Free Joplin's Ghost by Tananarive Due Page B

back, so Phoenix waited for her father alone. She pulled one of the plastic chairs up to the piano and tested the keys. Surprisingly, it was nearly in tune. She slid her foot to the sustaining pedal and ran her fingers through a hurried version of the largo from Dvorák’s From the New World Symphony, which had been a recital piece her freshman year in high school. Playing felt good, a chance for her fingers to dance. She hadn’t brought her red Roland AX-1 or Moog Liberation shoulder keyboards for this tour, the first time ever. But there was no substitute for a piano.
    Phoenix didn’t realize Sarge was behind her until she heard his chuckle. “Haven’t heard that in a while,” he said. “Your mama would be glad to know you can still play it.”
    “By heart,” she said, concluding with the stately D-flat chord.
    She played better than she sang, Phoenix realized, and the thought made her spirits wane. In high school, she had told Mom she would attend one of the arts colleges that had been cramming her mailbox with solicitations by the time she was a sophomore, Juilliard included. But when Phoenix was sixteen, she decided she wanted to be a star like Janet Jackson, and Juilliard didn’t have classes on that.
    The band Phoenix started in high school, Phoenix & the New Fire, hadn’t worked out, even with Sarge’s contacts and enough momentum to get bookings and a small record deal. Their two CDs got great reviews ( when they were reviewed), but they never found an audience in R&B, pop, alternative or anywhere else. Maybe she could have stuck it out like Lenny Kravitz, waiting for the audience to find her, but there were plenty of bands whose music was never heard, and never was a long time. Sarge had known multiplatinum rapper G-Ronn since his first tours, so when Ronn said he was looking for an R&B singer, Sarge suggested her. Just like that. Now, Phoenix was flying solo. And it’s a long way down by myself, she thought.
    Sarge looked at her closely. “What time did you get to sleep last night?”
    “Late,” Phoenix said, guiltily. Her hair still smelled like strawberry bubble bath, and the scent irritated her now. She’d been in such a hurry to get to rehearsal that she’d barely said a word to that boy as she walked him to the door, much less offered him a number. She wished she could erase last night.
    “You know better,” Sarge said, as if he knew everything. “Your voice sounds worn-out. Where’s Gloria?”
    “Probably at the hotel ordering room service and watching pay-per-view.”
    “Tell her to stop wasting up our money, hear? Ronn isn’t paying our tab, and nobody here is rich. Your advance has to last.”
    A hundred thousand dollars had sounded like a fortune a year ago, but no more. Phoenix had banked a chunk of her first major advance so she couldn’t touch it, but she hated to think about how much of the rest she had already spent. “I’ve told her,” Phoenix said.
    “You should have left her home, Phee.”
    “Don’t start, Sarge.” Her cousin could be a pain in the ass, no doubt, but without Gloria, the road would be a cruel companion, beyond lonely. Sarge had agreed to Gloria’s presence on the tour, and Phoenix had agreed to give D’Real and Ronn the creative direction of Rising . Most days, it hardly seemed like a fair trade.
    Phoenix heard the Egyptian string tracks from “Party Patrol” squall through the open doorway as Olympia queued up the CD. Although she’d heard it two hundred times, Phoenix still felt a charge when her multitrack violin solo came on the club’s speakers. Kendrick was right about this song: It was a hit-in-waiting. It didn’t all belong to her, but a piece was enough.
    “The show doesn’t feel right yet, Sarge,” Phoenix said. She almost called him Daddy, craving comfort, but he preferred Sarge when they were working.
    “It isn’t right. But you’ll get there. Give it a couple more hours, and come back strong in the morning. We have time to