Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 95107 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 476(@200wpm)___ 380(@250wpm)___ 317(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95107 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 476(@200wpm)___ 380(@250wpm)___ 317(@300wpm)
I can’t help but laugh. “I told you to stop giving me gifts!”
This kid gets me “a little something” just about every time I see him. Nice signed a massive recording contract after his single went viral last year. Now he throws money around exactly the way a teenager does when he’s got more than he knows what to do with.
“But I gotta let you know I appreciate you.” His smile is so earnest, I melt in the face of it.
“Dude, you need to get yourself a financial advisor,” I advise. “Put some of that money away for when you’re older.”
“I keep telling my man to get some of that cryptocurrency,” Gumby says.
“Nah, bruh. You know that shit uses as much electricity as it takes to power a whole country for a year?” Nice says gravely. “Screw that.”
Inside my box is a beautiful watch. “This is gorgeous,” I tell him. “But it’s way too expensive. I really shouldn’t.”
“But you don’t want to insult me, so you will,” he says, beaming. “It’s made from recycled ocean plastic. They only produced twenty of these. Elon Musk has three.” Then he pushes up the sleeve of his jacket to show he’s wearing four of them. Two on each wrist. Take that, Musk. “They’re funding the boat that’s pulling the floating garbage island out of the Pacific.”
I shake my head in astonishment. “It’s amazing. Thank you.”
As far as rappers go, Nice is unique. A lot of his lyrics talk about climate change and conservation. Different causes he’s passionate about. He’s legitimately one of the cleverest teenagers I’ve ever met, which comes through in his music and the way he puts rhymes together.
“Hey, y’all know Hannah’s boyfriend won a hockey award last night?” he says to his friends, who are all crammed on the leather couch with their phones out. The kid travels with an entourage.
“Hockey?” Gumby says, glancing up. “Dump him. I can set ya up with my boy on the Celtics.”
“Thank you, but I’m good.”
“How’d it go?” Nice asks.
“It was great. I’m pretty proud of him.” I grin. “Even if his ego is about to become unbearable.”
“You tell him I said congrats. And not to get feeling himself too much.”
Which is a trip coming from Nice. Not that he’s full of himself, but he’s got a lot of diva in him. Some people were just born to be superstars.
We get back to recording, but it isn’t long before I’m not feeling quite right. I shift in my chair. It’s getting hot in here, and there’s a sour taste in my mouth. Oh no. No, no, no. Not here, damn it. But there’s no stopping it. In the middle of Nice’s chorus, I blurt out, “Gotta pee!” and then dive off my chair. I sprint out of the room, leaving an embarrassing wave of laughter in my wake and Patch remarking, “Lord, these itty-bitty lady bladders, bruh.”
Luckily there’s a restroom less than five yards away. I stand over the toilet for a few minutes, breathing hard, gulping through the waves of nausea. But nothing comes up. It’s been this way for days, and I’ve had about all the fun I can stand.
After I’ve washed my hands and dabbed some cold water on my face, I check my phone to see I have a bunch of missed texts.
ALLIE: Don’t leave me hanging. Did you do it??
I sigh. Allie is my best friend and I love her to death, but she’s starting to drive me nuts. Ever since I told her I was pregnant, she’s been on me to talk to Garrett. Not that it’s a ludicrous course of action or anything. I mean, of course I need to tell the father of this baby that he’s, well, the father of this baby. But I’m starting to feel the pressure and that just makes me queasier.
ME: No. We ran into his dad at the awards ceremony. Wasn’t a good time.
Instead of texting back, she immediately calls me.
I answer with, “Hey. I’m still at the studio so I can’t talk for long.”
“Oh, don’t worry, this won’t take long.” Her tone becomes part scolding, part pity. “Han-Han. When you start eating pickles and a whole red velvet cake on the couch at two in the morning, he’s going to figure it out. You have to tell him.”
“Ugh, don’t mention food.” The thought gets my stomach churning again. “I’m currently in the bathroom trying not to puke.”
“Uh-huh. See? Not drinking and going to the bathroom every ten minutes to pee or vomit is something else he’s going to notice eventually.”
“I know I need to tell him. But it seems like every time I try, there’s some reason not to.”
“And there always will be if you want there to be.”
“Allie.”
“I’m just saying. Maybe you need to ask yourself if you’re stalling for some reason.”