BROOKLYN, NEW YORK

  Tuesday mornings should be illegal.

  Actually, scratch that—all mornings should be illegal. Especially the ones that start with my mom shaking my shoulder like we're in an earthquake drill.

  Yes, my mom still wakes me up. Yes, I'm nineteen. If you've got a problem with that, take it up with the New York real estate market. Because if you've seen rent prices lately, you would understand why I'm still here. Decent wages in this economy mean you either live alone or you eat things that don't come in a packet labeled "Just Add Water (and low self-esteem)."

  Ok Yes, I technically make a "decent" living.

  But it's the kind of decent that would get you a shoebox for a home — and I'm nowhere near exaggerating.

  Plus I'm not talking about the cute, spicy, TikTok-famous ramen. I mean the off-brand, no-flavor-packet-left-behind, probably-made-of-sawdust kind. Dollar store noodles so bland they come with a side of disappointment.

  So yeah, I stay with my mom, she foots the Wi-Fi bill, and I handle the cooking. We split rent, (well it's like 70% her and 30% me.) and we've formed a surprisingly functional alliance—she does the motherly "wake up at dawn" routine, I do the "pretend not to hate the world at dawn" routine. It's working. Kind of.

  "Nova. Nova! You're late."

  I groan, pulling the pillow over my head like that would shield me from this woman I call mom. "Define late."

  "Late," she says, voice edging dangerously close to that tone—the mom tone that makes my eyelid twitch and my soul tremble. It means I shouldn't push my luck more if I valued my life.

  Groaning despite myself, I peek at my phone.

  7:12 A.M.

  My soul promptly leaves the premises.

  In the next half-second, I'm a human tornado—tripping over yesterday's jeans, a suspiciously large pile of unread books, and half a pizza box that I swear was not there last night. Just your normal Tuesday morning routine. The universe is out for my kneecaps and my sanity, but at least Mom's voice is bright and cheerful as she heads down the hall: "You're welcome!"

  "Love you!" I shout back, voice muffled by the hoodie I'm currently wrestling over my head. If my life were a movie, this would be the montage scene where the heroine has her stuff together and is effortlessly cute in the chaos.

  This is not that movie.

  I am not that heroine.

  Five minutes later, I'm in the kitchen, simultaneously chugging lukewarm coffee that I actually hate the taste of while lacing up my Docs. (They're basically my babies and I'd wear them under any circumstances.) Right now though my bangs refuse to cooperate, my freckles seem extra angry, and the kitchen sink has upgraded from a drip to a gentle waterfall. The landlord said he'd fix it "soon." I'm guessing that means sometime after the apocalypse or once Mercury exits retrograde. Whichever comes first.

  He's like every other man in my life: full of promises he never keeps—just words, kind of like my father.

  Or, let's be real, 98% of the male population with working vocal cords.

  At least Mom's at the table, sipping coffee and reading a paper like this is 1987. She eyes me over the rim.

  "Sweetheart, you look—"

  "Like I'm thriving?" I finish hopefully. I didn't have time for my signature eyeliner, or blush, or anything even remotely makeup-related. So yeah—I probably look like a sleep-deprived zombie who lost a fight with her alarm clock.

  But listen, I have priorities. Like making it to work not on time—because we passed that milestone twenty minutes ago—but not too late. The kind of late that still earns a raised eyebrow but not a written warning.

  Not that I'd get fired anyway. I'm way too good at my job for that.

  They need me. I'm basically a logistical Beyoncé.

  "I was going to say alive," she says, smirking over her mug. "But thriving works too."

  I narrow my eyes at her. "Sarcasm is genetic, you know."

  She nods sagely and lifts her mug. " I blame your grandmother."

  This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  That tracks, granny is kind of a savage, guess we all took from her which I can't even be mad about to be honest . Before I can get deeper into the family tree my phone buzzes violently on the table. It's my boss, Dana, who thinks five emojis per text is a totally normal thing.

  Dana: Novaaaa ??? are you awake??? Need you ASAP at the office!!! ???? emergency ??????

  I frown at the screen. "That's ominous." Honestly, it's never a good sign when she textes me before I even reach the office.

  Mom peers over her glasses. "Is that your boss or a teenager with access to emojis?"

  "Yes," I sigh, shoving a slice of peanut butter toast into my mouth. "To both."

  I type back quickly:

  Me:

  Be there soon.

  What kind of emergency are we talking? ??= as in urgent, or ??= as in actual flames?

  Dana: ???? hilarious!! Seriously tho. pls hurry. SOS.

  Great. My boss speaks fluent panic, and today she's especially articulate.

  "Gotta run," I announce, grabbing my bag, keys, and dignity (well, two out of three). "Love you, Mom. Don't burn down the apartment."

  She waves absently. "Only if you promise not to burn down your career."

  "Ha," I deadpan. "Good one."

