Metaworld HopeCore

Their exam results came back on Tuesday, which came as a surprise to Eppie, because she had completely forgotten they existed. Mr Alvarez called her name across the room with the brightness of a teacher who'd been waiting all week to say it, and told her she'd aced the test. The rest of the class cared less than Eppie did; they had long been inoculated against her overachievements.

At lunch, Susan Carr called the kids to her office and gave them a rundown of where to hand out flyers, when they should do it, and what to do if there were hecklers. She made them memorise the closest police precincts. Not that Third Street Promenade in Santa Monica was unsafe—Carr was merely being cautious, given that Valorie was a Senator’s daughter, and that someone might be ill-intentioned enough to do something untoward.

That said, Cranshaw and Malcolm were eighteen, and Valorie—Eppie was sure Val was seventeen during Christmas, and was old enough.It was Eppie and Chelsea who raised red flags. Yet, students giving out flyers for student theatre was about as everyday as apple pie.

Whatever the case, their operations director left them numbers to call, procedures to follow, permits to display, and a trolley to stow sunscreen, water, snacks, and the flyers.

She listed the best days to disseminate the news: Fridays and Saturdays, the 18th, 19th, then the 25th and 26th of April. Two weeks were optimal for a non-profit like LAPAGANZA. When Eppie asked about the optimal leads for a mid-size for-profit theatre, Carr gave Eppie the look you’d give a sweet summer child.

“The reality is that you bust your ass out there every evening handing out flyers until every seat is filled, else your company won’t last the year…”

Eppie was sure the poor woman was speaking from experience, for in her eyes, she saw the thousand-yard stare associated with unspeakable trauma.

After Carr, the week started to blur in that specific, deliberate way time dilates when there were three separate jobs stacked on top of a normal school day. Sophomore schedule sheets, Senior costume racks, rigging crew that needed a fourth pair of hands more often than not, one thing after another.

Somewhere in the noise, Eppie remembered the two songs she still owed Curon, unrecorded, unfinished, hanging over her like a bill she kept meaning to pay.

So she called.

Her dad didn't pick up.

Her faux-father texted back forty minutes later, apologetic and distracted—Doves Cry had cracked number one on iTunes. It broke through the top 5 on the Hot 100 and still had room to climb thanks to Kellie’s existing Umbrella momentum. Together with Sony’s parallel projects, Mueller was booked to the hilt and begging for sweet release.

Eppie asked if she should just record with her iPhone.

Soon, mon coeur. Curon texted back, and somehow, Eppie could hear the horrible American accent in French. Davis won’t allow that. Be patient. You will have two number ones in six months. What is this unfathomable greed?

LIFE. Eppie wanted to text back. I want the fruit of my karmic harvest.