Week One

The next morning, Connie drove her Ford pickup at full speed on the way to school.

Emily sat in the passenger seat, while Song Ya sprawled across the back seat, catching up on sleep. As for Tony, he hadn't been back to school since leaving the football team.

On the radio, Chicago's well-known DJ "Big A" was chatting with the host about the rift in gangsta rap group N.W.A. It was morning rush hour, and the show had a large audience.

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

"Of course I'm on Eazy-E's side," Big A declared firmly.

The host pressed him. "Why?"

"Because I'm Big A, and he's Big E! Hahahaha..." Big A cracked a truly awful joke, then laughed uproariously at his own wit.

"Uh..." The host had no idea how to respond. The conversation stalled.

"Okay, okay, no more jokes. It's simple. What can I say about someone like Cube?" Big A suddenly turned serious. "According to indisputable reports, his parents both work at UCLA. A kid who grew up well-off puts on a bandanna and thinks he can represent 'street hustlers' by rapping gangsta music. Don't you find that ironic? It's like... like margarine isn't really butter. Put simply, he's a fake."

"But according to the reports, there's also solid evidence that Big E pocketed some of Cube's money," the host said, tactfully taking the opposing side. "Cube wrote half the lyrics on their hit album, but received only a tiny share of the profits..."

"What could make a kid from a middle-class family fall out with them? Money, obviously."

Big A scoffed. "Cube's a typical commercial artist. All he cares about is making money. His departure is good for N.W.A. The ones left are the real brothers, making genuine gangsta music, the kind that dares to shout 'Fuck the police'..."

"Okay, that's enough N.W.A. gossip for now. Let's take a commercial break." The host hurriedly cut off Big A's rant. N.W.A.'s song cursing out the police was taboo on a lot of radio shows, and he didn't want to lose his job.

At the radio station.

"You scared me half to death. Take it easy next time, or I won't book you again," the host warned Big A during the commercial break.

"My bad."

Big A admitted defeat. He was there to earn a living, too. "What's next?"

"Promoting Little Lowry's new album."

The host took out a cassette case and handed it to Big A. "Say lots of nice things this time. You know how it is." He tapped the case.

"I've never even heard of Little Lowry."

Big A took the cassette case and spotted the Joe Music logo on the cover. Then he remembered. "Old Joe's still pushing that sissy?" He opened the case, pulled out a small wad of bills, counted them, and stuffed them into his pants pocket. "He's really willing to shell out. How much did he give you?"

"Ten, nine..." The radio staff's countdown to the end of the commercial break came through their headphones.

"The same as you." The host reminded him again, still worried. "Don't say anything stupid."

"Relax." Big A patted his pocket. "I know how to do what I'm paid for."

"Welcome back. Up next is a new song from Lowry II, 'Thrift Shop'!" The host launched into a professional spiel. "We played a song by this new artist, Lowry, not long ago. Chicago's music critics gave it high praise, unanimously predicting a bright future for him. His self-titled debut album will soon be available at record stores, so keep an eye out if you'd like to pick up a copy..."

The crisp beat and saxophone kicked in, and the host fell silent at just the right moment.

The song, a little over three minutes long, soon ended.

"Big A, give us your thoughts." The host nudged Big A, who sat frozen in a daze. "What do you think of the song?"

"I fucking love it!"

Big A was hyped up again.

They arrived at school right on time. Connie parked and turned to Song Ya. "Do you think you're going to become a big star?"

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

"They had a lot of praise for your song on the radio," Connie replied.

"That wasn't my song. It was Little Lowry's." Song Ya corrected her. "I've reminded you guys: at school, don't connect me to that song in any way. I just want a quiet place to study. Besides, don't believe a word radio DJs say. They're paid to say whatever they're told."

"But..." Connie tilted her head, thinking it over. She felt sorry for him. "My poor little brother. If those girls knew you wrote a song for Little Lowry, believe me, you'd be able to say goodbye to being single right away."

"What's so pitiful about being single? I'm only fifteen. This is the perfect time to focus on school..."

Song Ya slung on his backpack and strode into the classroom.

This high school did have its good points. For example, nobody cared if you skipped ten days or half a month. The teachers just carried on with their lessons, and there were no classmates putting on a show of asking if something had happened at home. Song Ya stayed under the radar and focused on his studies again.

He raced to catch up in math and worked hard on his English and public speaking. Then, during orchestra rehearsal, he played a trumpet passage well enough to reclaim his place as the orchestra's first-chair trumpeter. He'd spent the recent period working intensively on recordings, and Old Joe had brought in a bunch of accomplished musicians to record Thrift Shop. After listening and learning from them every day, the musical sense this body once had had finally almost fully returned.

There was only one remaining headache: gym class. Song Ya also began making a conscious effort to get in better shape.

He was so absorbed in his studies that he lost track of time. Before he knew it, a week had quietly gone by...

That weekend, Tony returned home for the first time since he'd started traveling all over Illinois with Little Lowry to promote the album.

"Sales are good. Five thousand copies in the first week. The stores are already asking for more stock. They've ordered another ten thousand cassettes, and Old Joe's started contacting CD plants." Tony was excited. Judging by how things had gone since he'd started working a week ago, he was doing pretty well. Dressed in a black suit and sunglasses, he continued, "Yesterday we performed at the underground club across from Joe Music. The girls went wild. If Silencer and I hadn't..." He spread his arms in the signature move of a celebrity bodyguard, blocking off the crowd. "Little Lowry might not have made it out."

"Cough, cough." Song Ya nodded toward Al, who was cooking, reminding Tony to be considerate of his feelings.

Al had been mooching off them for ages and still hadn't gone back to work at the restaurant. If he hadn't been any good at cooking, Aunt Susie would have wanted to kick him out by now.

"So, Al, what do you say? Come back with me. We're heading out of Illinois to promote the album next, and we're short-handed." Tony had come with a mission. "Pablo told me to pass along that he's still your manager and will look after you."

"Is he afraid I'll run my mouth and ruin Little Lowry's bright future?"

Al flipped the pan with a clatter and replied irritably, "I should've had a share of all this from the start."

"You still have a share, don't you?" Tony said, exasperated. "You need to face reality."

"The reality is, they kicked me out like a dog."

"Uh... Al." Song Ya decided he had to find a way to persuade the guy to leave. He stayed up playing games until late every night, and it was starting to interfere with his studies. "Stop being stupid. You have to understand that singers usually get a pretty small cut of record sales. The big money comes later—from performance fees, concert revenue, and things like that. If you go back, and your voice is still on Little Lowry's album, they can't leave you out when he performs onstage. You'll get a share of that money. It'd be a shame to give all that up."

"It should've been a big share," Al said, still hung up on that.

"What good does it do to say that now?" Tony couldn't help swearing.

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

Al said nothing. He set down the frying pan, went upstairs, and shut his bedroom door.

"That guy! He really thinks this is his home, doesn't he?" Tony said helplessly.

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

That night, Song Ya vaguely heard someone crying in his sleep. He sat up and looked over the side of the bunk below. Al clutched his blanket. "I can't take it. I can't take it..." Tears streamed down his face. "I'm an NGer who grew up on the South Side. I can't stand those guys, always talking business and telling lies. Just thinking about going back and pretending everything's fine around them—I can't take it... I'm afraid I'll snap one day and shoot them all..."