Adam Bornstein Claudia Manley Writing 2211G 23 February 2012 Jazz in G Major Abstract: This is a fictional short story

that I wrote for a second year creative writing class at Western. We were tasked with writing a story that would dually deal with mature themes while also building to a climactic reveal. You could not pay me to do an encore. If I had to hear myself sing Be My Girlfriend again after this I would kill myself. The upbeat and spirited lyrics dried up my tongue as they escaped my mouth, taking my soul with them. The unrelenting crowd willed me to maintain my meticulously practiced guise that masked the pain that each succeeding breath brought. The coldness of the fog machine enveloped my body, electrifying my sweat soaked skinny jeans and black leather jacket in a way that sent shivers all the way up my spine disturbing the sole thought in my head: Just get it over with. The thrust of my groin in an overly macho fashion elicits a favourable response as the crowd joins in the beat of the song. Their blissful exuberance only intensifies my desire to stop strutting around these scantily clad dancers and end this spectacular charade earlier than I am obligated to; but, the show lurches on the same as always, producing screams and chants of my name: evidence of having delivered what they wanted. The blinding lights reveal my every move for all to see, but the voice that fills the packed arena is not my own. The audience was still screaming for more as I left the building, only to find more fans on the street waiting for me like a pack of hungry wolves. The security guards managed a tight path for me, which allowed the ravenous teenage-girl hands to grab and pull at any part of me they could latch onto. Jostling through this human maze I can see my transportation just ahead. The side of the tour bus, lit up in the midnight air, depicts my larger-than-life image riding a Harley with the text, Jazzs Just Me Tour. It made me sick. These girls wanted him. I eventually reached the safety of the bus, making sure my entourage made it through as well, before having the doors close swiftly behind the three of us. The roar of the engine replaced the screams, and our driver drove toward the next city without hesitation. The crowd of fans began to shrink away into the distance along with my forced smile. The bus, never a happy place, was deceptively warm and comfortable. I made a beeline for the back section where we all slept, running my hands along the soft, purple, plush walls for balance. I needed to get out of this costume. I took off my drenched shirt and hurled it at the floor; replacing it with a dry, pink, Lulu Lemon v-neck. My odor becoming noticeable in the confined space prompted John to reach into a compartment and grab me a stick of ladies deodorant. Originally aggravated by these types of showbiz secrets, I smiled at the irony of the label: Secret. John could sense my sour mood, although it had become a post-performance predictability at this point. He moved to

across the bus to sit next to me, bringing my old, worn guitar with him. His hand found my back and we sat there watching the other cars pass by in the night. Carols commotion at the table near the front of the bus disturbed my gaze. She was going about her managerial duties, simultaneously instructing the driver, writing in her notebook, and talking on the phone at a rapid pace. John instinctively brought my focus back to him and his deep grey eyes. They had such a calming effect because they both mirrored my anguish and empowered me to overcome it. He was first to break the emotional silence. You have to tell her. She is completely oblivious and things are only going to get worse. Unless you make it clear to her, youre just going to keep fighting. The pressure this lie is putting on you is going to kill you. You have to tell Carol, worry about the fallout later. Trust me, it will get better. I know youre afraid of losing this, but its not right, youve already lost the music. I knew he was right. He started plucking at my guitar, knowing I wouldnt play it, but that its sound would spawn the understanding and love in me that belonged to its previous owner. The guitar was the only part of my father left in my life since the tour took me on the road only weeks after his stroke. Other than him, John was the only other person who ever really listened to me and understood my music. My Dad was the one who taught me how to play and inspired me to be a performer. When I would get beat up at school he would play for me and tell me to put my feelings into my songs because that is what makes good music. He said I would be able be find myself in music, and that it was the most precious thing because it didnt matter who you were or what you liked; it would always make you feel good to hear it. Mom never understood why I was the way I was. She thought that cool clothes and expensive boy stuff would make me happy and get me friends. Dad never wanted to change me; he loved me even though I was different. With his help and his guitar I was able to overcome the bullying. I just wish he hadnt gotten sick before I really did start figuring out who I was, and what I liked. John, would you mind giving Jazz and I some time alone to discuss business? Carol had snuck up on us and abruptly interrupted the soothing chords of the guitar. After a reassuring glance, John squeezed my leg with his calloused hand urging me to confess. Then he moved up to where Carol had been working. Jazz sweetie, she began in her tone of false empathy, you dont have to be so upset. It was a great show. Sold out crowd, and the girls were going crazy for you, even though you still couldnt seem to find the right steps in the new routine for the second set. I still had yet to meet her cold eyes, it was obvious that I was tuning her out yet she continued, Id like to remind you that youre the centerpiece of a much larger business that depends on you to sell tickets. This tour employs hundreds of people, generates millions of dollars, a percentage of which goes to help Heart&Stroke Foundation. Weve worked so hard on creating your image and making you a teenage heartthrob that if you dont step it up then we will all miss out on some big opportunities and serious money here. She unbuttoned her pinstriped, triple-stitched, Louis Vuitton blazer that did little to hide her weight, and aggressively put her hands on her hips to indicate that more than a simple scolding was to follow. My muscles became rigid as I fixed my stare straight ahead,

boring a hole in the upholstery with my eyes. You make such a big fuss and sulk for days each time they send over new songs and you dont use any of the free gifts you receive. Youre a seventeen-year-old Superstar with all the money, toys, and girls you could want, what on Gods green earth is it going to take for a little cooperation? My breathing is getting faster and shallower. I reached to turn down the heat only to find it was already off. What is it now Jazz? The costumes just arent you either? If you keep acting like a goddamn prima donna over stupid lyrics and dont stop prancing around like a little Nancy-boy, this bad boy image wont last much longer. That was it. I burst, Shut the fuck up Carol! I do not need another lecture! I dont even give a shit! It was all coming out at once. After all I have done for you! How dare you talk to me like that? Her voice quivered, trying to sound calm and controlled without letting me know how easily I rattled her. Her hand shook as she unscrewed her water bottle, sitting down to take a drink. I ran my hands through my messy brown hair and clenched them together behind my head with strength I had never felt before. I could feel my heart pounding in my ears. Honestly, I thought I raised you better. Really? Now youre concerned about having been a good mother to me? I retorted. She swallowed hard and took a moment to attempt a sincerely confused expression on her shiny face, made tight from plastic surgery. I tried to act pleased with myself by crossing my legs. Whats that supposed to mean? She finally managed. That youre a horrible mother! All you care about is making money, thats all that youve ever been interested in. Turning my talent into a business that would bring us all the glitz and glam. Harp on me all you want but it doesnt change the fact that youre a goddamn sellout who fucked me into a contract with zero creative control! You dont care about the music or about me. You dont even know me! Dad did though, and he understood what music is all about, he understood me! I leaned back further in the leather chair, letting the words hang in the air between us as the bus jerked forward. My words cut deeply into her business-like demeanor as she abandoned her perfect posture, slouching back into her seat. Her expression reflected the gears inside her head turning furiously. I half expected steam to come out of her ears. This time her confusion was genuine. I looked over to find John starring back at me from the front table; he had heard the entire thing. He could see my eyes tearing. I had played this moment out in my head thousands of times yet I was still not ready. His face reassured me and urged me to finally say it. Mom... I Im- ~Would You Baby, Ooh Girl, Would You Be My Girlfriend- Excuse me Jazz, I have to take this call.