed out.
And then, in eerie silence, Austin plays his heart out. Synth drums, his guitar unplugged, mouthing the words he isn't emitting. Shooting it goes fast. The blond moves as quietly as he can to go downstairs and haul armfuls of junk foods up to his room for Dez to work his magic. The redhead tips and taps on his keyboard. Eyes narrowed, blue light illuminating his face and reflecting in his eyes. As still as he'll ever be. As silent as he'll ever be.
The hours feel endless. The rendering grinds like literal stone cogs. Then, finally, Dez's laptop's fan slows to its normal whir. Video complete. Austin posts it anywhere he can, crediting and tagging his bestfriend. Dez reposts it on his pages.
And then they knocked right out.
A flurry of new follower notifications floods his inbox. He has already beaten his record on video with the most shares (and this time he kept his shirt on) and crushed his last five videos in total views combined. In mere hours. Someone from Star Records has already sent a congratulatory email. Jimmy texts him with a,now that's what I'm talking about, Moon!
And -damn- does that feel good!
Dez snores and crinkles. His pillow is an emptied bag of Toritos and he has an open marshmallow bag clutched to his chest. Like a plushy, and the little white balls inside are the cotton innards. Austin gets out of bed and stretches his arms over his head then rolls his neck and shoulders out. They should go to the gym today, he thinks, it's been more than a few days.
And all at once the peaceful morning-ish is shattered by the swing and slam of his bedroom door into the doorstop on his wall. The spring rattles in warning. Two girls storm in. "Who the-"
Sonic Boom Girl again?
"Ally?"
"Listen bub," the other girl speaks. She is just as short as her friend, heavier set, face framed by a mane of curly hair. Austin vaguely recognizes her. Mutuals, he thinks. "You stole her song-"
"Sonic Boom Girl and friend," Dez grumbles. He keeps his eyes covered with his hands, "can we keep it down? My head's pounding-"
"Desmond," the stranger gapes, "what the hell-"
"Trish? You know nightmares are supposed to go away after your eyes open, right?"
"Likewise, dweeb, have you finally developed a personality that isn't based on suspenders yet?"
The pair continue to bicker. Ally's eyes go wide with shock, pivoting between them, then up at Austin, then them again. He watches her make some kind of decision within herself and draw her expression into a serious line before doing the whistle-thing again. Sharp and incredibly loud in such an enclosed space. They wince and fall silent. "That's enough!"
"How do you do that," Dez clamps his hands over his ears.
Austin's ears are ringing. He doesn't even have time to confront... anything transpiring in his own bedroom before Ally starts demanding the other two- Trish and Dez- fight in the hall. That makes him smirk. He wonders if he can derail her train of thought. Smooth-talk and flirt his way out of this weird encounter with the mildly deranged girl. "Cute brunette barges into my room and demands alone time with me? How can I refuse?"
Trish gives him a quick shake of her head. He reads something of a warning in the widening of her eyes. Dez shuffles out with his palms still cupped over his ears.
Ally doesn't even turn around before asking, voice low and deadly. "You think you're just going to smooth-talk and flirt your way out of this, Moon?"
He startles and is grateful she didn't see him do that. But she does turn around to watch him settle back against his desk. Momentarily, he debates if he looks best with his arms crossed or if he should put his hands on the tabletop. He goes with the former. It's easier to protect his face that way. Should she fully lose her mind. "And what is this, exactly?"
"You lifted my song," Ally mirrors him by crossing her own arms. She's pissed. Her eyes lock onto his own sharply. Boring, digging. He feels a chill roll down his spine. "Then passed it off as your own in front of God and everyone."
"What are you talking about?"
She is displeased with his reply. Her eyes narrow and she asks, "you think I'm stupid? Or, maybe you just wander wherever the fuck you feel like whenever you feel like it so often you don't remember sneaking into my practice room yesterday. Which is it, Austin?"
Oh. Now he remembers. Immediately, his mind spits out the memory of- in her words- wandering up the stairs. It was mostly out of curiosity. When he first entered Sonic Boom it was empty. Empty empty. He would have believed it to be closed for the day were it not for the doors being unlocked and the big sign (this one he did read) saying "we're open." In retrospect, it wasa bad idea to go away from customer-accessible areas without permission.
But then Austin heard her and her piano through the door and took special care to peek in as silently as possible.
In his own defense, he does not remember consciously entering the room to go loom over this perfect stranger while she sang. It's him and music. Moth and flame. He is drawn to it.
Apparently, she does write.
"Cat got your tongue?"
He rolls his eyes. "Look, this has to be some kind of mistake."
Ally scoffs.
"I must have subconsciously used your lyrics with a song I had already written," Austin says. Because that is the truth as far as he knows. On the drive back from Sonic Boom he found himself humming and singing. The words easily strung together. Upon returning home, he looked up the tentative lyrics in his head and found no results. It matched perfect cadence and rhythm with the piece of shit he wrote a few days prior.
"Yeah, and I'm sure me verbalizing those lyrics almost verbatim that same day had nothing to do with it." The brunette deadpans.
Austin scrutinizes his unexpected guest. She was wearing a shirt, skirt, and vest when they met. As she is now. Floral print skirt, red tee, and a crazy-looking belt double banded around her waist. There are objects hooked onto the belt that he thinks are for Sonic Boom but he isn't sure what they are.
"What?"
He shrugs and returns his gaze to hers. "You just don't seem like someone who would write, 'flip the switch and turn on the lightning.' Seems out of character for you."
"First of all, don't make assumptions about people based on appearances. Secondly, dude, it's called creative writing. Do you think Kafka actually knew someone who turned into an insect?"
"The who did what," Austin blinks hard to try and soothe his stinging eyeballs. It does not have the desired effect. Little lights dance across his vision instead. Like fireflies.
A beat passes. This time, he is the one being studied. Her eyes travel over his face and he wonders if she can actually see how badly his head hurts. Then what exactly she is looking for. All at once, her shoulders untense and arms uncross. Not to fall to her sides and relax but so she can dust her palms off each other and back away with her hands raised like he had done. Dismissing the whole situation. "You know what? Keep it."
"Really?" Austin eyes her warily.
But Ally departs in silence, besides her footfalls alone, and then combined with probably Trish's. Dez sticks his head in with an eyebrow raised and ears still covered.
Because of that, he shouts when he asks. "So how'd it go?"