The Blessed - By Tonya Hurley Page 0,50
parents’ basement or in front of your bedroom mirror. The minute you put your music out there, charge for a download or a ticket at some old-man bar, you are in the music business. You are asking people to make a purchasing decision, to choose.”
“And what are you selling?” Cecilia asked.
“A fantasy.” Lucy said. “Me.”
“You’d rather be a fantasy?” Agnes asked.
“It’s all about the numbers, about outreach. There is only one of me,” Lucy said, “but everybody has a fantasy.”
“Well, before you hit send, it might be a good idea to think about what you are putting out there first,” Cecilia said.
“Womp. Resentful much?” Lucy scoffed. “Maybe I’d feel the same if I was playing those toilet bowls you headline.”
“I’m trying to reach people,” CeCe said. “Not rape people or whore myself out to the highest bidder.”
“Whoring? You must have us confused.”
“Not really. I guess I just prefer to bare my soul than sell it.”
“Well, I say go big, or don’t go. Anything else is a bust.”
“She reached me,” Agnes said quietly. “She played how I’ve always felt inside.”
Sebastian watched the argument go down and listened carefully to each girl make her case. What they were saying and what they meant to say.
“You need both,” Sebastian said, ending the quarrel by splitting the difference and their differences. “A message and a messenger.”
3 The upper-right corners of the hospital files were dog-eared and yellowed from use, the faintest outline of a fingerprint—Dr. Frey’s—beginning to appear there. Pinching the edges, he had been intently alternating between one page and then the other, searching for some sort of connection, some common thread, a person, place, or thing, in their backgrounds. It was far too coincidental for this girl, he thought, to just up and disappear so soon after Sebastian.
Sebastian. Agnes. Sebastian. Agnes. Sebastian. Agnes.
A quick review and comparison of their report cards and teacher’s evaluations didn’t reveal anything extraordinary that might attract them; all things considered, they were total opposites. Both young, both smart. And hardheaded. He had firsthand knowledge of that. Similarities ended there, however. Where she was dedicated, hardworking, ambitious, fastidious, he was indifferent, rebellious, self-assured, and disconnected from the world around him, and becoming increasingly so. Manic behavior had become the norm, along with the delusions and ego inflation often associated with it. If anything, Agnes’s self-esteem could use some pumping up.
As he scanned the emergency room admissions, a more important connection suggested itself. Two other teenage girls, about the same age, admitted about the same time.
13 Cecilia Trent. Age: 18. Height: 5' 9”. Weight: 115 lbs. Hair: Br. Eyes: Gr.
No insurance, no personal physician, no next of kin, no phone number. Williamsburg address. Arrived unconscious. Possible drowning. Resuscitated on scene and transported by EMT.
Diagnosis: Acute Intoxication.
He found it peculiar as he perused her blood work results, that he had so much information about this person and yet almost none at all. He had just literally seen inside her without ever laying eyes on her. “Technology.”
Treatment: Fluids, bed rest.
Discharged: November 1.
“November 1.”
Unlike the ER docs who’d treated her, he was interested in her mind as much as her body. Putting together a profile from an incomplete bunch of disparate facts was not just a skill he’d developed with years of experience, it was his job. And he was very good at his job. He googled her and quickly found Web links to online flyers for her gigs at local bars and clubs around Brooklyn, Queens, and the Lower East Side. Dives, he figured, given the lack of info on the spaces. The cell-phone video clips he streamed from her performances were choppy and dark, not just thematically, but literally dark. She was like an antenna broadcasting her rage out into the ether, a No Wave warrior—not just ready for a fight but looking for one.
Searching for upcoming live dates posted on her fan pages, he noticed that last night’s show, which she cut short, was already a subject of controversy. He scrolled down to the comments and read through a string of vicious complaints and put-downs:
Rat In A Cage says:
No show ho! I’m so tired of these arrogant up-and-comers shitting all over their fans. We won’t get fooled again, Bitch! I have comps for next week. Who’s comin’ wit?
H8ter88 says:
I hope she dies a slow, painful death for punking out mid-show on her fans. Probably had an early date with one of those fat ass promoters she’s always sleeping with for Jack money. Just kidding. Love her soooooo much!
FandemoniumGrrl says:
Who