Say it Louder by Heidi Joy Tretheway

shorter than Tyler and half a head shorter than me. He’s got about the least imposing presence of anyone I’ve met, but when he opened his mouth in our recording session he somehow steered us right.
    It might work.
    Fuck, it has to work. We need something to go right for us.
    We wrap up practice, and Jayce corners me. At first I brace for another confrontation, but then I realize he’s got a genuine question, asked in solidarity.
    “I like Ravi, don’t get me wrong. He’s sharp and talented and killed it during our recording session. But even if you give Kristina the money, with all the shit that she’s threatening, shouldn’t we get a PR guy?”
    I shake my head. For once, I’m ready with an answer. “No. We’ve been apologizing to the media from day one. Gavin for Lulu. Stella for her transgressions, and even though Tyler was clean, also for his. Violet for her naked photos, even though that was clearly victim-shaming. There will be no more fucking apologizing for anything.”
    I cross my arms and set my chin as a smile spreads across Jayce’s face. “I can get behind that.”
    Now I’m going to have to fucking eat my words.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

    When the bell jingles, I sit up straight and immediately regret it. Ow. I wring an angry cramp from my neck, earned from sketching nonstop for more than an hour.
    The day’s half over and I’ve had a steady stream of walk-ins mostly wanting to browse our design books and talk options.
    I can tell the serious customers from the looky-loos. Serious folks talk in terms of hours, steps, shading, and design approval. Gawkers? They talk prices, debate whether to do a flower or a cartoon character or a Chinese symbol for who-the-fuck-knows-what.
    Beside the walk-ins and my two scheduled clients, I’ve also seen one reporter, a couple of art students and a collector. So much for privacy or anonymity. They walk in and they know .
    It’s almost enough to make me want to dye my hair back to its true honey blond.
    Almost. I like pink. I tell people fuchsia is my natural hair color, but it fades.
    Give it two weeks and it’s barely there. Dyeing my hair, even doing it myself with the cheap stuff, is one of my few vanities.
    The latest person to walk through my door doesn’t belong: he’s tall, gaunt, and clad all in black except a white thermal long-sleeve shirt that’s pushed up his forearms, layered beneath a faded band T-shirt.
    “Are you … Willa?”
    “What’s your name?” I hold out my hand to shake, forcing him to answer.
    “Jeff Collins.”
    “Are you here for a tattoo, Jeff Collins?”
    “No, I’m looking for Willa. The artist?”
    Well, doesn’t that just make me feel special. Willa the Artist —not a phrase I expect to hear from some guy I’ve never met.
    Except now I’ve met him, and I would like to know why the fuck he’s in my shop. I could be sketching. I should be, if I’m going to make the new stencil I have in mind tonight.
    “So why are you here?” I’m aware I’m not answering any of his questions, but he’s on my turf.
    “I wanted to find out more about Willa’s—your—work,” he says, assuming he’s got the right girl. “What do you do besides the street stuff and tattoos?”
    And so I rattle off the same thing I’ve told the other drop-ins today: I do canvases, I have a gallery show in the works, and no, I’m not willing to work on commission unless it’s for a tattoo.
    I want my art to make my statement, not theirs.
    “The thing about your work is that art collectors love a story, Willa.”
    I hate that Jeff’s using my first name. A lot. I stare at him, willing him to get it over with.
    “So I think people are going to want to know the woman behind the canvases—how you get to where you are? What are your influences? Where did you study?”
    I snort. “I studied at the school of hard knocks and the New York Public Library.”
    Other than getting my GED through the homeless teen resource center, I’ve got zip for