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BECA MITCHELL IS ON DECK
by Max Greenfield
Beca Mitchell, producer of just-barely-notable-but-growing-in-notoriety songs like “Lightning Street” by Albion Avalon and “Esorcus” by Palindromes, is a bit of a mystery player. When you Google her name, you’ll see her production credits on Snoop Dogg’s Christmas CD, and a few other major artists from her time with Residual Heat. You’ll see a few grainy clips of her DJing at some of the hottest L.A. clubs, showing off a flare for that perfect fade from one song to another over a thumping and heavy bass. You’ll even find a few of those mixes perfected into glorious mash-ups that hipsters the world over crave.
She’s a jack-of-all-trades type with musical interests that seem to roam over much of the landscape. She counts Jesse Swanson, a film composer; Benji Applebaum, a Broadway actor; Cynthia-Rose Adams, owner of the wildly popular Aquatic, 52 Stack, and Jabberjaw, two clubs and one concert hall, respectively; and Emily Junk, a singer-songwriter with considerable buzz of her own as her closest friends.
In fact, Swanson and Junk have shown up with Mitchell on the occasion of our interview, claiming that Mitchell had owed them a lunch. Mitchell isn’t known for being especially effusive with the press or much anyone; Alan Dearborn and Jenny Bierdock, of the band Fjords, have claimed that Mitchell is, “a genius, but a bit of an oddball.”
As is customary for most of my interviews, the first question I ask is, “What song is your favorite right now?” Before Mitchell can even open her mouth to answer, however, Swanson and Junk are crowding her and shouting, “I’m on parade!”
It’s true that Mitchell has, for the month of June, been the DJ in residence for every Friday night at Aquatiq, which finds its home in the heart of West Hollywood, and that “Parade” is usually a piece of the biggest song of the night. But, for someone who spends time producing indie electronic music, the monster pop song of the summer seems an odd choice.
“Hey, it’s a good song,” she says, not bothering to defend herself. “I think the production level on that album is insane.”
Calvin Harris, Max Martin, and Taylor Swift, who share much of the production credits on the album in question – Cotillion, by Chloe Beale, if you were living under a rock – are all major artists and producers. When asked if those are the kind of footsteps Mitchell wants to follow in, she hedges.
“I kind of want to find my own place,” she says. She already has, in some ways. The myriad of productions you’ll find her name on and the friends she carries with her speak to the unique-ness of Mitchell and her work.
One thing is for certain: as unpredictable as Mitchell might be, we should keep paying attention. FADER.
-
SHE DIDN’T START THE FIRE
by Trevor Callum, photos by Serena Quentin
The Billboard Hot 100 chart’s record for most number-one singles from one album to appear is five, shared by Katy Perry and Michael Jackson. The song playing on the radio as Chloe Beale and I sit down for our interview in Chicago, just before she blows the doors off the at-capacity United Center, is Beale’s fourth from her second album, Cotillion.
The song is the oft-predictable slow song of the singles – the one the studio releases just to prove they’ve got a hitmaker who can access deeper feelings beyond bubblegum. Its name is “Clay,” but it isn’t about a boy named as such. It’s about, maybe amusingly, being sculpted out of the infamous substitute for dirt that spreads out across the southeastern states of the Carolinas and Georgia.
It’s a sad song, about feeling parts of yourself get chipped away. Chipped away by what, or who, is up to the discretion of the listener, as is often the case with Beale’s songs.
Much of the album has co-writing credits from Taylor Swift, a collaboration fostered by Swift’s ex, Calvin Harris, who has production credit for just about the whole album in some way or another. Swift’s approach on 30 hasn’t lessened her pop songwriting, and Chloe Beale has benefitted enormously from the interest paid to her by two of the most imminent artists in pop music today.
“When Calvin offered to work with me, I was kind of floored,” Beale says, asked to describe the journey to this album, to this stadium. “I had signed with Columbia, and had released my first album, and it had been okay. But all of a sudden, as I was starting the next one, Calvin Harris and Taylor Swift and Lorde and Ryan Tedder were right there. I lucked out.”
But Chloe’s name is also on every single track, next to songwriter, whether it’s sharing a line with another name or not. The first single, “Parade,” was a dance-y neon extravaganza, Harris’ signature all over it, and it has a shiny Record of the Year Grammy nomination for his work. The second, a mid-tempo with a bumpy bass, was “Onto the Next One.” It bore the marks of Ryan Tedder’s gifted production, mixing with the darker Lorde’s. The third was a strummy, bubbly love song: “Your Turn.” It was a classic turn back to a 20 year-old Swift, and earned a Song of the Year nomination, for both Swift and Beale.
But “Clay” is a harder animal to describe. The songwriting credit is Beale’s, and the production is solely Swift’s. It sounds like it was recorded in the middle of a dark room, in secret. It’s soft and there aren’t a lot of extra trappings – just a hypnotic sounding echo hovering around strings and electric chords.
“I wanted to make sure that I showed a range on this album,” Beale says. “I like dancing and singing fun songs, and I like sad songs and I like Broadway musicals. I mean, my sweet spot is the dance ones, for sure. And I want that to be a part of my career. I don’t mind being called bubblegum, you know? But I’m also something more than that too.”
Beale, whose home base is Los Angeles, when she’s not on a sell-out national tour, seems like the kind of artist who might be able to cover that range. Even when “Clay” seems a dark turn, it rumbles with a strong beat, ripe for remixing into another dance hall hit. That’s probably why it’s climbed straight to the top of the charts. Or maybe it’s Beale herself, whose charisma is stronger than any other pop star in recent memory.
At a concert a few days ago, Beale had halted a huge dance number just to pull a group of girls on stage, redirecting her band and dancers to break from the comfortable routine of a planned tour. One of them had been crying, and Beale had been worried.
At a Columbia Records press event in the fall, just after “Parade” had taken over every club in every major city in the country, she had defended the music video – a sexy romper that didn’t fall too far out of line with the expected one from a female pop artist – to a reporter who had deemed it inappropriate and a tribute before the male gaze.
“The song is about being confident of yourself, and about parading around for yourself and for your confidence. I’m pretty confident about all this,” she had said, gesturing down at the minidress that sculpted well to her body. “And I want other women to feel like they can parade too. Who cares about whatever a dude thinks?”
Beale had taken that narrative a step further by not showing herself at all in the video for “Onto the Next One,” and letting a friend of hers star instead as a woman working her way through both men and women on a night out on the town. Fat Amy, as the Australian actor/singer/comedienne is known professionally, was a reflection of Beale’s own oddities.
“I don’t know if she understands what personal space is,” Swift says, though she says it with a grin in a clip from an interview with Ellen. “She once greeted me by kissing me full on the lips.”
That had started off a frenzied round of Sapphic rumors, new to Beale and probably old hat to Swift, whose dating history, both supposed and true, has been public fodder for years. While Taylor didn’t bother confirming or denying any of the rumors, Beale had happily appeared the next day on Ellen with plenty to say.
“I’m not dating Taylor Swift, and I promise if I was, it wouldn’t be a secret. I’m not really interested in hiding parts of myself. I’m a bisexual and I love dogs way more than cats, if you wanted some facts.”
Ellen’s face is at once thrilled and amazed. The clip’s been watched almost twelve million times since its posting four months ago. With the label of an LGBT icon now slung around Beale’s neck, “Your Turn” charged into June and Pride Month with fervor.
And now, it’s August. Beale is truly an open book, an easy interview. She expounds on everything from her love for Wham! to what kind of couch she just got for her new Malibu home. She talks about her family, who she posts Instagram photos of consistently once a week. She talks about her love for the Atlanta Braves, and how she wishes they’d change their mascot, Chief Wahoo.
