I gaze at the pleading version of Ginny as I plop down on my bed. She’s offered to do my laundry for a month and bring me caramel lattes every day for life if I’ll help her out. Apparently the lead singer in Second Sound, the band she joined a couple months ago, just ran off with her boyfriend for LA, and they have a paying gig in two days. She wants me to sing until they find someone new. My boot thuds on the floor when I yank it off and drop it. “God, Ginny. I suck.” “You so do not suck.” She sits cross-legged on the floor in front of me. “You have that sexy jazz sound, and you know it.” Okay, I do know that I have a unique voice, but being the lead in a rock band has never been my dream. I abhor all that goes with the lifestyle, like tattoos, drugs, and the thrift-store-chic attire. “I’m not wearing spandex or sequins.” “Got it.” She has a puppy-dog look that makes me sigh, and I say, “Please tell me you have good back-up vocals.”
