Free The Lonely Hearts Club by Brenda Janowitz

it?”
    “You don’t want me to perform it?” I say. “You want to buy it from me so that someone else can perform it?” I feel my face begin to burn.
    “I want to introduce you to someone,” he says as I get up from my bar stool.
    “No, thank you,” I say. “I’ve actually got somewhere to be.”
    I get a head rush as I walk to the back of the bar and process what Alan Golden has just said to me. He sat through my entire set, watched me perform, and he doesn’t want to sign me. What he does want is to buy my lyrics for some no-talent artist who can’t write so that she can become famous and get a record deal. My record deal. Maybe the A&R rep from Pinnacle was right two years ago—I’m nothing without my band. They wouldn’t take our band without Billy, and now no manager is going to take me on my own.
    When I get backstage, Chloe is still there, making out with America guy against a wall.
    “Come on, we’re leaving,” I say to Chloe, prying her away from her prey.
    “What happened?” she says, her eyes only half open, giving her guy the “one-minute” finger as she lets me pull her away.
    “I don’t want to talk about it,” I say, and look over my shoulder. Alan is making his way backstage and has a tall blonde following in his wake, who is also wearing a baseball cap low on her head so that I can’t see her eyes. I’m sure that this is the no-talent artist who can’t write her own songs who he wanted me to meet, but I’m not interested.
    “That’s Alan Golden,” Mr. America says. “He’s a music manager.”
    “Jo, let’s try to meet him!” Chloe says, grabbing my arm.
    “I already did,” I say, and America guy takes this as his cue to rush over to Alan to introduce himself. “Can we go?”
    Alan hands America guy a business card and walks over to Chloe and me.
    “Jo,” he says, “this is the client of mine who I wanted you to meet. Well, she’s my wife, too. She’s my client and my wife. May I introduce you to the lovely Miss Amber Fairchild.”
    Yes, that Amber Fairchild.
    She takes her baseball cap off and a cascade of huge blonde curls fall onto her shoulders. I want to tell her that the pageantry is not necessary, that I’m not a fan, but she is already grabbing for my hand before I get a chance.
    “It’s so nice to meet you,” she says in her thick Midwestern farmer’s daughter accent as she takes my hand and shakes it vigorously. She obviously doesn’t remember me from American Star . But I remember her. Whenever I see her on MTV, her accent always seems thicker than I remember it being, and I’m sure that it’s entirely put on for the cameras. But, here, now, meeting her in person, I see that it’s not. This is honestly how she speaks.
    “We’ve met before,” I say. “ American Star ?”
    “Good to see you again,” Amber says, not skipping a beat. I can’t tell whether or not she actually remembers me.
    “Do you remember who I am?” I try to ask, but she’s already on to the next thing.
    “I love your shirt!” she says at practically the same time. I’m wearing a vintage Ramones T-shirt, one that my father bought my mother when they first began dating. That she notices it makes me start to warm to her.
    “It was my mother’s from the eighties,” I say.
    “Oh my God, no way!” she says. “I totally got the same one at Urban Outfitters today!”
    “I’m out of here,” I say, grabbing Chloe’s arm and turning around.
    “Don’t you even want to discuss this?” Alan says. “We’re talking about a lot of money here.”
    “No, Alan, I think we’re done here,” I say, still headed for the door.
    “What is he talking about, Jo?” Chloe asks.
    “Nothing,” I say as I grab my guitar case. I don’t even bother to put my guitar into it as I continue walking toward the door.
    “A licensing deal, Jo. Royalties,” he says, my back facing him.
    “Don’t you even want to know how much?” Chloe whispers to me, stopping in her tracks, and in