“I’m pretty excited to be out here,” Beale says. “I love being on tour, making people smile. I wish I could meet every person who came to my shows, like I used to when I was just trying to get on a label, to get someone to hear a demo, and thank them.”
I tell her that this probably won’t ever be possible again. Beale is already a Grammy nominated artist, whose album is competing with the reigning winner, Bumper Allen for the coveted Album of the Year. Though the crowd of artists whose albums have have placed four singles isn’t quite so illustrious as the classic Bad or the sparkling testament to pop that is Teenage Dream, they aren’t slumps. Chloe Beale now shares space on a records list with Whitney Houston, Janet Jackson, Mariah Carey, Usher, Paula Abdul, and George Michael.
“I do really love Wham!,” is what Beale comes out with when she hears the list read back to her. This love is proof enough of my point: even George Michael, surely the lowest denominator on the list, still draws the love of millions.
The passing moment of sadness at not being able to individually greet the thousands upon thousands of fans who crowd into arenas around the country to hear Chloe Beale sing drifts away from the woman easily enough when the song changes from “Clay” to a more upbeat, electronic melody in the now Grammy-nominated alternative song “Gorge” by Fjords.
“I love this song!” Beale exclaims, jumping up from the table where we’ve been sitting. She starts dancing around the room, pulling dancers, managers, crew, and yes, even this reporter, into a small party that develops around her.
When Katy Perry pulled even with Michael Jackson on the records list, many thought it an uneven battle, thanks to the relative ease of buying a single in the digital age compared to the 80s. But after watching Chloe Beale take over a room simply through love of a song, it’s easy to see that the record might not be solely theirs for much longer, and that many other records are about to be broken.
-
“Who put this on my desk ten minutes before I’m about to leave?” Beca asks, pushing her head out of her office so she can stare accusingly at her bullpen. They all giggle amongst themselves, as she holds the magazine, complete with Chloe Beale’s giggling visage, up in the air. No one owns up to it, of course.
“Beca,” Samantha says, extremely nervously. Beca glares down at her for half a second before she remembers that Emily had told her to be nicer to her receptionist.
“Yes?” she says, pulling the magazine out of the air and glaring around the room at the losers she has somehow allowed into her office to help her find and produce music. Sam seems to be scrambling for a way to express herself.
“Mr. Swanson brought that by when you were in your meeting,” Sam says, and she even half-smiles, because there isn’t a girl on this earth who can’t be charmed by Jesse fucking Swanson.
“Of course he did,” Beca sighs, grabbing for her messenger bag from the floor (she had dropped it in her rage). “I’m leaving now. Go home at a reasonable hour, all of you. It’s Friday. Do whatever you do.”
And then she’s out the door, nodding at the 4AD receptionist in the general office and very subtly pushing the door close button on the elevator more than normal to assure a ride down to the garage in solitude. The magazine’s way too suggestive cover, featuring Chloe in a crop top and short shorts with a bikini top visible beneath the shirt is distracting.
She gets half a glance into the actual article, which has even more photos, before she remembers that she’s pissed that Jesse fucking Swanson showed up at her office while he knew she was in a meeting just to annoy her with a magazine featuring an article about her celebrity crush. What a jerk.
She barely gets into her car before she’s getting a phone call.
“Have you left work yet?” Jessica asks, always no-nonsense when it comes to Beca’s professional life. Which is good for Beca, considering the girl is her agent person. Kind of.
“Have you ever thought about chilling out?” Beca asks, buckling her seatbelt and waving to the dude at the valet booth as she pulls out onto the streets of Los Angeles. Jessica’s sigh is audible over the phone.
“I’m just making sure,” Jessica says. “Last Friday you left work too late and I had to buy you Taco Bell at four in the morning.”
“Next time I get sued, I will make sure you get paid a little extra,” Beca says. “Are you coming tonight?”
“Only if you play my favorite song,” Jessica says back, and Beca laughs, pulling onto the freeway and heading straight to her apartment so she can get ready.
“I will one hundred percent play “Pony,” just for you,” Beca says, and Jessica laughs.
“Then I will be there. But I’m not buying you Taco Bell, so eat something before you get to the club, alright?”
“Yeah, yeah,” Beca says, and Jessica hangs up without saying goodbye, which is one of her favorite things to do with Beca. Beca had given up being annoyed about it somewhere during her senior year at college.
Six hours later, she’s eaten something (it was Taco Bell, but Jessica doesn’t need to know), and she’s just plugged her laptop into the DJ booth at Aquatiq when Cynthia-Rose saunters in and claps her on the back.
“You ready to rock, DJ B?” she asks, and there’s really no answer to that other than hell yes when the club owner is asking you that. Beca learned that in college too, somewhere in Brooklyn at some tiny, shitty club.
“Oh yeah,” Beca says, winking at Cynthia-Rose, who winks back with plenty of flirt. “Any requests?”
“I heard “Pony” was on tap tonight,” the other girl says, laughing. “What more could I ask for?”
“Fair enough,” Beca says. She plugs in her headphones and starts pulling her set together.
Ten minutes later, after the announcer has finished convincing the crowd to scream for her, she presses play.
“I’m just a bachelor, looking for a partner…”
And they scream.
-
Beca is in the bathroom at the Grammys. It’s kind of a weird mix of emotions, because, for one, she really has to pee and the line has been torturous. On the other hand, she was at the Grammys, an institution and award she had hoped to win since she was like four. While it was really groups she had produced who were nominated, she still had her name next to theirs. If they won, she got a little trophy to shove up on her wall, next to the one for Snoop’s Christmas album.
She had apparently chosen to join the line at the tail end of a commercial rush – she didn’t really know, because she, Jesse, and Emily were doing shots (Emily, who had to do like, a photocall later, was not doing as many) in celebration of the ginormous girl’s win for Best New Artist. Jesse had called it a totally arbitrary category, but still, Emily had got to trot up onto the stage and win an award and had cried for five minutes on Beca’s shoulder.
That’s how they had ended up doing shots at the bar, while other awards were run through and artists performed. Chloe Beale had totally blown up the stage, running through a pop medley with like four billion other artists and – for some reason beyond Beca – Billy Joel.
And then Beca had made the unwise choice to join a line. And she was going to die before she ever got in there, because the television was ramping up to announce Alternative Album of the Year, where Fjords was nominated. And she was in line for the bathroom.
The reason for the line became apparent when she was ushered in, after an annoyed looking blonde and a very tall brunette came out. The taller one pretty much stared straight down Beca’s outfit with an appraising look – a dumb, plunging blazer thing that Jessica, her well-meaning manager had insisted was good, and which had caused Jesse to pretend to faint.
The blonde had just huffed, saying, “Excuse me,” in that way that meant like, “Why are you even standing here?” that Beca didn’t particularly enjoy.
So Beca went in, got it all out before the award was announced, and just as she was about to start washing her hands, she heard over the PA system – “And the winner is…Fjords!”
She kind of screamed, and started singing along to the song playing as the band walked from their distant position four billion light years away from the stage. That was her song. Or, their song, but she had produced it. Had listened to it over and over, fixing it over and over until it was near perfect.
“I’m going to cross that gorge to wherever you are, I’m gonna climb the face of the mountain side, I’m gonna follow you near and far, I’m gonna join you on the ride,” she sings along, half-dancing. It takes her a second, but she realizes someone is singing along with her. Someone whose voice is very familiar.
She whirls around, flinging water from her handwashing onto Chloe Beale, who is smiling down at her from enormous heels, wearing a fire engine red dress, and is just…there. Chloe Beale.
