Behind That Locked Door

Money (That's What I Want)

 Your first television spot is an absolute tragedy. From the costumes to the terrible hairstyles and the ego maniac of a host, it was bound to be a disaster.

Lori huffs as she kicks off her uncomfortable heels, hands fighting with the pins in her red hair.

"Well, that was a bust." Jaclyn sighs, trailing in behind her. You and your sister, Jennifer, bring up the rear.

You smooth down the boxy blue dress you're drapped in, hating how it hides your shape.

You were so used to tight slacks and pretty, lowcut blouses. The costume department had cleaned up the groups image for the gig, turning the four of you into wholesome, family-friendly entertainers. 

A wild urge to laugh startles you at the thought, but you push it down.

"A bad TV spot is better than no TV spot." You offer, trying to difuse the tension.

"It would have been a lot better if that idiot hadn't cut us short," Lori rants, fumbling with the zip up the side of her dress. "What a complete moron!"

She's right, of course. The host of the show, Ronald or whoever, was completely in love with himself, cutting off Lori's solo in order to spew more of his lame, unfunny jokes. The house band was completely out of tune, mixing up songs and forgetting important orchestral parts.

You cringe, thinking of the way feedback from the microphone squealed out as you, Jennifer, and Jaclyn tried to sing harmonies.

The only bright spot was Jaclyn's guitar playing, which was always superb even in the worst of venues.

Jennifer flops down in one of the overstuffed armchairs, her dark blonde hair falling into her eyes. She looks miserable as you watch her, tugging at a strand of your own brunette locks.

You can't help but feel guilty for dragging your little sister into this trainwreck of a performance, knowing how camera shy she is.

Jaclyn begins to carefully undo the horrible updo they'd teased into her hair, the inky black strands stiff and fried looking as she looks at herself mournfully.

"It'll take forever for my curls to heal from this! I've only got one thing of caster oil left back at the apartment."

The four of you share a three bedroom place on East 92nd. It isn't a bad setup, but with the rate work is coming in, it won't be affordable for much longer.

The group, The Femme Fatals, is getting more and more recognition as the year goes on, one of your singles even making it onto the charts. You worry that this dumpster fire of a performance has set you back, turning all of the groups hard work into a joke.

Before you can work yourself up too badly, you sit down next to Jennifer, her tan skin looking waxy under the vanity lights. You reach out a hand, placing it on her broad shoulder. She looks at you, blue eyes gloomy.

"It's alright, Jen." You say softly. "Things are bound to look up."

Lori snorts.

"Not likely."

You shoot her a glare, and she shrugs in response.