Chapter 2

He sighed and let his head fall back on the wall behind him. What was he even doing there? He wasn’t in these people’s league, and not just with the cool-factor part of things. He wasn’t even up to par in the education or experience line. He didn’t have a single hour in on co-op, was hardly done his college program, and had serious doubts in his ability to obtain a high enough grade to keep him there next semester. A job was the only thing that was going to keep him in the city, on his own.

August had spent the last year learning the value of a buck, and this position promised to offer a decent one. Not that it would take much to outshine the nine bucks an hour he got at the record store, even if he did ask for full-time hours. Which he hadn’t. He was pretty sure they wouldn’t be able to give him the hours anyway, so there wasn’t much point. But there was no way he was asking his parents for money to stay in the city if he had to leave school. They probably wouldn’t deny him, but to him it was a mortification of unfathomable proportions—an admission that he couldn’t make it on his own, and more than just a suggestion that getting into the music industry was as much of a joke as they’d told him it would be. After all, if one couldn’t make it through college while pursuing the dream that had to be a darn good indication of how hard it would be to find a job once one was done. If his father didn’t come right out and say it, his father would be thinking it. And every time August had to look at him, August would be able to read it off his face.

He’d been intrigued but not surprised when he’d seen the posting on the billboard at the campus. A lot of companies posted their part-time and low-man-on-the-totem jobs at the school. The students were perfect servants. They would work like dogs trying to make a good impression, they weren’t good enough to expect a lot in return, and they were all about “making contacts” as opposed to making money. So, they got the jobs nobody else wanted and they were paid like sweatshop workers.

The posting had seemed a little different than the rest though. A bit more put together, a touch more promising. A realjob:

Wanted—Personal Assistant

P.A. needed to provide trustworthy, efficient assistance for serious musical professional. Must be flexible with hours, willing to travel, and have the ability to assume a variety of responsibilities. Make some contacts, learn the ropes, and share a valuable experience working right in the heart of the industry.

It’d been simple, to the point, and the number had been local. He’d stolen the card right off the board, which was a huge protocol no-no. The school even provided wee pencils and scrap paper for that very reason. But August did it anyway, keeping his fist gripped around the paper the whole time he’d had it tucked in his pocket. And all the way back to his apartment he’d read it over and over again, until it began to ring through his head like spoken word art set to the beat of the bus’s tires.

The woman August had spoken to on the phone had been polite, well-spoken, and with his eyes closed, mentally repeating and processing the instructions so as not to forget a single one, he’d almost missed her change in tone and lowered voice: “Just follow the signs when you get here. You can do that, right, August?”

He hadn’t answered, hadn’t really been sure what the woman was even asking. He’d just thanked her for her time and let her know how excited he was for the opportunity. And when he’d shown up at the tall, shiny, well-landscaped building, he’d done exactly what she’d told him and followed the signs. But not before he’d spent several minutes gazing through plate glass windows at the chromed and polished reception area. And he didn’t hurry or focus as much as he should have while he ran his fingers along the cool, marbled surfaces of counters and walkways, scuffing at the plush carpeting with his soles, and sending longing gazes at the shiny desks and album-bedecked walls. He was nervous but hoping. Hoping and wishing. Wishing and praying. All but bubbling over with hope. And in the last hour every bit of effervescence had fizzled out, like an open beer forgotten on a side table.

There were a dozen other things he should have been wishing and praying about. A real job—one that he actually had a chance of landing would be a good start; the idea that he’d actually finish his paper on time, and ace it, even though acing it would still not give him enough of a boost to pull his grade up to passing. Maybe what he should have been wishing for was a clever way to tell his parents he’d be coming back in December instead of May.