“Whoa, dude,” Beca yelps, backing up and almost falling down in her heels, which she had tried to tell Jessica she would break her ankle in. She had insisted, and now, Beca was going to need an ambulance because she had broken her ankle while half-drunk in the bathroom thanks to Chloe Beale. God, what would the EMTs say?
“You’re a good singer,” is what Chloe Beale says – and oh my God, Chloe Beale is even prettier close up, which is almost annoying.
“Um, thank you,” Beca says, unsure of what else can be said. “Um, you scared the shit out of me.”
“Sorry,” Chloe says, and she smiles like she is not sorry at all. She moves a little closer to Beca, which is pretty terrifying. “I love Fjords. I’m glad they won too.”
Beca kind of knew Chloe loved Fjords – had heard her cover this song, actually, thanks to Alan’s fierce love of hunting down YouTube videos of people covering his songs, and like, Buzzfeed and everyone else and their mother posting video of it.
“Yeah, um,” Beca starts, but she hears the beginning of the acceptance speech and starts to listen, while Chloe starts washing her hands. Chloe Beale, is just standing there with Beca in companionable silence. Oh God, she feels so drunk right now.
“The first person we have to thank,” she hears Jenny start, “is Beca Mitchell, who took us under her wing at 4AD and dragged this album out of us.”
“Oh my God,” Beca says, and her phone starts buzzing away, or at least, she notices it just now. It’s literally pouring over with messages, and the one at the very top is just Jesse saying BECAW BECAW BECAW over and over.
“You’re Beca Mitchell!” Chloe says, pointing at her then, her hands now washed and Beca is reminded then that she’s in the room with like, the most famous pop star in the world right now. Jesus Christ.
“You know who I am?” Beca asks, holding on to the edge of the sink firmly so she doesn’t fall down under the weight of all the things happening to her right now. Chloe takes a hold of her arm immediately, seeming to realize that Beca is about to pass out or something. Beca’s not really into touching, and thinks to move away, but she’s kind of just in shock, probably.
“I live in L.A., not under a rock,” Chloe says. “I download your mashups, the ones you put online.”
“Um, wow, this is, uh,” Beca says, and then just stops, because like, what was going to happen with that sentence? She didn’t know. She tries to shake her shock and excitement and alcohol out of her head. When she finishes shaking herself like a dog, Chloe Beale is still there, a hand on her arm, looking like a fucking movie star.
“You look great,” Chloe says, her eyes trailing down Beca’s body in a like, kind of weird predatory way that Beca does actually jerk away from. Because she’s in the bathroom at the damn Staples Center getting hit on.
“Um, yeah, so do you? I liked your performance,” Beca says. “I mean, I don’t know why Billy Joel was there. But you were great, and you looked…also great.”
Jesus. This is why she didn’t try to socialize with people. This is why she was considered a hermit by everyone on the label.
“Chloe, we need to get you back in your seat, Album of the Year is about to be announced,” some girl says, pushing the door open and stopping short at Beca being there at all. “Hello.”
“Uh,” Beca says, like an inarticulate idiot. She was going to punch Jesse for giving her shots. He should’ve known she’d run into Chloe Beale in the bathroom.
“This is Beca Mitchell,” Chloe says, putting her hand on Beca’s arm again, where it slides down the length of the arm of her jacket and just barely glances off her hand. The blonde looks unimpressed by Beca, which, honestly, is kind of insulting. “This is my manager, Aubrey.”
“Beca, there you are!” Emily Junk appears in the doorway, her arms spread out like she’s waiting for a hug. “Oh my God, you won!”
The girl seems to realize Beca is now at the center of a social convention of Grammy award winners or something, because she stops just behind Aubrey, who’s now looking with confusion between Emily and Beca.
“Oh my God, you’re Chloe Beale,” Emily says, and then launches into a bit of a classic Emily ramble. “Oh my God, I love your album! I mean I loved the first one too, but this one is so good. Beca has this amazing mashup playlist for it, and honestly, it was really good to listen to while I was finishing my album, and I saw you when you were in Seattle, and you had such a good show, and - ”
“Legacy,” Beca finally says, reaching out frantically to stop the girl from just vomiting in excitement on Chloe fucking Beale.
“Right, yeah, anyway, you’re really good and good luck on the uh, Album of the Year thing,” the girl finishes up, her pose becoming disaffected and cool, though she grabs ahold of Beca’s hand and pulls her toward her, freeing Beca from being in Chloe Beale’s personal space.
“Thank you,” Chloe says. “I was just telling Beca I really liked her work. The Palindromes song, “Siort,” is one of my lady jams.”
The look on Chloe’s face while she says this, accompanied with the wink, illuminates enough of the meaning of ‘lady jams’ that Beca, even in her drunkenness, can pick up on it. Emily doesn’t seem to get it, and Aubrey (was that her name?) doesn’t even react.
“Dude,” Beca says, and still has nothing to add to that. Chloe just winks at her again, and Beca is like, so ready to be out of her heels that she might just intentionally break them right now.
“Chloe,” Aubrey, who seems like kind of a jerk, says again. Chloe smiles in this kind of placating way and brushes her hand down Beca’s arm one last time before walking out of the bathroom with her manager heatedly whispering at her. There’s a beat of silence that follows, but Emily has never been good at that.
“So,” Emily says, not moving and still holding onto Beca’s non-Chloe Beale-touched-arm. “That was Chloe Beale. You won a Grammy. I won a Grammy.”
“She touched my arm,” Beca mutters, rubbing at the spot. It vaguely feels different from the rest of her body, but that could be because she’s a little drunk. And she has a Grammy now. On the television at the bar, where Jesse has taken up residency and has shots waiting for them, Barbra Streisand and Ice Cube are walking up to announce Album of the Year.
“Becaw! A Grammy! All I have to do is pull a John Williams, and we’ll be the hottest pickups that aren’t major pop stars in town!” he yells, throwing an arm around Beca and hauling her into her seat. She almost plants her face against the bar.
“Dude, chill,” she starts to say, but stops as they show clips of the nominees. Bumper Allen, the winner from last year, was smirking at the camera when it cut to him. Chloe smiled widely when it came to her. A few seats in, there was Taylor Swift, giving a thumbs up.
“God, I hope she beats that weirdo,” Emily says, nudging at Beca with a grin, like she knows something, or something. Beca throws a shot back to ignore her.
“Five dollars he tries to pull a Kanye if he wins,” Jesse says, and Beca immediately shakes her head ‘no.’ All the other nominees are getting piled on to the screen.
“Hundred he tries and gets knocked out by security,” Beca says, and Jesse shakes her hand with conviction.
“And the winner is…” Ice Cube starts, before handing the envelope over to Barbra, who opens it with aplomb. There’s an enormous pause that stretches over what feels like eons. Thousands of people at Columbia and RCA are waiting to hear the answer to this question, so they can slap stickers onto the winner’s album.
“Chloe Beale!” Barbara says, and Bumper is already half-standing before he even realizes that he hadn’t won. The camera cuts away from him quickly, while Chloe starts crying, reaching down the aisle to Taylor, who looks ridiculously thrilled, which is nice. Aubrey, the angry blonde, gives Chloe a tight hug, saying something in her ear.
By the time Chloe’s up on the stage, the whole audience is actually standing, probably at least thirty percent out of relief that Bumper Allen hadn’t won. Probably forty in recognition of the newest pop princess.
“Wow,” Chloe says, as everyone quiets down. “Wow, thank you. I mean, there are so many people I have to thank, and I want to thank all of them. I wouldn’t be up here without the investment of so many people, from my parents to my family, to like, Taylor Swift who said that I would feel like an ridiculous idiot up here if I won, and I really, really do.”
