Сара Пинскер - A Song for a New Day

Rosemary climbed onto the other set. The machine’s action was looser than she expected, moving her arms and legs out and away. “But why use a walking machine when you’re already on a walk?”

“An excellent question. I don’t have an answer.”

“Hey, Aran, do you mind if I ask you something else?”

“Absolutely. Anything about music or exercise equipment is in my realm of expertise.”

“My new job. I’m supposed to go someplace to look for musicians to sign, but I don’t know where to start.”

“I think most people start with the place they’re from. A local singer you dig, maybe? Somebody flying under their radar?”

That was what she was afraid of. “I live on a wind farm in nowhereville. There are no local singers or bands. None I know of, anyway.”

“There’s no bar with bands playing in a secret room? No living room concerts?”

“If there are, nobody has ever invited me. There’s only one bar. I’ve never been inside, but I can’t imagine they have room for a stage.”

She hopped off the machine and started walking again. When she heard his footsteps behind her, she asked, “So how did you get discovered? Living room concert?”

He laughed. “I came to them. That’s not a recommended course of action, though. Most people who show up without an invitation get booted or arrested. There are procedures.”

“How come you didn’t get booted or arrested?”

“I was really, really good.”

“And modest.”

“If I was modest, I’d still be home in Baltimore playing basement shows.”

Baltimore. She made a mental note.

“Well, Rosemary, it’s been nice chatting with you, but we’ve reached the end of the road.”

She realized the path had looped back. The SHL hangar loomed on the other side of the field.

“Thanks for keeping me company.” Rosemary gave an awkward wave. It would have gone better in hoodspace. “I suppose I need to finish my trainings.”

“And I suppose I’d better go back to the song I was working on. Hey, I don’t know if you’re allowed in the talent residences, or if they’ve got your evening booked, but I’m having a few people over at seven tonight. You’re welcome to come. Sixth cottage on the right.”

Once she’d made sure he wasn’t hitting on her, she had enjoyed talking with him. He was easier to make conversation with than the others in her training group. Maybe because they were all as nervous as she was. “The trainings say we’re not supposed to make friends with the talent we’re trying to sign, but that’s probably different once you’re already here?”

“I’m sure,” he said. “But you can check over your manual or whatever, make sure it’s not against the rules. Consider it job training. You need to learn to talk with musicians, anyway. And how to ‘be friendly without crossing the line,’ right?”

“That’s a good point.” Her second wave went a little smoother.

She didn’t know what you wore to a talent party, or to any real-life party, for that matter. He hadn’t said “party,” she didn’t think. He’d said “having some friends over.” Even though Aran had been wearing casual clothes in the woods, she pictured his friends lounging in their stage clothes. Magritte in her rain-colored dress and silver makeup, her brother in his impeccable suit. And would Aran’s gorgeous bassist be there? She’d intimidate Rosemary whatever she wore.

She pulled out a pair of jeans and a new short-sleeved shirt from the Superwally SHL Social pack she’d bought before she left, “Guaranteed Cool for Any Occasion.” The shirt had spangles. She tried it on, then stuffed it back into her bag and replaced it with a work-style polo and her farm jacket. She didn’t want to stand out. Better to look less cool than like she was trying too hard. Spangles.

The Talent Village was on the opposite side of the hangar from the woods, behind its own security gate. She gave her badge to the guard, waiting to be refused entrance, but he waved her through. Inside the fence, a neighborhood of tiny cottages on the outside ring of a giant circle, and an interior ring of larger modular dwellings with narrow porches and three or four doors on the front. An older white woman in a suit and a fedora sat on the first porch strumming a guitar. The woman waved at Rosemary when she passed, and Rosemary waved back, starstruck. She’d heard the biggest performers lived in their own private compounds and only came to SHL for shows and rehearsals, but maybe some hung out here.

Sixth cottage on the right. The first few had painted trim, but Aran’s was basic. She knocked on the door.

“Come in,” he said.

She stepped inside, then took a step back as everyone turned to look at her. In hoodspace you didn’t have to feel this exposed when you walked into a room. You spawned directly in to make a statement, or you walked in invisible and decloaked when you were ready. She wouldn’t turn heel and leave. She could do this.

Aran sat on a queen-sized bed with his back against the headboard, his legs out in front of him. Rosemary had expected his bandmates to be the friends in attendance, but she didn’t recognize the others. A black woman with short locs lay on her stomach crossways at the foot of the bed, head on elbows and Hoodie up, and a white guy with long blond hair sat on the floor, his mouth full of microwave pizza, using the box as a plate. She was glad she’d changed out of the spangled shirt. They all wore T-shirts and jeans, though Aran’s T-shirt looked soft as a lamb and fit him as perfectly as an av’s.

“Hey,” said Aran. “I didn’t think you’d come! Y’all, this is my friend Rosie. She’s a new recruiter.”

“Rosemary.” She didn’t want anyone getting ideas about nicknames.

He continued as if he’d never goofed. “Rosemary, this is Bailey. You might know her as MC Huntress. And that’s Victor. He makes pop music.”

The woman dropped her hood. Rosemary tried not to notice the once-over they gave her, or show that she’d recognized Victor Janssen. Half her classmates had crushes on him in high school.

“Hi.” She wished they’d go back to whatever they’d been doing a moment before so she could figure out her place in the room. She wanted to flip up her Hoodie to see if the cottage had a Veneer, but didn’t know if it would be rude, since nobody else was in theirs anymore. There was the bed, a little kitchen area with a sink, microwave, and minifridge, a bookshelf, a metal rod with clothes hung on it, a dresser. A door to the bed’s left, which she assumed led to the bathroom. An acoustic guitar hung on one wall, and a keyboard rested on a stand beneath it with a paper notebook on its bench. Behind the front door, she spotted an empty chair with a jacket hung over the back and picked that as a reasonable place to situate herself.

“You don’t have to sit in the coat closet,” Aran said.

Rosemary jumped. She looked for another spot, but the keyboard bench was taken by the notebook, the bed was too awkward, and the rug too close to Victor. She sat down. “I’m fine here, thanks.”

Aran shrugged. “Did you figure out where to go on your first trip? Rosemary is supposed to figure out for herself where to find musicians to sign, but she doesn’t know where to start.”

Bailey cocked her head. “But that’s savage! You can go anywhere. Is there any city you’ve ever wanted to see? A scene you want to check out?”

“What’s a scene?” Rosemary felt the color rising in her face again. The more she considered her situation, the more she felt in over her head. There was a whole vocabulary she didn’t know.

“It’s hard to know what a scene is unless you’re in it, Bail. I know it’s easy to forget when you’ve been here a hundred years. Rosemary’s starting from scratch.” Aran turned to Rosemary. “A scene is the bands and audience and venues of an area, all combined into a stew. Musicians inspiring each other, working with each other. Sometimes there’s a similar sound or feel that gets associated with the place.”