BACKSTAGE

Chapter 1

CLARA'S POV

The sound of loud, shaky operatic singing pulls me out of my deep sleep. Apparently, my new next-door neighbor thinks her shower at 8 a.m. on a Sunday is the perfect time and place to belt out some fantastic,
painstakingly annoying classical music.

I groan at the noise before picking myself up off the floor and rubbing my tired eyes. The moldy tiles are cold beneath my bare feet as I slowly walk to my bathroom, not ready to be awake. I did absolutely no unpacking last night as the almost 5-hour flight from Atlanta to LA and the thirty-minute car ride to my new downtown apartment was so tiring that I pulled out my sleeping bag and knocked out on the floor five minutes after I first opened the door, meaning I have to rummage through 2 cardboard boxes labeled 'bathroom' just to find my face wash.

I look up into the mirror and jolt at the zombie that looks back at me. I look like hell. My mascara is everywhere but my eyelashes and I have dark red lipstick smudged so far across my face there's a bit on the bottom of my nose. And to top it off, I have a brand new zit sitting aggressively on the middle of my forehead. How wonderful!

But I can't even be mad.

I've wanted to move out of Atlanta to somewhere new for years, so, against my ditzy blonde-haired best friend Holly's judgment, last month, I decided LA would be the perfect place to settle and figure out what I want to do with my life.

I bought the cheapest apartment I could find, packed up everything I owned, and left without looking back.

This is usually about the time in my morning routine when I would put my rollers in my hair and do my makeup, but I don't have time. I have to meet my friend Giselle at her cafè at 10 am. She was part of the reason I chose to move here as she could guarantee me a job to keep me steady.

She said I have to wear all black as it's the uniform, which I hate. I feel so boring when I don't wear at least a little bit of color, so, after I put on my most dull black shirt and jeans, I throw on a wine-red coat. I mean, I can't not match my lipstick.

I rush out the door hopping trying to get my shoes over my heels and see that the elevator is closing slowly. I notice there's someone already in there so I yell out, "Hold on, wait!". A boot halts the door just before it closes. I run in and slump against the back wall before leaning forward and pressing the ground button.

"Thank you," I say breathlessly, finally looking at the person. He's so tall I have to lift my head just to meet his icy blue eyes. Holy shit. He is the most gorgeous man I've ever seen. He has a long dark brown curly mullet that just passes his collar bones and freckles littered all across his face and is wearing a dark red button-up, a similar shade to my coat, with flared blue jeans. Is that drumsticks I see in his pocket?

"That's alright." He replies, his smooth, deep Australian accent rips me out of my trance. I smile at him, trying to hide my flustered expression with my hair, which I'm guessing didn't work because I hear a small chuckle coming from his lips.

As the elevator doors close once we reach his floor and he steps out, I can't help but let out a sigh of relief.

One minute later, I reach my floor and start to rummage through the abyss of my purse for the napkin I wrote down the address of Giselle's cafè. I finally find it amongst the hundreds of crumpled-up receipts I have living in there and clutch it in my hand as I slide into my 71' Camaro, buckle my seatbelt, and crank up the radio.

I deftly drive to Giselle's cafè, effortlessly weaving through the traffic.

She stands outside, waiting for me, emanating the same intimidating, bossy attitude as she always has. I step out of the car, nervous about why she's waiting outside for me. Instead of greeting me, she points at my coat and instructs me to remove it, saying "We can't have people thinking you're a customer.". Same old Giselle.

I put my coat in my car and obediently follow her inside and head straight to the back, where she assigns me the tasks of putting away clean dishes, clearing dirty ones, and delivering forgotten condiments to diners. I complete these tasks diligently for four exhausting hours.

After finishing my shift, I rush home and immediately collapse onto the couch. I lay there for a while, resting and reflecting on my new job before deciding that I needed to get up and get out. Usually, when I wanted to do something in Atlanta, my favorite activity was exploring new bars and discovering all of the aspiring bands that would play there, so I decide to do just that.

I do my hair and makeup, throw on some fresh clothes, and leave.