The video cuts to Taylor briefly, because the cameras can’t resist that girl. Beca makes a noise of irritation, but the video pulls back to Chloe, who’s looking kind of…thoughtful.
“I want to say, I guess, that you should follow the music, wherever it takes you. In a general sense, follow your passion. I’m up here because I followed my passion, and obviously with a lot of additional luck. But don’t ever let someone tell you you can’t do something. Do what you want to do, and do it for you.”
“That’s like, ten times more elegant than I was,” Emily says, but she’s crying a little. Beca nudges at her in an attempt to console her, but she’s also crying a little.
“Thank you, everyone! You can go party now!” she says, holding her award up triumphantly, and as the crowd laughs, the doors from the arena push open. While Jesse and Emily grab ahold of their drinks and down them as quickly as possible so they can beat the traffic to the parties, Beca watches Chloe Beale walk off the stage.
-
“Why are we here again?” Beca yells into Emily’s ear as literally thousands of small children scream at the kid coming on stage with a guitar seven times too big slung across his body. “Also, are you sure there’s no alcohol? And that you don’t have any Advil?”
“This is easily the seventh time in the last forty minutes you’ve asked those questions,” Emily says, laughing. Next to Emily, Benji claps loudly for whoever that kid is. On the other side of Benji, Jesse whistles so loudly that Beca almost leaps across the two people between them to strangle him.
“Hey Kids Choice Awards! It’s such an honor to be here!” the kid says, almost like he actually means it. The kids, of course, scream back at him as the stage begins to fill in behind him with a band of people.
“I want you to meet my family,” he says. “We’re in a band called The Wingnuts!”
The lights come up on the band, and the whole vaguely lookalike TV family waves out as they get settled in front of their instruments. Beca is 95% sure that only like, two of them can actually play those instruments. She knows for sure that the bassist, a like, seven year-old girl, is holding her bass the wrong way, with the pickguard above the strings.
“Go mom!” Emily yells, standing up, as if her mom can actually hear her. Mrs. Junk is enjoying her relative retirement from the music industry by being the cool backup singer, keyboard playing mom on some kids show, which is cool and all, if it didn’t involve Beca having to support her visibly at the most annoying award show on planet earth.
Even if the woman still had the voice of an angel and had gifted Beca with one of her weirdo best friends, she could have done something more tasteful. Like an acoustic album, with a low-key tour that Beca could have bought alcohol at.
“Let’s go guys!” the boy calls out, and the music starts up. From what it sounds like, none of their vocals but his and Mrs. Junk’s are live; and none of the instruments are at all. Beca nods along to the music anyway, because it does sound somewhat approaching okay – she might have opted for a non-love song, if it were up to her, because it’s kind of weird that a whole family is singing a personal love song, but that was just her –
“I want to introduce a friend of the family to the stage,” Mrs. Junk yells out, in a break from the song. “Here’s Chloe Beale!”
The crowd reaches a deafening roar as Chloe walks onto the stage, waving excitedly at the audience, a mic already perched on her head. She gives the lead singer kid a kiss on the cheek that prompts screeches from the girls in the audience, too, and she picks the song up from there easily.
Beca finds herself being pulled to her feet by Emily, ignoring that she can feel a camera trained on the younger Junk, and therefore her. She claps along to the now-even-creepier song, trying to ignore that Benji seems to know all the words to the song, and that Jesse is seamlessly singing the vocals to “Your Turn,” mixing them into The Wingnuts’ apparent juvenile classic song whose name Beca does not actually know.
God, the amount of times she considers murdering Jesse a day is probably worthy of psychological study. She knows she’s going to end up mixing the songs by the end of the week.
When the song ends, and the Rock or someone comes on stage next, Emily starts ushering them out of their seats to go see her mom backstage so that the two can go present an award later on or something. Beca immediately takes the opportunity to start making fun of Benji for knowing all of the words to the Wingnuts’ song, while Jesse and Emily quote from the Rock’s astounding and varied filmography at each other.
“Dude, you’re a huge Wingnuts fan, then,” Beca says, nudging the taller boy. Benji does his adorable giggle-blush routine, awkwardly turning his neck and nodding. But he sings the song back to her anyway, in his stupidly beautiful voice.
“Baby, I want to take you out to ice cream, want to hold your hand all night long,” he croons, all Broadway vibrato and four billion times better than the thirteen year-old onstage five minutes ago had sang it. “Future classic.”
“Oh, yeah, definitely,” Beca says, laughing as security lets them through a backdoor to get to the dressing rooms backstage. “That better be on your next album, right between, “What I Did for Love” and “All I Ask of You.””
“Let me be your freedom, let daylight dry your tears. I’m here, with you, beside you, to guard you and to guide you,” Benji sings, his smile taking up at least half his face, entreatingly nudging at Beca until she gives in.
“Say you love me every waking moment, turn my head with talk of summertime. Say you need me with you now and always, promise me that all you say is true,” Beca sings, letting Benji wrap her up in a serious Broadway embrace, waltzing her down the hallway.
“That’s all I ask of you,” a familiar voice joins her as she sings it, and Benji spins her out of his embrace near-beautifully while they laugh as the group turns the corner and into Mrs. Junk’s solo dressing room.
“Mom, you guys were awesome!” Emily says, rushing in and hugging Mrs. Junk.
“Thank you honey! And, Beca, I didn’t know you could do Broadway,” Mrs. Junk says, hugging her daughter tightly, then reaching for Beca.
“I have many secrets,” Beca says, hugging Mrs. Junk and laughing when the woman starts to sing in her ear. “Don’t cry for me Argentina, the truth is, I never left you…”
“Mom, no one in this dressing room needs to see you do a full-scale reproduction of your time as Evita,” Emily says, stopping her mother in her tracks. Everyone laughs.
“I do,” Benji says, and Mrs. Junk laughs, letting go of Beca with a peck to the side of her head to reach for the perfect future son-in-law boy that he is. “Tell me before I waltz out of your life, before turning my back on the past, forgive my impertinent behavior, but how long do you think this pantomime can last?”
“No, Benji, do not indulge her,” Emily starts to say, but Mrs. Junk is already joining Benji in the requisite waltz.
“Tell me before I ride off in the sunset, there’s one thing I never got clear, how can you claim you’re our savior, when those who oppose you are stepped on or cut up, or simply disappear?”
“Tell me before you get onto your bus, before joining the forgotten brigade, how can one person like me, say, alter the time-honored way the game is played?” Mrs. Junk sings, dancing with Benji in the midst of the dressing room while Jesse claps along to the beat of the waltz and Emily sighs heavily. Beca pats her on the shoulder.
“Oh, wow, Catherine, you should revive Evita immediately,” another voice adds, and Jesse turns from his place in the doorway to reveal Chloe Beale. Beca practically falls over. Because she backs up quickly and trips on the carpet. Emily pats her on the shoulder.
“Thank you, Chloe,” Mrs. Junk says, spinning out from Benji’s perfect waltz form and greeting Chloe in the doorway with a huge hug, before throwing an arm around the redhead’s shoulders. “Meet my kids!”
“Mom, I’m your only kid,” Emily says, in her my mom is embarrassing me voice. It’s Beca’s favorite Emily voice.
“I count the other three,” Mrs. Junk whispers to Chloe, loudly enough that the whole room hears it. “Emily, a Grammy award winner, you may have heard of her. Biologically, she is mine. My lovely future son-in-law, Benji, Tony-award nominee.”
