Chapter 1

1

ELECTRA

C losing my eyes, I listen to the energetic silence.

After turning on the lights, the soundboard, the monitors… there's something hanging in the air. A silent hum of electricity. The quiet before the music.

According to my weirdo hippie musician parents, it's the sound I was named for.

Mind you, Mom was probably just trying to pull interesting quotes out of her butt to impress whoever was interviewing her. She would say or do anything to grasp onto a few more shreds of publicity before her band eventually disappears into obscurity.

Smiling to myself, my fingertips run lovingly along the edge of the massive soundboard. I've watched and assisted in every part of the recording process but this is the first time I've been alone in the studio with this incredible equipment.

And nobody is ever going to know.

I transfer the files for five songs from my laptop to the studio computer. Everything goes into an innocuous folder titled "synth plug-in backups." Nobody ever erases a backup file, and they already have the standard synth effects for their latest album, so my parents and their sound tech Mack will never notice.

I putter around the studio to set things up, taking note of where every piece of equipment was left so that I can put it back the same way. Although there was such a huge jam session here last night, they probably won't remember.

A mic stand is already set up, and I move it closer to the window between the rooms so I can keep an eye on the soundboard. Recording myself is going to be a bit of a pain, since I'll be running between the studio and control room between takes, but that's fine. I cannot let a single person on Earth know that the daughter of the infamous duo CC and Ryl Jones is making her own music. All of their publicity friends would instantly turn it into a media circus. Ew.

I set up a second mic stand right beside the first, then get the microphones. The Telefunken U47 – or "Telly", as Sinatra famously nicknamed his favorite microphone – goes just above my nose. Then I clip the pop screen in front of it.

A Shure Beta58 is pointed lower, nearly touching my bottom lip. Between the two, I'm pretty sure I can get the sound I'm looking for, and shift back and forth between them during the verses and the chorus.

Once the mics are plugged into the preamp and connected to the board, I dash into the booth, hit record, then hurry back. Watching the green-amber-red spikes on the soundboard, I check the signal and volume by singing, "Testing one, two, th?—"

I jump back with a yelp as the bottom mic shocks me. There's an ominous humming buzz, then silence. I follow the cable to where the soundboard and preamp are plugged in. A curl of smoke is coming from the outlet.

Oh no.

The electrical panel is just outside the main door. Luckily everything is clearly labeled, so I cut the breaker to the studio room outlets and the smoke stops. Shit. If I've fried any instruments, life as I know it is over. Some of them are vintage, with countless albums humming through them.

When my parents actually do acknowledge I exist, they frequently wonder aloud why I'm not into creating music like they are. If they find out I've ruined their equipment…

My mother would never forgive me. Dad would be disappointed, but might come around. Mom? Never. She's unpredictable, but that's a dead certainty.

I race to the bulletin board in the kitchen next to the studio, which is a huge extension on the side of our house. There are business cards posted for the local pharmacies, the best bars, and the music store.

Tucked away at the bottom is a card for "Ray Harrison, Electrician". I vaguely remember him from when he hooked up the studio over ten years ago. I must have been ten or eleven, following him around like an excited puppy. He was so patient, explaining everything that he was doing, letting me soak it all in…until Mom decided I was slowing him down and dragged me away.

I leave a message that I have a semi-emergency. Then all I can do is wait.

This really sucks. This weekend alone was my only shot. Finally the perfect opportunity, and I ruined it.

I've been making these tracks secretly in my bedroom for the past six months. They don't know I have a small amp hidden in my closet with a mic that is good enough to record to my laptop. I recorded the guitar whenever they were having huge jam sessions, since I knew I'd be ignored. Since I'm adding so many effects, I knew the sound quality for the guitar would be fine.

But it's not the same with vocals. They have to be clear. Fresh. Full of emotion.

Unless I can get them recorded here in the studio by noon or so Monday, my dream of pouring my heart and soul into these songs is as fried as that electrical outlet.

Like I said: shit.