Chapter 48
“What have you done?” asked Lou.
Here we go again, thought Corey, but as she spoke into the phone, wrapped in a towel, she was genuinely flummoxed. She thought back over the weekend and for the life of her she couldn’t remember doing anything of consequence whatsoever.
Last week, she was chasing her muse, who normally far outpaced her, which required a sprint. But after her trip to the Academy, the muse had slowed down long enough for Corey to catch up and run alongside for a good stretch, before darting off again. The race left her exhausted though.
Two bottles of wine didn’t help either.
She awoke horribly hung over on Saturday, her head throbbing in the wan, diffuse Boston winter light and wondering if her flu had returned. After popping three ibuprofen and putting her mouth under the faucet and slurping water like a cowboy from a trough after days in the desert, she returned to the couch and watched a marathon of Mulder and Scully standing in the woods, speaking in dulcet tones, and illuminating each other with their penlights, while myths and monsters lurked forever just out of reach or the camera frame. It may as well have a warm blanket, and her plan was to copy and paste her Saturday itinerary onto Sunday.
She remembered her phone—that she owned one—but couldn’t for the life of her remember where it was. It didn’t matter. The news sucked, Twitter sucked, everything sucked, and she had long since given up on Kyle calling. She was content to spend all day on the couch, but she finally succumbed to her full bladder, her hungry cat, and the itching curiosity of where the hell she left the phone.
She finally discovered it in a high cabinet, dead as a brick.
She plugged it into a charger, and since she was up, made a pot of coffee and headed into the shower.
She was washing her hair when the first call came. It was a momentary annoyance, but the ringing ended soon enough, followed by a voicemail chime. She sighed and let the hot water loosen the muscles in her neck and shoulders. Then the ringing began again.
“Fuck,” she said. “Fuck off already.”
The ringing stopped.
Then it began again.
And again.
“Fucking motherfucking fuckers.”
She grabbed her towel, wrapped it around her and marched into the living room, any remaining traces of her hangover burned away in her rising anger.
She grabbed the ringing phone. It was Lou.
“What?” barked Corey, not bothering to conceal her annoyance.
“What. Have. You. Done.”
This time, her manager’s tone immediately evaporated Corey’s defensiveness. Not only did Lou ignore Corey’s petulant greeting, but there was a gravity in her tone that stopped Corey’s irritation in its tracks.
“I didn’t do anything this time, I swear.” She sounded like a lying teenager caught taking the car for a joyride, but she really hadn’t, which only made her sound more guilty to herself.
“The hell you didn’t. You’re viral.”
At the word viral, Corey realized she was still naked and dripping, covered only in a towel, in full view of her windows. Her minor celebrity shields went up and she ducked behind a corner.
“Why?”
“Your song!”
“What song?” asked Corey, beginning to panic.
“Reveille, you dizzy bitch!”
Reveille?
How?
“Where the holy hell have you been?” asked Lou. I’ve been trying to get a hold of you all morning.”
“I…I don’t…viral how?”
Before Louise could answer, Corey pulled the phone from ear. She looked at the Twitter icon on her phone. Had the audio alerts been enabled, her phone would have emitted a buzzing as consistent as Iggy’s morning purr. The little red bubble over the icon was in the thousands.
“Oh my God,” she said, then put the phone back up to her ear.
Lou hadn’t stopped talking.
“…Logan in a couple of hours.”
“Who’s Logan?”
“What is wrong with you?” shouted Lou. “The fucking airport!”
“Stop!” yelled Corey. “Please wait. I’ve had a lot of time to think lately and I have to get something off my chest. I’m really, really sorry. I know you were only looking out for me, like you’ve always done, and I’m a terrible friend. I never ask how you are. Or Travis. I never ask about the twins. I will say though, in all fairness, when you asked me to be their godmother, you knew I was irresponsible, and more importantly an atheist, so that one’s on you…”
“No, you were right. Someone put his hands on you and my first instinct was to go into manager mode, not friend mode. Totally unacceptable.”
“But I fired you…”
“No you didn’t.”
“Uh, yes I did.”
“You fired your manager, but as your best friend, I rehired your manager. It’s shark, paper, scissors.”
“You mean rock, paper, scissors.”
“No. I’m a shark and sharks eat everything.”
“And Kyle and I broke up.”
“No shit. I kind of picked that up in the context of your phenomenal song—which is viral—so can I please fucking continue?”
“Yes, but I’m exceedingly hungover and there may be a few…gaps…in my memory. Start from the beginning.”
“Were you drunk Friday night?”
“Details are fuzzy…”
She caught another memory fragment of that night, after she had returned to the condo and was deep into her solo bottle of wine. Not trusting herself with her own phone, she had hid it, but her drunken but crafty brain had found a loophole: her laptop. She had recorded her Reveille sessions, audio and video, and emailed the digital files to herself from The Bridge.
“Oh God…my song. I got loaded and—”
“Uploaded?”
“Oh no.”
“Oh yes, bitch. Have you seen your views? Your shares? Your mentions?”
“Wait, so you’re not mad?”
“Normally yes, I’d be furious, and we’ll deal with your breaking the chain of command at a later date, sometime after your meeting with Ricki Parrish.”
“Legendary record producer Ricki Parrish? Svengali Ricki Parrish who shits Grammies Ricki Parrish?”
“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you, you helpless, hapless student, you need to be on a plane to LAX in two hours. You are meeting Ricki Parrish for dinner tonight. You have exactly one shot. Do not fuck this up.”
“What. Is. Happening?” mumbled Corey.
“I tell you what’s happening, babe. You sent a flare into the cosmos and the cosmos answered. So start packing.”