Benji waves so awkwardly that Beca cringes for him, and he steps forward to shake Chloe’s hand, and Chloe indulges him with a sweet smile like she doesn’t mind at all that he’s being so weird. Which is nice of her.
“An honor to meet you,” he says. Jesse pats him on the shoulder after he steps out of Chloe’s space.
“Jesse, who is not nominated for any awards, but who I love equally as all the others,” Mrs. Junk says, gesturing at Jesse who gives a little wave. Chloe waves enthusiastically back, and her eyes drift back to Beca, who’s backed up against the couch in the dressing room, half-sitting on the couch.
“Beca Mitchell,” Chloe says, her voice lilting across Beca’s own name, and it is really awkward how much she feels her face heat up. Jesse turns to look at Beca with one of the biggest smirks she’s ever seen on his face. She almost murders him, straight up.
“You’ve met?” Mrs. Junk asks, and her face looks so thrilled that Beca is actually kind of disturbed. It shifts into an exact carbon copy of Emily’s mischievous face – one Beca usually tries to run away from when possible, because it ends with her watching The Notebook and crying, or volunteering at an animal shelter. And crying.
“Hey,” Beca says, choosing to ignore Mrs. Junk’s scary, scary face and giving a weak wave that Chloe returns with a smile. “You ready to get slimed tonight?”
“Oh, you think I’m the secret slime guest?” Chloe says, placing her hand on her chest as if she were affronted. “How do you know it isn’t the Rock?”
“I think he’s already been slimed,” Emily offers, and Jesse, a Rock connoisseur, makes his dumb thinking face.
“Beca, you can’t just ask a woman if she’s ready to get slimed,” Mrs. Junk says, also looking affronted and still looking at Beca with a smirking face, like she knows something about Beca that Beca doesn’t know. It’s disconcerting.
“Was the Rock slimed? Or was that Vin Diesel?” Jesse asks, looking behind Beca to Emily. Emily looks confused, and says, “I feel like the Rock was slimed at some point.”
Jesse moves past Beca to sit next to Emily on the couch so they can debate about the Kids Choice Awards history of sliming celebrities, like nerds. Mrs. Junk takes her eyes off of Beca when Benji starts up with, absurdly, West Side Story, prompting her into a rendition of “Tonight.”
“Tonight, tonight, it all began tonight, I saw you and the world went away,” she sings, as they once again begin waltzing.
Beca finds herself moving closer to Chloe simply to accommodate their dancefloor, and she listens to their voices blending as Chloe starts talking. She tries to focus on Chloe’s face without like, staring. It’s hard.
“It’s nice to see you again,” Chloe says, reaching out to brush her hand down Beca’s thankfully clothed arm. Chloe is wearing a newer outfit than what she wore onstage – classy jeans and heels and a summery shirt. Her hair wafts over her shoulders in curls that Beca’s hairstylist could only dream of.
“Yeah, um, you too,” Beca says. “I’m way less drunk than last time, which is kind of sad.”
“Oh, you need to be drunk to put up with me?” Chloe asks, raising her eyebrows at Beca and laughing before she even finishes the tease. Beca’s heart almost drops out of her chest anyways.
“I need it more to deal with all the screaming kids,” Beca says, and Chloe laughs again, putting her hands on Beca’s arm again, and she tries to be normal so hard.
“Tonight, tonight, the world is full of light, with suns and moons all over the place. Tonight, tonight, the world is wild and bright, going mad, shooting sparks into space,” Mrs. Junk and Benji are singing, their voices reaching the crescendo of the song. It thankfully pulls Beca away from the feeling of Chloe Beale’s hand on her arm just enough that she doesn’t faint.
“We keep running into each other,” Chloe observes, pulling Beca’s attention fully back to her. She doesn’t really know what to say to that, so she just resorts to the sarcastic response that pops into her head.
“Twice isn’t a pattern,” Beca says, and Chloe cocks her head at Beca with a smile playing across her face.
“I liked that mashup you put out a week ago,” Chloe offers, and Beca freezes, trying to remember what the damn thing had been, even though she usually has an impeccable memory when it comes to her own music. God, pretty girls just completely fuck her up. This was even worse than that Kommissar woman she had met once before passing off to some other producer out of complete fear. Chloe seems to catch on. “It was “The Hills” and “Siort.””
“Um, yeah, thank you,” Beca says, shrugging. “It was…yeah.”
“Very, sexy. Thanks for making my lady jam even better,” Chloe says, with a heavy wink, and Beca remembers very suddenly how “Siort” had got lodged in her head again. She groans.
“You know, normal people don’t just go around saying stuff like that,” Beca says, and Chloe laughs, this happy laugh that makes Beca half-smile, before she remembers she’s supposed to be irritated. Thankfully, a PA appears behind Chloe in the doorway, knocking on the frame.
“Mrs. Junk, Ms. Junk, your cue is in two minutes,” he says, and there’s a bit of a scramble while Emily stands up and Mrs. Junk and Benji stop dancing around and they check themselves in the mirror.
“Be back in ten,” Mrs. Junk says, brushing past Beca and Chloe, looking straight at Beca as she says, “no one destroy the dressing room while I’m gone.”
“Ms. Beale, your cue is in 10 minutes,” the PA adds, and then he scurries off, leading Emily and Mrs. Junk down the hallway and around a corner.
“I should get back to my own dressing room,” Chloe says. “It was nice seeing you again, Beca. And meeting you, Benji, and Jesse.”
Benji and Jesse both wave happily at her and say nice things. Beca doesn’t quite hear them, because Chloe steps way too close to Beca, and then fucking hugs her.
“Does three times make a pattern?” Chloe whispers in her ear, and Beca shivers, because, like, well. Who wouldn’t shiver when Chloe Beale is pressed close and whispering in their ear? She halfheartedly hugs Chloe back and shrugs.
“If we get there, I’ll let you know,” Beca says, and Chloe laughs, pulling away. With one last wink and a drag of the palm of her hand down Beca’s entire fucking arm, she’s out of the room, leaving Beca dazed and not ready to turn around to face Jesse’s teasing right now.
“Dude,” she hears Jesse say. God, she really is going to kill him one day.
-
Thanks for the slime, @KidsChoice! It’s always been my dream!
-Chloe Beale (@bealechloe)
@chloebeale you were awesome! nice to meet u again!
-Emily Junk (@emjunk)
@EMJunk @DJBMitch @BenjaminBroadway @SwansonJesse nice to meet all of you! i hope i get to see you again ;)
-Chloe Beale (@bealechloe)
-
From the Desk of a Working Mom
Exciting Chloe Beale news!
Did you and your very-upset-with-you-forever twelve year-old girl miss out on Chloe Beale’s huge, sold out Cotillion tour? Here’s some good news for you! Reps for Beale have confirmed that she’s going on a June mini-tour called Southern Pride, where she’ll stop off in seven major cities during LGBT Pride month and hold concerts in celebration of, you guessed it, LGBT pride!
And just in case any homophobes or anything are about to head to my comments section, get the heck off this page! Chloe Beale is one of the best role models out there for kids, and it’s great that she’s supporting a cause she clearly cares about. Half the proceeds to the discounted concerts are going to local LGBT charities, so don’t feel bad about dropping eighty bucks to make it up to your kid for missing her the first time around.
Here’s the full tour, with dates. Times, extra guests, and ticket onsale dates are gonna be updated later by yours truly!
Miami, FL Friday, June 1
Boston, MA Tuesday, June 5
Washington D.C. Thursday, June 7
New York City, NY Saturday, June 9
Chicago, IL Friday, June 15
San Francisco, CA Friday, June 22
Los Angeles, CA Saturday, June 30
P.S.: Did you see Chloe on the Kids Choice Awards with The Wingnuts? She was such a good sport about getting slimed, too – I’d hate to think what it’d do to my hair!
