Listen To The Music(On Hold...)

Chapter One

CHAPTER ONE:

Reject Songs from Kylee Grandt

“I’m sorry, Kylee. Its good, but not Hollywood good,” Miranda says, again.

            “They’re never good enough for you, Ms. Hampton,” I mumble under my breath.

            “You have potential, kid. Keep trying, and come back when you have something else you think is good,” She says, with a fake smile sugar coating her face.

            “Thank you Ms. Hampton. I will,” I say, walking out her front door. Just another one to add to the pile:

REJECT SONGS FROM KYLEE GRANDT

It’s the same week after week, month after month. I never get a chance. I sang her a verse of my song. A verse! I always get the short end of the stick, the burnt French fry, the plain hamburger.

            You might not think that’s bad, considering that you’ve probably never been rejected by a Hollywood producer. But I have. I have been rejected by her once a week for the past sixth months, when I first gathered the courage to knock on her door.

***

            “Why don’t you go and ask her what she thinks?” my mom asks.

            “She’s the top producer in Hollywood, Mom. I don’t want to get rejected by her.”

            I wonder why parents never get these things.

            “You’ll never know until you try, Kylee. And we’ve lived here for seven years. You’ve been writing songs since third grade. I can’t believe you would pass this up,”

            “But Mom, I don’t write songs just to get them torn down. They aren’t even that good,” I say, shuffling through the pile of lyrics on the desk.

            “Honey, I’ve heard you with your keyboard in your room working on the chords. Your songs are wonderful, you sing great. What do you have to worry about?” My mom asks, walking into the kitchen.

            “You’re my mom, you have to say that. And getting rejected, Mom I thought we just went over this!” I say, showing my growing frustration.

            “Honey, just go, here I’ll walk over with you,” she practically pulls me out the front door.  We walk over and my mother knocks on her door.

            “Hello?” The famous Miranda Hampton, top producer in all of Hollywood says, answering her door.

            “Hi, Miranda. This is Kylee, my daughter I was telling you about. She wanted to sing one of her songs for you,” my mom says.

            Could my life get any worse? Of course it could. I have to sing for her, don’t I?

            “Sure, come on in. Would you like some water, some tea? Maybe some coffee?” she asks, leading us into her humongous living room.

           “No thank you,” my mother and I say at the same time, sitting down on her leather sectional sofa.

            “Okay, sing me your song darling!” Ms. Hampton says, handing me a guitar. I wish I had brought my own…