"I want all of you to keep an eye on all of them, but pay a little more attention to your roommate. Or for some of you, roommates, as I announced earlier in the very beginning. If you can, if you're daring, steal a diary entry, a phone, anything. I expect to see results. A meeting will be held in two weeks; bring something big by then."
And so Robert Mann capped off the speech with his customary, more-dramatic-than-necessary flourish. Vaguely, Keith supposed that he was going to have to get used to it, now. All the theatrics, the drama, the over-the-top actions and reactionsā¦
Not for the first time, Keith wondered if he should just call it quits. Cut his losses while he still had his sanity intact. This place, full of fake people and their fake, fake words was the worst place in the world for him. But then he glanced down at the battered folder in his hands and remembered. It's for the music, Keith. It's always been for the music.
Everyone else was leaving. They scuttled and slinked and slid, oozing out of the room like a trickle of surly ants. Keith lingered, barely glancing at his co-workers. He wouldn't follow. There was still some unfinished business to attend to, after all.
"The scores," the aspiring musician said bluntly, holding his folder out to Mann with a steely look in his eyes. It was only supposed to be a cover, this musician thing, but it would be a lie to say that he'd ever considered it as such. Musicā¦it defined him. And by God was it infinitely more preferable to all this gossip mongering business.
Yes, he knew what he was getting himself into when he signed up for this insanity. But he also knew what he was truly here for. And by the knowing glint in Mann's eyes, he knew it, too.
"Ah," Mann said, plucking the folder from Keith's stiffly proffered hand. "Now, that was certainly fast! Looks like our little virtuoso has been working hard, hmm?"
Keith gave him a flat look. "Don't call me that. It's creepy." And it was. Truly.
But instead of the intended effect (i.e., get the hell away from me), the comment soared right over Robert Mann's head like a badly aimed paper airplane. He didn't even reply to the statement; the man only grinned and leaned slightly forward. Perfectly warm and charming. One hundred percent businessman smile. And yet, there was something calculating in his expression that made Keith feel uneasy. Behind that teddy bear smile was a shark's grin. Keith was suddenly reminded, with startling clarity, that this was the man puppeteering the entire fiasco. The man who wasn't afraid to manipulate others, who wasn't afraid to dissect themāany one of them. Person by person, piece by piece, tear out their hearts and then leave them lying thereāa quivering, broken mess.
For one paranoid moment, Keith wondered if Mann was conducting a secret reality T.V. show of the damn reality T.V. show itself, before common sense smacked the logic back into him.
Just. Calm down, focus. He's all smile and no teeth. All lure and no rod. Just, just whatever you doā¦don't bite.
Mann twirled a finger at him.
"I meant it, you know. Writers that impress me get a job."
"I'm not interested in screenplay," Keith found himself saying. Distantly, he realized that this was the most he'd ever said in a single day, at least for a long time. Thirteen words. Sixteen, if you counted his coffee order from earlier. ("One coffee, please.") Damn, he was really getting soft.
Robert Mann chuckled.
"Woah, woah, hold upāwho said anything about screenplay? No, I'm talking about a real, honest-to-God position in the music industry. Official composer of music for XOXO. Toss in a few recommendations here, a few suggestions there, and boom, what do you knowāinstant credibility, rocketing you to the top."
ā¦Alright, forget the not biting thing. Keith was snagged, and he knew it, too. Hook, line, and sinker. But, in his defenseādid it really count as manipulation if he was aware of his employer's machinations? Admittedly, it was more on the side of willful stupidityā¦but this was a cause Keith could get behind.
It's always been for the music.
"I'll see what I can do," Keith finally said.
Twenty-two words. Seventeen sheets of music. Two actors to humiliate. And one deal with the devil.
Veronica Lutz, the skank, is secretly obsessed with comic books.
Ryder St. James, the heartbreaker, is a fanatic collector of Beanie Babies.
Both are intensely ashamed of their respective hobbies and go to insane lengths to keep them secret. Unfortunately, fate has other plans. Through some extremely convoluted coincidences and a bit of divine intervention, they learn each others' secrets. Bound together by the supreme power of embarrassing avocation, the two brave the harsh, judgmental gaze of the world around them andā
...I don't even know what the hell I'm writing.
Without warning, Keith crumpled up the paper in front of him and tossed it in the rubbish bin.
Alright. Take twelve.
When Ryder St. James isn't wooing girls or breaking hearts, he's hang gliding.
One day, a freak gust of wind sends him careening off course. As a result, he crash-lands in Veronica's bedroom. Because that's how things work. Naturally. (Shut up, logic.)
So there they are, one devilishly good-looking fellow in a divinely good-looking girl's bedroom. After the customary exchange of death threats, the two quickly reconcile and, being hormonal teenagers, naturally decide toā
Crackle-thud. The sound of another paper finding its way to the rubbish bin.
Take thirteenā
Every night of the new moon, Veronica Lutz sneaks into her family's basement and practices voodoo magic. It's an outlet for her inner turmoil and insecurities, you see. Because year-long grudges and plots of revenge are perfectly healthy activities.
Anyway. Miss Lutz is furious with Ryder for some reason or another (who was Keith to understand the alien mind of teenagers) and so she makes plans to curse him. But then she decides that a simple cursing isn't enough, so she creates a mini-Ryder voodoo doll and sticks a billion pins in him. She mails the entire gruesome ensemble to him on his birthday.
Unfortunately for her, she's in such a blind state of rage that she forgets to omit the return address on the package. So Ryder soon figures out who his creepy offender is.
He confronts her about it. She vehemently denies everything. In fact, she more than denies it. She blames the entire thing on her imaginary friend, Charles. Naturally, Ryder is concerned about her mental state. But instead of doing the sensible thing and dragging her to a doctor, he decides to make out with her. Because insanity is hot, or whatever.
ā¦And the two lived happily ever after.
Crumple. Rubbish bin.
Keith was not a creative writer. His art was sound, not words. These pitiful and downright sad attempts at character development were quickly flatlining into nonsense, and honestly? His sleep-deprived brain wasn't really helping, either.
He had to go clear his head.
There, silhouetted in a halo of unearthly light, was the most wondrous creature Keith had ever laid eyes on. A smooth, glistening body. A curved, perfectly-proportioned frame. Sleek, beautiful legs. Flowing velvet cloth that hung like heavenly tresses.
Slowly, as if disbelieving of the sight before his eyes, he inched ever closer. Once he was close enough, he reached out and brushed the shining lettersāgolden patterns over dark skin.
STEINWAY & SONS
Robert Mann really did go all out. Here, in this lovely half-shuttered room, was a glorious Steinway piano.
He'd always wanted one. Always. Unfortunately, the closest he'd ever gotten was a dinky old electric keyboard scavenged from a yard sale.
This was something in a whole other league.
He ran his fingers over the keys and thought immediately of the song thatāthanks to Eliasāhad been playing through his mind for the better part of the day.
And so he played.
And so he remembered.
It's always been for the music.