Lovestruck Summer by Melissa Walker (best management books of all time txt) 📕

her iPod and listen to the Walters. Again.”On the drive back to the condo complex, I am fuming. Russ just totally dismissed my opin- ion and practically called me a musical ignora- mus. I bet I know way more than he does. When we get home, I jump out of the car and sprint up to Penny’s door, holding my copy

29 of the house key. My cousin waves good night to Chrissy and Russ. “Great to meet you, Quinn!”shouts Chrissy, and I give her a quick wave in return. “Night, Priscilla,”says Russ. Hmph. “I’m glad you guys all get along,”says Penny when we get inside. Is she blind? “Chrissy pretty much lives here half the time,”she continues. “And Russ loves my place because I have a bigger TV than they do and nicer furniture.”Not in the dog’s room, I think. “Yeah,”I say, not wanting to cause trouble. “They seem okay.”It doesn’t matter what I think about her friends because I don’t plan to spend much time hanging around here. As soon as I start my internship and meet more of my kind of people, I have a feeling I’ll hardly ever be at Penny’s. Then I won’t have to deal with that exasperat- ing Russ. When I snuggle down onto my couch bed

30 that night, headphones in place, I dream of the angst-fi lled and sensitive lead singer (or guitar- ist . . . or drummer . . . or keyboardist . . . or, ooh, maybe a lead-singing keyboardist) who awaits me once I get to work at Amalgam Records.

31 Chapter 4 Penny lets me borrow her car for my first day at Amalgam, although I’m going to have to figure out an alternate form of transportation at some point. I guess I assumed the bus system in Austin would be amazing or at least serviceable, but I was wrong. Yesterday I spent all afternoon trying to get across town, and I got lost four times. I think I need a car. Thank goodness, Penny isn’t territorial about her BMW. It was nice to drive today, even though I’m embarrassed as I step out of the cherry red Beamer. How eighties-movie prep can I get? Amalgam Records is in the middle of a row of stores that includes a Michael’s crafts and a Kerr Drugs. That kind of surprises me. I mean, I wasn’t picturing some LA–style round

32 skyscraper, but a strip mall? As I push open the glass door with AMAL- GAM spelled out in worn orange lettering, I real- ize my heart is speeding up a little bit. Maybe I should have called again to confi rm the intern- ship. What if they turn me away? I’m wearing a thrift-store T-shirt that says SIP AND SAIL TAVERN, ONEONTA, NY. I’ve never been to Oneonta, New York, let alone the bar, but the mustard yellow color of the shirt—combined with its just-worn- enough softness—makes it a favorite. I hope I look right. But not in a way that makes it seem like I tried to look right. “Hey,”I say to the girl who’s sitting on the blue industrial carpet near the entrance. She’s got huge, open brown eyes and thin lips, and her head looks somehow too big for her body. Her long dyed-red hair is shaggy and unkempt, but in a cool way, like she just stayed up all night and rolled into work. Actually, that’s what her eye makeup looks like too—smudged around the edges but still luminous. “Hey,”she says back, not smiling. She’s sitting among a bunch of cardboard boxes full

33 of CDs, and she has a few cases spread out in front of her. “Who’re you?”“I’m Quinn Parker,”I say, hoping my name means something to her. “I’m the summer intern.”She looks at me warily. “I’m the summer intern,”she says. Just then, a scruffy guy in corduroys and a white cotton undershirt comes through the front door. “Are the demos in order, Jade?”he asks, not looking at me. “Almost,”she says. “Good. Because I need to have them ready for—”Then he stops and glances over at me. “Who’re you?”he asks. It’s the question of the morning. I try to stand tall, like I belong here, but that’s getting more uncertain by the minute. “I’m Quinn Parker,”I say. “Um, is Rick around?”I invoke the only name that I have, the only evidence of my late-night-phone-call arrangement. “I’m Rick,”says Shaggy Man, who is defi nitely

34 too old to be my indie Supreme. He must be at least thirty. “Oh,”I start. “Well, I called a couple of weeks ago and set up this internship for the summer with someone, and he said I could start today and to ask for Rick so I’m just—”Ramble much? “Wait, wait—”Rick laughs and merci- fully interrupts me. “Did you call really late at night?”“Yes!”I say, dorkily hopeful. “That was me!”“Oh, man,”he says, sitting down atop one of the many cardboard boxes near Jade. “I thought that was my sister’s friend joking around.”He slaps his hand on his leg like something is so funny. “We really only need one intern,”Rick con- tinues. “We’re not a big operation here.”I look down at the blue carpet, not sure what to say. I should have called again. Who just shows up at an internship without any details? I was so excited to be offered the job, I guess I wanted to believe it would work out. If this internship falls through I don’t know what I’ll

35 do. I want to tell him that I’m a huge fan of all the bands on Amalgam. I start spontaneously imagining all the things I would do for this job: 1) I would go on coffee runs. 2) I would organize closets. 3) I would carry band gear—anything it takes. But I’m afraid that eagerly voicing my obsessive list might not be cool. So all I do is look at him. I can feel that my eyes are a little desperate. Jade is giving me an intense stare. I can feel