Once More From the Top by Emily Layden

Author:Emily Layden [Layden, Emily]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers
Published: 2024-06-28T12:00:00+00:00

2022

My appearances are negotiated. Not just when and where and for how long, but what sort of questions are permissible and whether I’ll sign autographs and what kind of snacks and drinks should be on hand and how much small talk I’ll make and whether photographs are allowed and if so by whom (e.g., press only) and in what context (e.g., posed versus candid) and, also, most importantly, what kind of security is available.

Accounting for the details is Sloane’s responsibility. Knowing that they may not all materialize—that there might be surprises, that someone will sneak a video on their phone even if we explicitly said no filming, that a reporter will ask a question not on the approved list (or, more likely, they will manipulate a question on the approved list to insinuate or imply something else), that I will get stuck taking selfies with fans because they will ask and I feel bad saying no—this is my job. I handle the curveballs in real time.

We arrive at Thompson High in our small convoy: two SUVs, me and Sloane in one; my makeup artist, Lucie, and my stylist, Joe, in another. My security detail divides itself between the two vehicles. When we pull up to the building, a small corps of local news outlets is already assembled in the high school’s looped driveway. We wave to them as we walk in, me at the center of my team’s square formation, arm extended high into the air, gesturing over the fence of their bodies.

Principal Gleason is waiting for us inside, along with her own small entourage: the superintendent Mr. McFadden and a handful of school board members.

Look at these fucking suits, Kelsey says. I guarantee McFadden hasn’t listened to a new song since 1953.

That’s probably the year he was born.

Exactly.

“We’re really so grateful for your contribution, Dylan,” Gleason says.

My contribution: three-quarters of a million dollars, divided across two separate funds, one to endow a scholarship in Kelsey’s name for a graduating senior who plans to continue their music studies in college; another to finance a program called, tentatively, New Voices—an advanced-study opportunity for seniors in music and the performing arts. When I was at Thompson, a small cohort of students with premed aspirations was selected each year for a program that allowed them to miss their morning classes to shadow researchers and physicians at the local hospitals. Now there will be something similar for students in the arts.

“I’m just sorry Kelsey didn’t have an opportunity like this one,” I say, “and glad that we can help to create it for future Thompson students.”

Gleason smiles in a confused sort of way, and I realize that she didn’t think we were already talking in sound bites. I grin, reach out a hand, and touch her elbow gently. “I was wondering if we could walk the long way to the auditorium, past my old locker?”

Gleason’s shoulders melt. “Of course,” she breathes, and together we lead the group down the English wing, chatting softly: about Mrs.

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