Stay Steezy

The mic is already in my hand when my phone starts vibrating like it has a heartbeat.

Blue light leaks under the back-room door, turning the floorboards ocean-dark. Out front, the crowd chants somebody else’s name in that half-joking way that still stings. I roll my shoulders and keep my face loose. Steezy doesn’t look nervous.

Yara’s laptop sits open on a folding table. Waveforms march across the screen. Her over-ear headphones rest around her neck, and her fingers keep spinning that cracked red vinyl sticker stuck to the lid. She won’t look at me.

“Your intro is ready,” she says, flat.

Darnell pushes into the room, crossbody bag tight to his chest, venue schedule folded in his fist. Times are circled in neon. “Two minutes,” he says. Not angry. Worse. Certain. “And I just saw him.”

“Who?” My voice comes out casual. That’s the problem.

“The A&R. The one from Harborline.” Darnell’s eyes flick to my chain, like he knows I’m about to tap the tag and pretend I’m fine. “If you give them a clean set, you don’t have to keep playing for drink tickets.”

My phone buzzes again. On the lock screen: MOM. Second call.

My stomach drops, fast. Mom only calls twice when something’s wrong. But the moment I step out, my slot can disappear. This place runs on a rule nobody argues with: if you’re not ready when your name gets called, the next kid is.

I glance at Yara. Her jaw is tight. She’s been tight all week, since I posted a clip and tagged only myself. I told her it was “just how it looks online.” The truth is, I liked the way it looked.

Darnell holds out his hand. “Thumb drive. I’ll take it to the sound guy. You walk out like you own it.”

The phone keeps buzzing in my palm. Yara finally meets my eyes, and I can’t tell if she wants me to stay, or if she’s daring me to leave.