  Mom's technically off work today, but she still insists on waking up at dawn like the day's waiting to be conquered. I won't complain though—she's basically my personal alarm clock with a side of burnt coffee. She's a nurse who claims she only does it for the paycheck, and that once she "kicks the bucket"—her favorite phrase, not mine—she hopes I'll finally stop stressing over money. Which is sweet, but also morbidly unhelpful.

  Capitalism, am I right?

  I've never met anyone who works as hard as my mom. She's a nurse—reluctantly, as she likes to remind me at least once a week. She once had other kind of dreams but she doesn't really like talking about it. But I get it.

  I'm not that stressed about money but... Enough to already feel like I'm aging at a rate that'll have me wrinkled by twenty and fully gray by twenty-five.

  It's fine. Totally fine. I love capitalism.

  The subway is predictably packed, which means I spend twenty minutes pressed against a sweaty stranger who smells faintly of despair and Cheetos. Honestly, relatable.

  By the time I stumble into the lobby of Resonance Touring Co., I look like I've survived a small war—clothes rumpled, hair hopeless, pride missing in action.

  Dana spots me instantly, all frantic blonde hair and wild eyes. She looks like she's had twelve cups of coffee and possibly committed a felony. Which I honestly wouldn't put it above her.

  "Oh thank God," she says dramatically, dragging me by the elbow toward her office. "You're here."

  "Barely," I say, stumbling after her. "Somebody better have died. Or at least quit."

  "Worse," Dana whispers, shutting the door like we're in a spy movie. "The indie-folk tour in Portland? Their manager went to Mexico. Something about a fire juggler and spiritual enlightenment."

  "Again?" I groan, sinking into a chair. "Why do our managers keep discovering their cosmic destinies in Mexico?"

  She shrugs dramatically. "Margaritas?"

  "Fair point," I concede, folding my arms. "So... what does that have to do with me?"

  Dana clasps her hands together like she's about to beg for her life. "I need you to take over. Just for a few weeks... or months." She mumbles the last part, and I do what any emotionally stable adult would do: ignore it entirely. "They leave tonight."

  I stare at her like she's grown a second head. "Dana, no. I promised myself never again. I can't deal with another tour bus or another lead singer who thinks vodka is mouthwash."

  She unleashes the Puppy-Dog Eyes of Doom: trembling lip, big watery gaze. The whole act. "Nova, you're my best person."

  I roll mine. "I'm your only person who hasn't run away to Mexico yet."

  And maybe I should've considered it, maybe the living conditions there would be a bit better.

  "And you're so good at your job."

  "No, I'm just too broke to quit."

  "Same difference," she chirps. "So please?"

  I cross my arms. "Define 'few weeks.'"

  "Six cities," she rattles off, quick as lightning. "Super chill. Minimal drama. Nice boys."

  I let out a humorless laugh. "I've met 'nice boys.' They're the ones who set hotel carpets on fire or use my shampoo without asking."

  (I still haven't recovered from the last time someone groped my pricey Olaplex. That was the day I learned how quickly I can go from zero to "crime documentary.")

  Dana blinks. "Look, I swear they're harmless."

  "Harmless like the DJ with a pet llama or harmless like that pop star who wanted to legally adopt me?"

  She hesitates. "Somewhere in between?"

  My phone buzzes. Another text from Mom:

  Mom:

  You forgot your extra socks.

  I press my lips together, glaring at Dana, then at the ceiling, then at my life choices in general. "You owe me," I finally say. "Big time."

  She squeals, flinging her arms around me. "You're my hero!"

  "Yeah, yeah." I gently shove her off. "Just promise me one thing."

  "Anything."

  "No emotional support animals, no stolen smoothies, and absolutely no panty theft."

  She laughs nervously, and the fact that she's not immediately denying the panty theft possibility is... concerning. "Right, yep, totally."

  I narrow my eyes. "Dana."

  She waves a hand. "I promise. Look, these guys are messy, but it's gonna be so easy for you. You'll barely even notice them and you'll get a bonus too."

  I shoot her a long, skeptical look. Because these are usually the famous last words of my career. But let's be honest—my judgment is questionable at best, and the money is good. Possibly good enough to keep me from living off that horrifying sawdust ramen for a while.

  I sigh like I'm about to sign a contract in blood. "Fine. I'll do it. With a big, fake smile and only mild resentment."

  "That's my girl!" she crows, scribbling an address on a Post-it and slapping it onto my forehead.

  "Pickup is at eight tonight. I'll even cover the taxi, since, you know, your car is still..."

  "Dying," I fill in. "Yes, well, can't justify dumping money into something that runs on fumes when the subway exists. Also, environment."

  What can I say, i'm environmentally conscious - also broke but mostly conscious.

  Ignoring my entire comedic meltdown, Dana hands me the Post-it. I peel it off my face and stomp toward the office door like a soldier off to war.

  Six cities. One bus. A complete mystery band.

  What could possibly go wrong?

  (Spoiler alert: everything.)

  I'm halfway down the hall, stepping into the elevator, when it hits me like a rogue wave:

  I never even asked who the band was.

  And by the time I realize that tiny, crucial detail... it's way, way too late.

  ????????????????