-
“Beca, I got a call today from people at Columbia,” Jessica says, sipping her wine literally seconds after it’s been set down on the table. “Have you met Chloe Beale?”
Beca, who does not yet have the pleasure of having the drink she ordered in front of her, has a spasmodic attack of some kind, knocking half her glass of water over and watching it spill off to the side of the table. Her manager/stylist/literally everything Beca could employ someone for smiles over the rim of her glass while Beca frantically gathers up their tiny cloth napkins.
“I, sorry,” Beca says, as the waiter does, thankfully, bring over her margarita (and a bunch of towels). The girl mops it up very quickly, with a sad sigh that has Beca apologizing at least twenty times until the girl disappears again. “Sorry about that, very unprofessional.”
“I have seen you drunk on vodka-infused gummy bears in FAO Schwarz, Beca,” Jessica says, sipping again at her wine and looking very put together.
“And that was also very unprofessional of me,” Beca says, shrugging. “Though, actually, was that in college? You were probably drunk too, then.”
Jessica shrugs in response, placing her menu to the side and pulling out her official Beca book, where she keeps all sorts of weird contingency plan PR stuff, like for when Beca gets in a car crash or like, elopes. This is their official weekly business meeting, where Jessica reports on Beca’s like, life scores on social media and charts and business propositions or whatever. Beca ignores most of it, and pays Jessica way too much for it.
“Chloe Beale,” Jessica says again, prompting Beca to speak with a wave of her hand.
“We met at the Grammys,” Beca says, sighing, and sitting back in her chair, taking a long gulp of her margarita. “And at the Kids Choice Awards.”
“I’m hurt, Beca. I go on vacation one time and you don’t tell me anything,” Jessica says, leaning forward across the table. “You’ve had a crush on Chloe Beale since her first single came out, and when she came out of the closet, you threw a party, at random, and claimed it was because you were just having a great day.”
“I was having a great day,” Beca says, then shrugs again. Just to show off her total ambivalence. “It’s no big deal. We just bumped into each other twice. You don’t need to pull out one of your weird contingency plans or anything, like, made-out-with-a-pop-star or whatever.”
“While I don’t currently have one of those, I will quickly begin working on one. And you’re wrong about one thing,” Jessica says, pulling a sheaf of papers out of her book and sliding them across the table to Beca. “It is a big deal. I got a call from Columbia asking if you wanted to be an opening DJ for her on her June tour.”
“The gay one?” Beca asks, flipping the stack of papers through and seeing the familiar-unfamiliar legal shit she signs with now-alarming frequency. “What is this?”
“Yes, the gay one, Beca,” Jessica says, and then leans across the table to flip to the end. “It’s a contract for you to perform an hour-long DJ set as an opening act for Chloe Beale in seven U.S. cities throughout the month of June, rain or shine.”
“What?” Beca asks, like a dumb idiot. Jessica takes a sip of her wine in exasperation, while rolling her eyes.
“Chloe asked Columbia to put you on her tour,” Jessica says, like she’s talking to a child and jamming her index finger onto the signature line. “She wants you to go on a gay tour with her for a month.”
“Why?” Beca asks, looking around the restaurant as if she’s being Punk’d. She feels like she is. This is the kind of shit Jesse would come up with.
“I didn’t have the opportunity to interrogate her on her intentions, Becs, I just got a phone call from a grumpy manager,” Jessica says. “Please ask a question I can answer.”
“Can I do this?” Beca asks, flipping through the pages of the thick contract as if the document will speak to her. It doesn’t.
“Sure. 4AD can live without you for a month. You just won a Grammy for them anyway. Constitutionally, I don’t know. You sometimes forget English when you’re around pretty girls. It’d be bigger than performing in a dark room every Friday night or so,” Jessica says, swirling around her wine.
“She asked me to go on tour with her,” Beca says, staring down at the front of the contract, with the huge embossing of the Columbia Records logo.
“She’d even let you travel on her private plane,” Jessica says, stopping Beca’s flipping on a certain page. “And with an entourage. I have a very clear calendar for June, just so you know.”
“She wants me to go on a tour with her?” Beca asks, staring dumbly down at the papers in front of her and then looking up at Jessica in confusion. “And Columbia agreed?”
“You made some type of impression on her, Beca,” Jessica says, finishing her wine glass and waving at the waiter for more. “I’m not sure Columbia was in a place to disagree. The woman on the phone, Aubrey Posen, didn’t sound too thrilled, though.”
“What’s like, the catch?” Beca asks, waving at her own margarita for the waiter to get her more, since he’s already looking over.
“No real catch. A few maybe-sticking-points. You’d have to make time in your schedule to fly to a few locations for a few rehearsals. Pay isn’t crazy – half of ticket sales to charity, seventy-five percent of what’s left to her. You’d have to talk to the press and like, deal with being out in the sunlight while performing. You haven’t officially come out. You get embarrassing around people you think are cute.”
“I don’t – okay, she is like, not that distracting,” Beca says, thanking the waiter very appreciatively when he brings them new drinks. “I don’t want to come out.”
“I know. But you obviously saw how she came out, because you immediately organized a party afterwards. I’m just saying...” Jessica says, idly considering it and swirling her wine around in her glass. “You might get asked about it. You might have to have an answer. It is a tour in celebration of Pride Month, after all.”
“Can’t it all just be about my music?” Beca asks, sighing, looking down at the menu one more time while she watches the waiter circle around his section of the restaurant.
“Not if you’re going to tour with Chloe Beale, it can’t be,” Jessica says, in that direct way of hers that’s always cut through to Beca. That’s why she had hired her third and most successful college roommate; that, and her degree in public relations and her now-law degree.
“Did you already check with legal at 4AD?” Beca asks, fingering through the papers before flipping to the last page.
“It doesn’t violate your contract there,” Jessica says. “Listen, Beca. We’ve been publicizing you as the on-the-edge-of-stardom for almost a year now. This could be it, your shot to break into the big leagues. Columbia has your manager’s number.”
“I lied. She is really distracting,” Beca whispers, looking up at Jessica. “She’s really, really pretty in person.”
Jessica looks at Beca with that knowing look of hers.
“I’ll work on contingency plans,” Jessica says.
Beca signs the contract after a hefty sip of her margarita.
-
Word on the street is that @DJBMitch is going on tour with @bealechloe this summer! Who will Los Angeles club-goers jam to while she’s gone? Check out these possible replacements > bit.ly/asfjl1k
-LA Club News @LAclubkid
-
“I just need, like, a sturdy table basically,” Beca says to the head crewman. He nods, writing shit down in his notebook, way more words than what she’s actually managed to say. The crew is downsizing from Cotillion, and the stages are going to be smaller, but she’s been flown out on Columbia’s dime to meet with the dude anyway to begin rehearsing for the June tour.
“Any preference on lighting?” he asks, and she looks around the enormous stadium that they’ve taken up shop in in Texas. She can’t possibly imagine what it must be like to play for that many people. She’s used to clubs of maybe four hundred at most.
“Um, I like lasers?” Beca says, like that fucking means anything. She’s glad that Jesse is not by her side to hear her say that.
“Beca!”
The blur of Chloe Beale comes careening towards her, wrapping Beca up in a huge hug, unbefitting to two people who have ran into each other twice. Now three times, really. Behind Chloe, two bemused girls with dark hair amble in her wake , while Beca can catch the barest glimpse of Aubrey Posen simply standing, watching. Beca tries to ignore it, turning into Chloe’s embrace even though she usually can’t stand hugging.
