chapter eleven

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chapter eleven

Part two

I moved from Hawaii to Los Angeles, California six years ago, age seventeen. Traveled 2,390 miles in the promise of giving the big music business a shot. I have been performing ever since the age of two, and during the stages of my teenage years is when I decided I wanted to sing, and perform, for the rest of my life.

Everyone knows Los Angeles is the most likely place to be discovered for talent, so I saved up 700 bucks, packed my bags, and moved there. I already had family living there and I started out living with my sister who got into contact with a few people. I got signed to Motown Records a year later. I felt pretty confident, like I was finally going to be able to buy Mom a house, but then I got dropped because they didn't know what genre of music to categorize my voice as.

I was left with a lot of doubt, after that. But I couldn't go back home. Not yet.

I moved in with my brother when my sister's friend introduced me to Phillip Lawrence, who remains my partner in crime until now. Even though I'm going nowhere with my music career, he still manages to meet me at the studio, every damn day.

We struggle, mostly financial, and to pay the bills I started selling my instruments—or pretty much anything I could find worthy. That's how I met her.

My sister had a friend who is that type of person who wants to learn something, but doesn't put in the effort to actually learn it, and soon drops the hobby and begins a new one. That's how my sister got this camera. She gave it to me, joking that I could probably get something with the old piece of scrap metal. I don't know, I just took it. And one day with my hopes high, tried pawning it.

“Lena!” This man called to this girl working behind the counter. “Handle this customer for me, please?” He had a barking voice, but was smiling as he gave his command. I wondered why. The girl walked up to us, she looked to be a few years younger than me. Eighteen, maybe. She didn't look at me, not once, as she made it to where I was, because her gaze was fixated on the dirt camera.

I shivered in my rain soaked hoodie.

Her thin fingers picked up the camera, the others sliding across the black strap that I tried cleaning of the dust before I got here. She held it like this precious thing, and for some reason, it fascinated me.

Her eyes clicked to me, they were the color of melted honey. “This is beautiful.”

“That's good, right?” I couldn't break away from her gaze. “You want to sell?” she asked, her eyebrow rising. I nodded. “How much do you think I can get for it?”

Her mouth pursed as she thought. She laughed, then. “My manager. . .” she shook her head, her sandy colored ponytail swinging. “He won't see the beauty in this.”

Again, I was drawn to her. “I don't see it either,” I admitted.

When she looked at me, her mouth turned up at the corner. She asked me something an employee wouldn't say to a customer. “Why are you all wet?”

I looked out the window. It had stopped raining. “It was raining earlier. I can't afford any gas money,” I chuckled, and she laughed, leaning in close to me. I could see every brush of her eyelashes. She smelled like paper and rosemary. “Tell you what. I'll give you more than it's worth, if you don't tell my manager.”

Deal.

The second time I went to that pawn shop, I sold my guitar. But someone else worked with me, and Lena was working with someone else. She glanced at me, but no recognition was in her eyes. I went back to the pawn shop, to sell my second guitar, I had only one more left, and I found myself searching for her. I had an inkling that I came here not only to sell my instruments. But then, in the end, she found me.

I was thinking of all this after talking to my mom on the phone awhile ago. I just called her, to see what she was doing, make sure she and the family are all right. Somehow our conversation turned to the topic of the snowball effect. She was telling me how my snowball started when I got on stage as Little Elvis for the very first time, and as I grew up my snowball became larger as it declined a hill, rolling faster; picking up more snow as it did. “Funny, I've never seen snow,” I joked. I could just see her stern face. But when I was off the phone with her, I thought about it more. I thought about all that snow, and what it contained to form my snowball.

Somewhere in there, was Lena. Even though I knew her for a short time, she helped me keep the ball rolling. She had this belief in me that I've never felt from anyone else before. Like not only could I maybe make it big some day, but with my music, I could take over the world.

I let my cigarette dangle between my lips as I dug in my pocket, reaching for my phone. I haven't talked to Lena for more than a week, because I'm an idiot. I was being immature about the whole thing, avoiding her. Letting the excuse of her not picking up my phone calls take over me.

I sighed as the call went to voicemail. A chunk of my snowball was missing, and I was desperate to make it whole again.

I would make things right tonight.

*

Lena and her best friend luckily lived on the bottom level of their building. The windows were dark, and if they were asleep I didn't want to wake Stephanie too so I just went to Lena's window, on the side of the building. I could hear the crickets as I walked through the grass. First, I tapped. Then, I knocked. 

I went back around to the front door and knocked. Still, no answer. I knew Lena kept a spare key hidden under the doormat because she was forgetful. I retrieved it, hesitating, the key warm in my palm. Should I? I did.

Inside was dark. By the stillness, I could tell no one was home. I turned on the hallway light, then moved to Lena's room. The door was closed. I creaked open it a little, as if she was in there. I flicked on her room light, and was surrounded by pictures, books, and music records on the shelves. All of them had a wall to themselves, the collage of Polaroids over her bed.

She was a lover of art.

Before stepping inside further, something beneath her unkept bed caught my eye. I crouched down to get it. A photo album. It was heavy in my hands. I'd been in her room before, on the day she bought a record player from her own workplace with a box of vinyls and wanted me to listen to them with her, but she's never shown me this. It opened to the bookmarked page, and I noticed it had some of her poetry in it. Immediately it felt like I was invading her privacy, I've never read any of her writing before. I had never been inside her world, not once did she give me an invite. But there it was, her words, her thoughts, all laid out in front of me, and I couldn't stop looking.

Underneath a picture of Phil was me. Her scrawl was curly. I always thought of things to be deeper than they seem, the things beneath the surface.

isn't there/when you look across the ocean/something that draws your mind to wonder

what's beneath?

Bruno is the epitome.

Not only is he music, but he is

I jumped at the sudden sound of a vibration. “Shit,” I muttered, fumbling for my phone. I answered it, breathless. “Hello?”

“Bruno?”

I shut my eyes. I was in such a hurry I hadn't even checked the caller ID. “Lena,” I said. “I've been trying to call you. . .”

“Are you busy?” Her voice was quiet, shaky. “Where are you?”

“Just at the studio,” I answered quickly, flipping the photo album closed then pushed it beneath her bed. There was muffled noises in the background, and I realized she was crying, I think. I've never heard her cry before. She was usually vivacious, with all smiles and bright eyes and laughter that will make you shudder with your own. “What's wrong, L?”

Her voice came back, broken-sounding. “Can you pick me up? Drop me off home.”

“Of course.” I flicked off her light and closed the door softly behind me, erasing any evidence that I was here. “Where are you?”

“Ramona—” And then the phone hung up.

- - -

This story is off of on hold, but it may be updated infrequently. Thank you guys for bearing with me

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