First Week

Early the next morning, Connie sped down the road to school in her Ford pickup truck.

Emily sat in the passenger seat, Song Ya lay in the back catching up on sleep, and as for Tony, he hadn't set foot in school since quitting the football team.

On the radio, Big A, a famous Chicago DJ, was dishing on the infighting within the gangsta rap group N.W.A with the host. It was the morning rush hour, and the radio show had high ratings.

"So, Big A, which side are you on? Eazy-E or Ice Cube?" the host asked.

"I'm definitely standing with Eazy-E," Big A declared firmly.

The host pressed, "What's the reason?"

"Because I'm Big A, and he's Big E, hahahaha..." Big A threw out a lame joke and then laughed hysterically, clearly amused by himself.

"Uh..." The host couldn't follow up, and the conversation stalled.

"Alright, alright, no more jokes. It's simple, what can I say about a guy like Cube?" Big A suddenly turned serious. "According to reliable leaks, his parents both work at UCLA. A kid who grew up with a silver spoon in his mouth puts on a bandana and dares to represent 'street toughs' while rapping gangsta rap—don't you think that's ironic? It's like... like margarine isn't real butter. Simply put, he's a fake."

"But according to the leaks, it seems there's solid proof that Big E embezzled Cube's money," the host wisely took the opposing stance. "Cube wrote half the lyrics for the hit album, but only got a small fraction of the profits..."

"What could a kid from a middle-class family turn against his friends for? Money, obviously."

Big A sounded dismissive. "Cube is a typical commercial rapper. His goal is just to make money. His departure is a good thing for N.W.A. The ones left behind are the real brothers, pure gangsta music, daring to shout at the cops..."

"Alright, let's leave the N.W.A gossip for now, let's go to a commercial break." The host quickly interrupted Big A's rambling. That song where N.W.A cursed out the police was a taboo on many radio stations, and he didn't want to lose his job.

In the radio studio.

"You scared the hell out of me. Take it easy later, or I won't give you any more gigs," the host warned Big A during the commercial break.

"My bad."

Big A backed down; he was only there to record the show for a paycheck. "What's the next segment?"

"Promoting Little Lowry's new album."

The host took out a cassette case and handed it to Big A. "Say some good things later, you know the drill," he tapped the case.

"I haven't even heard of who Little Lowry is."

Big A took the cassette case and found the Joe Music logo on the cover, then remembered. "Old Joe is still pushing this sissy?" He opened the case, took out a small stack of dollars, counted them, and stuffed them into his pants pocket. "He's really willing to spend big. What number did he give you?"

"Commercial break ending, countdown, 10, 9..." the radio staff's prompt came through the headset.

"Same as you." The host was worried and reminded him again, "Don't talk nonsense."

"Don't worry." Big A patted his pocket. "I'm a pro at taking money to do a job."

"Alright, welcome back. Next up is a new song from Lowry II, Thrift Shop!" The host began his professional hype. "We pushed a track from this newcomer Lowry not long ago. The Chicago music critics gave it high marks, unanimously agreeing that he has a very bright future. His first self-titled album will soon be hitting major music stores. Listeners who want to pick it up should keep an eye out..."

The rhythmic drum beats and saxophone kicked in, and the host shut his mouth at the right time.

The three-minute-plus song ended quickly.

"Big A, give us your thoughts." The host kicked the stunned Big A. "How would you rate this song?"

"I fucking love it!"

Big A started getting hyped again.

The timing was perfect; they arrived at school, and Connie parked the car. "Will you become a big shot?" she asked, turning back to look at Song Ya.

"Why would you ask that?" Song Ya had just woken up.

"The radio station gave your song a very high rating," Connie replied.

"That's not my song, that's Little Lowry's song," Song Ya corrected Connie. "I reminded you guys, at school, don't associate me with this song at all. I just want a quiet learning environment. Besides, don't believe a word the radio DJs say; they're all just doing it for the money."

