Chapter 24

The goal wasn’t to get to A-Game, it was to get to Professor Drop.

Lou had explained Corey’s true objective, and Corey could see the twisted logic behind it and it made her feel a little better. With a hidden motivation, she could feel less like a mercenary and more like a double agent or a spy behind enemy lines. The hint of intrigue made the situation slightly more palatable.

A-Game’s manager had arranged to work with Professor Drop, a wunderkind producer who was among the handful of men who were dominating the current airwaves, Lou explained.

“Professor Drop?” Corey laughed. “What’s his real name?”

“It doesn’t matter what his real name is,” scolded Lou.

“Yeah, but what do I call him, like, to his face?”

“Drop.”

“Drop,” said Corey, then started laughing again. She pulled her laptop into her lap and her hands flew across the keys. “Wikipedia says his name is Craig Rosenstein from Akron, Ohio.”

“Feel better? Is your superiority on straight again? Now, the goal is to bring the Corey Lyondell cool but without the rough edges. To be nice. To be of use. A-Game is just a means to an end. You want to convince them you can write songs for them, so you can convince Drop you can write songs for anyone.”

This didn’t make Corey feel much better.

“This doesn’t make me feel much better,” she said.

“Which brings me to our double-secret, extra hidden objective. Be undeniable and be indispensible. You want to be so fucking cool and so of use that Drop turns to you and says, ‘Hey, what about you?’”

“You want me to be the best friend in every rom-com who sits at home, just waiting for the boy to notice her. The ugly duckling who turns into a swan.”

“If that’s how you need to frame it,” said Lou, exasperated. “Then you swan back onto the charts with a Professor Drop-produced album.

“I’m a little disturbed that my musical Molly Ringwald is pining for someone who unironically refers to himself as Professor Drop, but I can appreciate the cold genius at play.”

“That’s what you pay me for. When you have money, that is.”

Corey arrived in New York’s Chelsea neighborhood the next day with Elvis Costello sneering (I Don’t Want To Go To) Chelsea through her earbuds. The high rises and luxury hotels of Midtown gave way to townhouses and apartment buildings and chic art galleries, and she found herself standing at the entrance to the Power Plant, an old garment factory turned music studio. She looked up and down the street, as if someone might wave her away toward a more noble quest. Finally she took a deep breath.

“Go get paid, girl.”

She tried to shake the notion that it would be with thirty pieces of silver.

A receptionist welcomed her, and when Corey introduced herself, the young man picked up a phone at his desk and said, “Corey Lyondell is here.” There was a pause, long enough for Corey to wonder if she would be turned away—she didn’t know what would be more humiliating at that moment, being rejected or actually having to go through with it—but after a moment, the receptionist led her to a bank of elevators. He swiped at a panel with a badge, then stepped aside for Corey to enter.

“You’re all set.”

Corey took several more deep breaths, and remembered Lou’s warning, tinged with venom and the hint of retribution: “Be nice.” Corey screwed a smile onto her face, rolled her shoulders back, and said, “It’s showtime.” There was a ping and the elevator door slid open.

She was disoriented. She stepped into a massive loft space to discover it was like no recording studio she had ever seen. Where most of the studios she recorded at were dank, poorly lit warrens of glorified cubicles, this was an open bay. There didn’t actually appear to be any rooms at all, until her eyes adjusted to the sudden sunlight and realized that all of the walls were glass. Where there were patches of actual wall hung oversized prints of comic book heroes and Andy Warhol pop art. In the center of the space was a lounge area of bright, oversized furniture on which lounged the four members of the biggest boy band in the world, circa 2001.

“Yo yo yo!” said a fifth man. “Rock star in the house!”

Corey’s smile dimmed a little, but rebounded quickly. She didn’t know if the man was taking the piss. Tall, lanky, and dressed in a designer tracksuit, he bounded over to her and clasped her hand as if they were preparing to arm wrestle. “Hey, I’m Drop.”

He pulled her in—she’d seen bros do this before—and they bumped shoulders. She didn’t know if she should finish the move and clap his back with her free hand, but he didn’t clap hers, so her hand just floated in midair for a moment before she let it awkwardly drop.

Professor Drop grew serious for a moment and pressed his hands flat together. “Welcome to my temple.”

She glanced at A-Game, then back to Drop. The “professor” was easily fifteen years younger than any of them, Corey included, and this penthouse kingdom was his.

“It’s, um, pretty incredible.”

He brightened again. “Thanks! And this,” he said, sweeping his arm toward the sprawled, bored-looking men in the lounge, “is A-Game!”

Though she was confident she would have mastered Drop’s derivation of the bro hug by the time she cycled through the entire band, she really hoped she didn’t have to. Fortunately, the members of A-Game did not rise. There were a few head nods, one threw a peace sign, and the fourth member, wearing a hat and sunglasses, remained entirely immobile. It reminded Corey of the movie where the two guys dragged a corpse around for a weekend. She thought of A-Game trying to pull this off. Filming a video, going on tour, doing morning chat shows, all with a dead guy they had to pretend was still alive for tax purposes. She stifled manic, nervous laughter and instead offered a quick wave.

“Hey guys.”

“Boys,” continued Drop, “this is Legend of the 90’s, Corey Lyondell.”

Corey balked at this, but kept it out of her face. Damsel was released in 1999, but it’s not like she vanished in a puff of smoke on New Years Day 2000. But it wasn’t the first time she’d been introduced like this either, so she focused on the legend bit rather than the timestamp.

She smiled at the band, then back at Drop.

“Can we do some introductions?”

“Seriously?” asked Drop.

Everyone looked at each other, confused. She didn’t understand it, then it dawned on her. It was like asking The Beatles to introduce themselves. If The Beatles used Auto-Tune and didn’t write their own songs or play their own instruments. Everyone knew the names of The Beatles, and everyone knew the names of A-Game. They were household names.

Just not in her household.  

I fucked it up already, she thought. Lou is going to murder me.