“I’m so excited that you’re here and that we’re going on tour together,” Chloe says, turning to her head crewman and poking at him. “You better treat her nice, Adam.”
“Well, so far, all I have to get is a table and some lasers, so it’s hard not to be nice,” he says, laughing. Beca laughs too, even though the joke is kind of at her own expense. Chloe’s hand hovers against the small of her back, keeping her close, and that’s so distracting.
“Oh my gosh, Ashley, Stacie come here and meet Beca,” Chloe says, reaching for the two dark-haired girls and pulling them close. “This is Ashley, she’s my publicist. And this is Stacie, she’s my stylist and the costumer for the tour!”
Stacie, who’s like, an Amazon in high heels and some sort of stylish looking overall setup, grins at Beca with one of the most sexual smiles she’s ever seen. It’s confusing and scary, and she finds herself looking over her own shoulder in search of her own friendly face.
“Jessica, get your butt over here,” she says, finally spotting the girl talking to a dancer. She ambles over dutifully, and Beca cleaves to her side quickly. “This is Jessica, we went to college together and now she like, runs my life.”
“Nice to meet you,” Jessica says, offering a hand in greeting to Chloe, who ignores it to pull Jessica into a hug. The other two shake her hand like normal people who don’t just hug near-strangers. “I’m the smartest member of her entourage.”
“You’re the only person in my entourage,” Beca says, and everyone laughs at that. Stacie speaks up.
“So, Becs, do I need to get you some sexy DJ outfits or something? Are you into leather?”
What the hell is wrong with the people Chloe chooses to surround herself with?
“Ooh, leather,” Chloe says, tugging at the fabric of Beca’s jacket and winking at her.
God help her.
-
“Why are you in town again?” Beca’s mom asks, taking a sip of her tea and tapping her fingers on the kitchen table while Beca and Jessica play a rousing game of Yahtzee with Allen, her step-dad.
“Rehearsal,” Jessica offers. “Beca is going on a tour next month.”
Allen tosses out a perfect Yahtzee just after, and Jessica lets out a long string of curse words in response. Beca sighs, accepting the blow as he gleefully marks his sheet. He gathers up all the dice and hands the little cup to Beca.
“With Chloe Beale,” her mom says, watching as Beca tosses an unhappy lot of dice and sorts through the favorites. “I heard she was dating Tom Sampson, Allen.”
“Tommy should focus on catching pop flies, not running the bases,” Allen returns, and Beca’s second throw is completely ruined by her burst of laughter. But it turns up a full house that she happily marks down as Jessica sighs in frustration.
“I don’t think she’s dating anyone,” Beca says, and her phone lights up with Chloe’s name, perfectly on time with the mention of her name. Beca had arrived to the stadium - the enormous stadium that Chloe was holding her tour stop in Seattle at - only to have her phone taken away and Chloe inputting her information.
“She isn’t,” Jessica says, and tosses a weak roll that she doesn’t even bother to keep anything from. Her second toss is even worse, and she unhappily gathers a two and a five to keep. “Ashley told me.”
“She’s very pretty,” Beca’s mom says, idly, in such a way that doesn’t sound very idle at all. Beca gives a half-second glare at her before Jessica tosses a lackluster roll that produces, in the end, a double two.
Beca checks her phone while Jessica curses some more and walks around the table to cool off. The text from Chloe reads, what are you doing? stacie and aubrey went out for dinner to some fancy sushi place and ashley and i were looking for dinner company :(
“She’s asking Beca out to dinner,” Allen says, and Beca jerks away from him, closing up her messages to keep away from her meddlesome stepfather. Jessica stops behind her to take the phone away, navigating past the passcode and into the messages easily enough.
“That’s wonderful, Beca,” her mom says, smiling happily. “She seems very kind.”
“I said yes,” Jessica says, reaching for her coat. “I cannot stand to lose at the third game in a row to you, Allen.”
“It’s hard to take on a champion,” Allen says, raising his hands in forgiveness. Beca makes an annoyed noise as Jessica starts coaxing her out of her chair and forcing her into her own coat.
“We’ll probably go to bed soon,” her mom says. “You should be home before midnight! You have work tomorrow.”
“Mom, I’m not fourteen,” Beca says, as Jessica grabs the rental car keys. “And it’s hardly work. I just have to stand behind a table and play music. Also, I don’t want to go to dinner, Jessica!”
“You do want to go to dinner, honey,” Allen says, very nicely, reaching to pat Beca on the arm. “It can’t be a bad thing to hang out with a pop star who you’re going on tour with! Maybe she’ll buy you nice things.”
“It’s a professional opportunity,” her mom says, and Jessica nods in excitement, saying goodbye and ushering Beca out of the house and into the car. Twenty minutes later, and they’re outside a diner that Beca had gone to every Thursday night with the entire theatre crew.
“Why aren’t we at like, a nice restaurant?” Beca asks, tugging at her coat collar and checking her phone, where Chloe’s last text reads on our way ;)
“The high schoolers here are stoned and the families are too busy reigning in their crazy kids to care if Chloe Beale is in there with them,” Jessica says. “Are we ever going to talk about the coming out thing, by the way? Aubrey was asking.”
“Aubrey hates me,” Beca mutters. Jessica sighs, turning to face Beca more over the center console.
“Don’t make this one of those things that’s about one thing and somehow make it about another thing,” Jessica says, shaking her finger in Beca’s face. She smacks it away.
“She does hate me, and I don’t do that thing,” Beca says.
“You do do that thing. Remember when you jumped from Residual to 4AD and you said, oh, it’s not because I feel creatively stifled and want to grow but it’s scary and Los Angeles sucks, it’s because Jesse is making me move to Los Angeles, and you were pissed at him for like a whole month before we made you sit down and talk about your actual feelings of fear and shit?” Jessica says, poking Beca in the shoulder.
“I talk about my feelings,” Beca says, looking out the window as a chunk of kids come ambling out, spreading out to separate cars throughout the parking lot.
“Then what are your feelings about coming out?” Jessica asks, very pointedly.
“I don’t want to.”
“Aubrey thinks it would be weird for you to come on an LGBT pride tour and refuse to come out,” Jessica says, like Beca is an idiot.
“I don’t need to come out. I’m a producer and sometimes I do DJ stuff. I want to make music and not be bothered about who I’m dating,” Beca says, then sighs, looking over at Jessica in exasperation. “You know this. I’ve told you this.”
“I understand this and told Aubrey this,” Jessica says, looking Beca in the eye and as kindly as possible. “She’s right though. The optics are weird.”
“Don’t say optics,” Beca says. “You sound like Aubrey and Ashley. I liked it more when you said jurisprudence and like, pejorative.”
“When I was in law school, three years ago?” Jessica asks, smiling. “And hey, I know Aubrey is a bit of an oddball, but Ashley is nice.”
“Jesse told me that you think Ashley is hot,” Beca says, and Jessica acts very offended, whipping her head around as though some other person has said this deeply insulting thing.
“You would believe whatever social insight Jesse could give you, because you are oblivious,” Jessica says, not bothering to argue over Beca’s comment. It’s true enough - Beca has never been very good at interpersonal relationships. She starts to pop open the door to the car to just - get out of Jessica’s overbearing, question-filled atmosphere. Jessica follows suit, and they barely make it four steps before Beca gets tackled by an exuberant Chloe Beale, wearing a beanie and sweatpants.
“Jesus Christ!” Beca yells, disturbing a goose somewhere near them in the parking lot enough that it squawks at them angrily. She tries to let her body loosen up, but Chloe drops her nearly instantly, looking at her in concern.
“Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry,” she says, reaching out one hand to touch Beca’s shoulder but stopping before she reaches her body. “Are you okay? I’m sorry.”
“I’m chill,” Beca says, then cringes. Chill. “I’m okay. You just surprised me. A little.”
“Beca’s a control freak who hates surprises,” Jessica says, gripping Beca’s arm as Ashley gives a small smile and wave routine. This nervousness makes Beca feel a little better, along with the familiar hand. “I tried to throw a surprise party for her senior year and she threw up.”
“Oh, I love surprises,” Chloe says, putting her hand through Ashley’s arm and setting off towards the door of the diner. “I’m very open to life’s experiences. I’ve gone cliff diving.”
“Did Aubrey condone that?” Beca asks, and Jessica squeezes again, probably in some warning way. Chloe laughs, pushing open the door and allowing Ashley to head through and Jessica to pass through as well. Beca shares, for half a second, a very small space with Chloe Beale’s body that feels like the earth falling out from under her.
“She jumped with me,” Chloe says, smiling gently. Beca smiles back. She tries to calm down. It doesn’t work so much.
-
The leather vest she has been conned into wearing by the various encouragements of Stacie, Jessica, Ashley, and Chloe is hot as hell when she’s on the stage, with her damn lasers going off around her. There are dancers flipping around in front of her, which is pretty distracting, but as she keys up the last track meant to bridge into Chloe’s arrival, she has all but forgotten about all of that.
The music echoing through the arena she’s rehearsing in – Nashville’s dumb hockey arena, which had an abnormal amount of yellow spread throughout it – sounds amazing, and it sounds even better in her own headphones. Crew members are serving as the audience, dancing around in the darkness.
Her fingers float over the mixer, bumping in little tracks of drum and adding waves of synth to hint at the mix she’s creating to close her set. “Relax” by Frankie Goes to Hollywood (“An inspired choice, Beca,” Mrs. Junk had said when she had mentioned it at dinner a few nights ago) is whining through the speaker systems, and she’s cutting it through with layers and layers of darker vocals on the song.
By now, she’s got this down to a T – this mix has perfectly crystallized in her head and her hands, like the whole set – which is good, because she’s playing it on the beach in three days. Off to the side of the stage, she can see Chloe bouncing to the song, her mic in hand.
“Relax, don’t do it, I’m on, I’m on parade,” the music splits, the mashup breaking the new song in. Chloe charges onto the stage, followed by like, ten more dancers, singing the mix in its total sum.
Beca was at first distracted by Chloe singing, when you want to come, over and over, but by now, her hands are on autopilot, watching Chloe and the dancers simply go to town on the song, weaving through each other and arriving to their perfect places with all sorts of backflips and splits and grinding motions.
Chloe sends Beca a look as she heads upstage to Beca’s indeed very sturdy table, dancing against it quite wantonly. As the choreography calls for, which Beca had wanted to object to. But Adam had insisted the table was indeed sturdy enough to deal with Chloe Beale using it as a prop, and that had been that.
Beca jams her fingers down on the buttons of her mixer, adding random sounding reverbs that keep Chloe’s voice circling around Frankie’s. In the meantime, Chloe’s real voice is bursting through to the first chorus of “Parade,” and she’s staring at Beca as she quits the mashup to play in-house producer on the song.
She’s heard it enough times before these rehearsals to know how to make the noises Calvin Harris had created for the song; and by now, she’s got it down to a science. The buttons give at just the right time, and the song benefits from the slightly upped electronic element that Beca had chosen for this arrangement. Chloe’s voice sounds more natural, her voice more throaty and stupidly sensual.
God, Beca feels like she could just make music for that voice forever.
Eventually, though, the song ends – and Chloe is pointing at Beca, saying, “Say thanks to that hottie, Beca Mitchell, for getting you guys pumped!”
The crowd of about thirty cheers loudly, as Beca’s work station starts to descend below the stage into the trapdoor. Chloe’s ass is literally the last of the stage she sees, once again. It’s very fitting. The minute she sinks out of view, her table is being unlocked and rolled off the door, and Beca is stepping off so that it can go back up.
“Great job, Beca,” Jessica yells over the sound of the next song’s guitars, grabbing Beca and hurrying them through the catacombs under the stage. Ashley, who is adhered to Jessica’s side, yells too. “I think we’ve got this!”
In the dressing rooms, Stacie is fiddling with one of the dancers’ rainbow tutus on the ground, while Aubrey is staring unhappily up at the on-stage televisions.
“Let me just say, I’m so glad I suggested the leather,” Stacie says, just as Beca pulls the hot vest from her body and hands it over to one of the costuming assistants. “All the ladies will want your hot ass.”
“Beca, you can’t keep improvising that song,” Aubrey says. “What if you throw Chloe off?”
Beca sighs, grabbing one of the water bottles on the table in the room and turning to look at Aubrey. Who is glaring, as is her current custom with Beca. Ashley and Jessica mysteriously move away simultaneously, sitting next to each other at the table and looking at their iPads for what Beca is sure is their weird addiction to checking Google Alerts.
“I’m not going to throw her off,” Beca says. “I don’t change anything about the vocal track.”
“We should play a pre-recorded mix that won’t change at all,” Aubrey says, turning her eyes away from Beca as if the girl is not even worth the waste of eye effort. Beca almost tosses her water bottle at Aubrey’s head. As if she’s ever going to mime mixing up there to a pre-recorded track.
“The only thing that would throw Chloe off is how fucking hot Beca looks in her leather vest,” Stacie says, tossing one tutu aside and reaching for another one. Beca looks down at her in silent thanks, and also in silent please don’t draw any attention to anything.
“Be that as it may, I’m just concerned about Chloe’s routine. It’s important that her voice is always in top shape, and deviating from routine can only hurt it,” Aubrey says, looking at Stacie with a look that screams you should understand this. Beca sighs again, sitting on the couch.
“She’s fine, Aubrey,” Stacie says, tossing a tutu at the blonde. She catches it, sighing as though she’s going through a mental countdown in her head to calm her anxiety or something (probably actually happening).
“You are very good, Beca,” Aubrey says. “Not my cup of tea, exactly, but you are good.”
It’s a halfway-to-normal exchange, and so Beca nods, trying to get over the anger still welling over the very thought of doing a prerecorded track, like she’s Milli Vanilli or something.
“Tom Sampson and Chloe are supposedly dating,” Ashley says, holding up her iPad with an article splashed on the glass.
“Who the hell is Tom Sampson?” Aubrey asks, standing up and heading over to the table to look over Ashley’s shoulder.
“He plays baseball for the Mariners,” Beca says, then shrugs when Aubrey and Ashley look at her curiously. They begin to pore over whatever weird article they’ve got on their hands. Beca finally takes a moment to rest, sucking down water and trying to cool down from her set while Chloe jams away on stage. Stacie throws a tutu at her legs to grab her attention.
“Sorry about,” Stacie says, her head cocking towards Aubrey. “Control freak.”
“Yeah, a little bit,” Beca says, drinking more water and fingering the tulle of the tutu that’s settled on her feet. “It’s fine. As long as that’s just her and not Chloe. I don’t want to actually fuck her up.”
“You won’t fuck Chloe up by adding random synth noises, babe,” Stacie says idly, and Beca has just a few precious seconds to gather up a sense of foreboding. “Maybe some other ways, though.”
She chokes on the water in her mouth, and Jessica looks up with concern. Beca waves her attention away; the damn girl has seen Beca get embarrassed way too many times.
“I have no idea what you are talking about,” Beca says, and Stacie raises one perfect eyebrow at her.
“Sure, small one. Sure.”