But I’m not jealous. This is Tro. He’s a manwhore. I knew that going in.
I slam my laptop closed again and nearly throw it across the room, but my stomach growls and I decide to focus my efforts on feeding it instead. I pad to the kitchen and find Billie sitting on the couch, on the phone, as usual.
“I need that in writing, Phillip.” She glances at me and nods and I realize she’s talking about my contract. “As far as Shiloh’s concerned, if we don’t get some creative control it’s a deal breaker.”
“Full creative control,” I say, remembering my conversation with Freddie as I grab a box of cereal from the cupboard.
She frowns at me as she jots something in her notebook. “Put all of your points on paper and let me look them over.”
I pour milk on my Apple Jacks and take the bowl back to my room. I shove the laptop to the bottom of my bed with my foot as I stuff my earbuds in. I mean to turn on my latest playlist, some really cool stuff I found by this Finnish band I stumbled on by accident, but instead I click on the recordings Tro made in the subway with Lilah last month. When I’m done eating, I set my bowl down and lay back on the bed and close my eyes as goose bumps pebble my skin. If Billie gets what we’re asking for, I’ll be recording this stuff for real. And maybe I can even get Lilah to play the studio tracks.
I roll on my stomach and smile into the pillow. LoLah, together again.
I start making plans in my head as the fantasy takes shape. Lilah will move to L.A. and we can get an apartment together when we turn eighteen. We’ll hang out and give each other shit like we used to. And we’ll write more music and she’ll play on all my CDs, and next tour, it will be her and me sharing a bus.
But then the notes of Tro’s song start and I feel my throat tighten.
“Do I have it right?” I hear Lilah say.
“You picked that up fast,” he says, his rough around the edges silk voice tugging at my insides like a fishhook.
I don’t miss him.
I won’t.
I click the music off and text Lilah. When she doesn’t answer right away, I get up and take my empty bowl back to the kitchen.
“It looks like we’re going to get most of what we’re asking for,” Billie says, “plus much better royalty terms.”
My stomach jumps. “They’re going to let me pick the music?”
“You’ll have a voice, Shiloh. It’s unrealistic to expect they’re ever going to give up the final say.”
“Why?” I spit. “I’m the artist. I’m the one whose face is on this stuff. It should be my choice.”
“But they’re the ones financing it. They’re the ones promoting it. They’re only going to do that if they’re passionate about what you’re doing. It has to be a product they think they can sell.”
“Well, then, they’re fucking it all up. Because the songs I wanted to do would be selling ten times better than the crap they gave me.”
She closes her laptop and pushes up from the couch. “You’ll have veto power, Shiloh. If there’s a track or two that you don’t want, we can probably get them pulled. That’s more than most new artists get.”
I shake my head as her words sink in. “That’s not creative control. That’s being a…” What did Grim call me that night in Atlanta? “…a performing monkey. There has to be a label that would let me sing my own songs,” I add when I remember what Tro said.
She shakes her head gently. “You don’t want the reputation of being difficult so soon in your career. Phillip and Universal have been more than fair with this new contract. Appearing ungrateful would be a mistake.”
“I’m doing Lilah’s songs,” I say, not even caring I sound like a five-year-old having a tantrum.
“We’ll work on that.” She picks up a stack of papers from the coffee table. “I’ve set up a meeting with a lawyer to talk about pursuing guardianship, if this is still what you want.”
“What about school?” I ask cautiously. There’s some swanky private school Billie wants to register me for. I didn’t really think that part through when I agreed to this. With Lilah gone from my old school in San Francisco, there’s no real draw to go back, but I missed my junior year with The Voice, so I’ve got two more years. Going to a new school for my junior and senior year doesn’t sound like fun.
“I thought we could go over to talk to McCall Academy tomorrow. It’s in Beverly Hills, one of the top prep schools in the country.”
What’s my alternative? Go back to the group home? “Yeah. Okay.”
“Great,” she says, pulling the stack of papers in front of her together. “Maybe we can go shopping for new school clothes for you after.”
I shrug. “I don’t need much.”
She tucks the papers into a folder and stands. “You know what? Let’s not wait. Let’s go right now.”
I look down at my baggy T-shirt. “Right now?”
“Sure. Why not?”