Written In These Walls

~Prologue~

~Prologue~

When my father had finally agreed to hire me down at the studio, I was ecstatic. For years I had been begging him to give me a job there, or at least let me volunteer. When I was little he used to let me play with the recording equipment and I would make my own little songs, my favorite being my rather off-pitch cover of Mary Had a Little Lamb. I used to roam the halls freely and have access to every room. Key words being "used to". That was before the divorce. My mom and dad created the record company together many years ago. Mom loved to sing and dad was the tech geek. Together they started recording music from the basement of their house. Their make-shift recording studio slowly developed into a bigger one and continued to grow. Together they formed an indie record, recording tracks with local artists and bands. The business was titled Reynold Records. After their divorce, dad kept the studio- renaming it a more glamorous "Sundance Studios"- and mom moved to California. I live with my dad and his much younger girlfriend. They've been together since a few months after he and mom called it off five years ago, although sometimes I wonder if they've been together since before the split. The idea has crossed my mind several times but I've never dared ask.

As I open the door to the record building, I can't help but thing about the opportunities in store. My father doesn't just own any old record label, he owns the biggest label on the eastern side of the United States. My torn-up converse, which were probably a size or two too small but had stretched to fit my feet squeaked against the imported marble floors of the studio lobby as I headed towards the elevator. Bobby, the security guard, nodded to me as I stepped into the death contraption. I have a serious fear of elevators. If my dad was more patient I would just take the stairs up to his... well, 12th floor office... but instead, I face death and risk it all by stepping into the metal trap.

"Good afternoon, Miss Reynods," Harvey greeted me. Harvey is our elevator operator, or as I like to call him our "button pushing guy".

"Hey!" I replied with a smile.

"I admire your choice of footwear," he commented, gesturing to my beat up converse. I could afford to buy every Prada shoe there is out in the world, I mean, hey- my dad is Robert Reynolds, who, according to People Magazine, is "America's #1 Business Man of 2013". But I'd take my muddy old converse over new heels anyday.

"Thank you, Harvey," I said. Just then, the elevator stopped. I suddenly thought 'That's it, this is the end. The elevator is going down. Goodbye, cruel world.' But as I closed my eyes and braced for impact, I heard the ding of the doors opening.

"Have a nice day," Harvey said, holding the door open for me.

"You too!" I giggled giddily, practically skipping off the deathly elevator and to my dads office.

I stopped as soon as I got outside the door. I had been planning this speech for years, dreaming of the day my dad would finally let me D.J. and mix tracks for Sundance. I calmed my breathing and mentally prepared myself. I knew that when I opened the door I'd find him sitting there with a pen and form for me to sign, ready to welcome me into the company with open arms. I put a smile on my face and walked into the office. I nearly dropped dead and came back to life just to turn around and leave before dying again. Sitting in the chair near the window with a view of the town- the chair I had always dreamed I'd be sitting in during this moment- was a Barbie-like girl with stick straight blonde hair, an obviously fake nose, high cheekbones, and a faux-fur shawl.

"Alyssa, sweetheart, come sit!" My dad said to me, gesturing to the empty seat beside Malibu Barbie. "This is Bailey," he introduced her. Close enough to Barbie, I thought. "My new client," he concluded.

"Nice to meet you," I said, forcing a smile, which probably looked more like a pained grimace.

"You too, girl!" She replied in a high-pitched, sing-songy voice, exactly how I imagine Barbie would sound. "Your father has told me all about you. He's a lovely man."

I rolled my eyes and crossed both my arms and legs. My longing to be here had already flown out the door.

"Alyssa, dear, Bailey is a new singer/songwriter that Sundance has taken on, and we plan to launch her career with a promotion tour," my father said.

I stared at the man blankly, wondering how this affected me. I nodded to him as "go on..."

"I need you to be a temporary assistant for Bailey for just this first month. It will be a paid job and you will get to join her on the promotion tour," he told me, and Bailey grinned and nodded enthusiastically.

"I don't know. I'll think about it," I sighed.

"I'd love for you to join me, I can tell we'll be best friends!" Barbie, I'm sorry, Bailey, said with enthusiasm.

"I'll think on it," I repeated, there was an awkwardly long pause after I did so. The childish part of me wanted to yell "Awkward silence!" the other half wanted to just get up and leave.

"I'll see you later dad," I said, getting up and heading towards the door.

"Aly, wait- please," he called after me. I stopped in my tracks. He hadn't called me Aly since the divorce. "Can we step out for a second and talk?" he asked. I nodded and we stepped out of the office, closing the door behind us.

"I need someone to help me with this, she needs an assistant. Someone to do simple things like-" My dad started and I cut him off.

"Like buy her no fat, low calorie, soy lattes from starbucks and take her little purse dog to the spa?" I said, crossing my arms.

"No," my dad replied somewhat sternly. "To help keep her on track. The tour goes across the states and to the UK. It will last a few months and you'll be back in time for the fall enrollment for the community college."

"Now why do you think I'd want this job? I thought you'd finally come to your senses and realized that I wanted to actually work at the studio. I have spent my life mixing tracks from my room. I want to work with Sundance. Use your equipment, not the make-shift studio in my room. I want it to be like old times, before-" I paused. That was a low blow. Dad hates talking about the divorce.

There was a long silence between us. I stared down at my beat-up and well-worn converse. There was somehow a little bit of everything I've done on them. Mud from my last camping trip, chalk from the street art we saw in the city, and grass stains from my countless hours of messing around outside with friends. However, I did notice some blank spaces on the old shoes. As if they were a blank space, waiting to be filled with remnants of new memories. The shoes were a canvas filled with splashes of places I've been, and I guess it wouldn't hurt to add a few marks.

"I'll go," I told my father, a sigh of relief overcoming him. Little did he know, I didn't plan on coming back.