"But..." Connie tilted her head and thought, feeling it was quite a pity. "My poor brother, if you could let those girls know you wrote the song for Little Lowry, believe me, you could stop being single immediately."

"What's so pitiful about being single? I'm only fifteen, the prime time to focus on my studies..."

Song Ya slung his backpack over his shoulder and strode into class.

This high school had its good points, like how no one cared if you skipped for ten days or half a month. The teachers just went on with their lessons, and there weren't any classmates pretending to care if something happened at home. Song Ya continued to be a wallflower, putting his energy back into his studies.

He caught up on math, crammed English and public speaking, and then in the orchestra rehearsal class, he successfully reclaimed his spot as the lead trumpeter after a trumpet solo. Having participated in high-intensity recording sessions recently, plus the fact that the professional musicians Old Joe brought in to record Thrift Shop were all top-tier, he was exposed to their influence every day. The original musical sense of this body had finally recovered.

The only thing left was the difficult subject of physical education, and Song Ya also began to consciously strengthen his physical training.

Lost in his studies, time flew by, and a week passed quietly in the world...

On the weekend, Tony, who had been running around Illinois promoting with Little Lowry, came home for the first time.

"Sales are good. Five thousand copies in the first week, stores are already urging us to restock. We're printing ten thousand more cassettes, and Old Joe has started contacting CD factories." Tony was very excited. Judging by the feedback after a week of "employment," he was living quite well, dressed in a black suit and sunglasses. "Yesterday we performed at an underground nightclub across from Joe Music. The girls were crazy. If it weren't for me and Silencer..." He spread his arms, mimicking the signature interception move of a celebrity bodyguard. "Little Lowry almost wouldn't have made it out."

"Cough, cough." Song Ya nudged his chin toward Al, who was cooking, reminding Tony to be mindful of others' feelings.

Al had been mooching off their family until now and hadn't gone back to work at the restaurant. If it weren't for his decent cooking skills, Aunt Susie would have wanted to kick him out.

"What do you say? Al, come back with me. Next, we're going to run promotions outside of Illinois, and we're short on hands." Tony had come with a mission. "Pablo asked me to tell you, he's still your manager and will take care of you."

"He's afraid I'll talk nonsense and ruin Little Lowry's bright future, right?"

Al tossed the pan with a loud clatter and replied unhappily, "All of this was supposed to have a share for me."

"Don't you still have a share now?" Tony wasn't happy. "You have to face reality."

"The reality is that I was kicked out like a dog."

"Uh... Al." Song Ya decided he had to talk this guy into leaving no matter what; playing games until late every night was too distressing and was affecting his study habits. "Stop being stupid. You have to realize that a small-time singer actually gets a very small share from record sales. The bulk of the money comes from future performance fees, concert revenue, and appearance fees and the like. As long as you go back, and as long as your voice is still on Little Lowry's album, they won't be able to do without you when it comes time to perform on stage. You'll have a share of all that income. It's too much of a pity to just give it up like that."

"It was supposed to be a big share." Al was still hung up on that.

"What the hell is the point of saying that now?" Tony couldn't help but curse.

"Even a small share is still a lot of money." Song Ya urged.

Al stopped talking, dropped the frying pan, went upstairs, and shut his bedroom door.

"This guy! He really thinks this place is his own home, doesn't he!" Tony sighed helplessly.

In the end, Al didn't go back with Tony.

In the middle of the night, Song Ya, deep in his sleep, faintly heard someone crying. He climbed up and poked his head out to look at the bottom bunk. Al was hugging his quilt. "I can't take it, I can't take it..." His tears were streaming down uncontrollably. "I'm an NGer who grew up on the South Side. I can't stand these guys who are full of business talk and lies. Just thinking about going back and pretending like nothing happened to get along with them again, I just can't take it... I'm afraid that one day, in a moment of impulse, I'll grab a gun and blast them all away..."