6. Quinn
6
QUINN
T he GPS announces another recalculation as I push my car past the speed limit. My knuckles whiten against the steering wheel while I mutter calculations under my breath.
"Three hours to showtime. I can make it. I can make it."
Red and blue lights flash in my rearview mirror.
"No, no, NO!" My stomach drops as I ease onto the shoulder. "Dear God, if you're listening, I could really use a break right about now." The cruiser pulls up behind me. "Hey Santa? I know it's early, but I've been really good this year. Well, mostly good."
I fumble through my glove compartment for the registration as the officer approaches, his boots crunching on the gravel.
"License and registration." He taps on my window with his flashlight.
My hands shake as I pass them over. "Officer, I know I was speeding, but I'm actually running really late for-"
"Step out of the vehicle, ma'am."
"I'm sorry, what?"
"This vehicle is registered to Robert and Linda Dupree." He shines the light in my face. "Care to explain?"
"They're my parents." I dig through my wallet. "Look, I have my ID. Same last name and everything."
"Could be stolen. We'll need to verify."
"Are you kidding me?" I slump against the car. "Listen, I'm their daughter. Their very desperate daughter who's about to lose the biggest opportunity of her life if I don't make it to Montana by tonight."
"Montana?" He squints at my ID. "That's quite a drive from Tennessee. Suspicious, are you running from something?"
This can't be my life. I think to myself.
"Let me just call my parents, you can talk to them." I inform the officer.
My fingers tremble as I dial my parents' number. The officer stands nearby, radioing in my information. The Montana-bound GPS mocks me from the dashboard.
"Quinn?" Mom's voice carries that familiar mix of worry and disappointment. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong." I swallow hard. "I'm actually calling because-"
"Where are you? That sounds like traffic."
"I'm in South Dakota-"
"South Dakota?" Dad's voice cuts in. They must be on speaker. "What in God's name are you doing there?"
"If you'd let me finish..." I press my forehead against the steering wheel. "I'm opening for this holiday tour and-"
"Another tour?" Mom sighs. "Honey, remember that bar tour that ended up being a scam?"
"This is different. It's legitimate. I'm supposed to be in Montana by tonight."
"Montana?" Dad's voice rises. "In that death trap you call a car? Quinn, this is ridiculous. Come home for the holidays instead. Your mother's making her sweet potato casserole."
"I can't just give up. This could be my break."
"Your break?" Mom's voice cracks. "Sweetheart, you've been chasing 'your break' for three years. There's nothing wrong with admitting it didn't work out."
I thrust the phone toward the officer. "Here, talk to them. They'll confirm everything."
He takes it with a skeptical look. "Mr. and Mrs. Dupree? This is Officer Peterson with the South Dakota Highway Patrol."
My parents' voices buzz through the speaker as I pace beside my car, kicking at loose gravel.
"Yes ma'am," He pauses, listening. "I understand your concern."
I groan, running my hands through my tangled hair.
"Well, she was going fifteen over..." He glances at me. "I suppose I could let her off with a warning, given the circumstances."
My heart leaps. Finally, something going right.
"No sir, I appreciate you confirming her identity." Another pause. "Don't worry, I'll make sure she takes it easy on these roads. You folks have a good one."
He hands the phone back. "Your parents are worried about you."
"They're always worried about me." I take the phone, hearing Mom still talking on the other end. "Thanks, Mom. I've got to go-"
"Quinn Marie Dupree, don't you dare hang up-"
I end the call and slip the phone into my pocket, facing the officer with what I hope is a winning smile. "So... about that warning?"
The officer approaches with my documents. I wait until he drives off before I high tail it out of there.
I check the GPS - arrival time now 30 minutes past my soundcheck slot. My chest tightens.
"Highway to Hell," starts to play through the speakers and at this point I don't know whether to laugh or cry.
The massive arena looms before me, its marquee blazing against the darkening sky: "JUST SOUTH OF MASON - HOMETOWN FOR THE HOLIDAYS TOUR." My fingers go numb on the steering wheel.
"You've got to be fucking joking." I grab my phone, nearly dropping it twice before managing to dial. "Pick up, pick up..."
"Quinn! You made it-"
"Just South of Mason? Are you insane?" My voice comes out as a squeak. "They're like... they're..."
"Now, don't panic-"
"Don't panic? They've sold out every major venue in the country! Their last single was number one for twelve weeks!" My free hand clutches my stomach. "Oh god, I think I'm gonna be sick."
"That's why I didn't tell you who they were. I knew you'd back out."
"Because I'm not ready for this! I play coffee shops and dive bars, not arenas!" The parking lot spins a little. "Last week someone threw a beer can at me because I wouldn't play 'Sweet Home Alabama.'"
"Quinn, listen to me. The label wouldn't have picked you if-"
"I can't do this." I press my forehead against the steering wheel. "I'm going to walk out there and forget every word to every Christmas song ever written. They're going to laugh me off stage. It'll end up on ET: 'Local Nobody Bombs Opening Act, Career Dies Faster Than Her Car.'"
"Take a breath." His voice turns serious. "You're there because you deserve to be. Now get your ass inside before they give your slot to some other nobody."
The line goes dead. I stare at the marquee again, the letters burning into my retinas. Through the lobby windows, I can see people rushing around with equipment, clipboards, coffee cups.
This is really happening.
I burst through the doors, my boots squeaking against the polished floor as I nearly collide with a guy carrying a stack of cables. My guitar case bangs against my hip as I dodge around him.
"I'm here! I made it!" My voice echoes through the lobby. A woman in a sleek pantsuit looks up from her tablet, her expression shifting from annoyance to recognition.
"Quinn Dupree?" She extends a manicured hand. "Monica Morrison, Just South of Mason's manager."
"I am so sorry about being late." The words tumble out.
She holds up a hand. "Shit happens. The guys have already made adjustments to tonight's schedule."
My stomach drops. "What do you mean?"
"You missed soundcheck." She taps something on her tablet. "The divas aren't comfortable having someone perform without proper preparation. We can't risk technical issues."
"But I-" My throat tightens. "I drove as fast as I could to get here, I even got pulled over?—."
"And we appreciate your dedication." Her smile doesn't reach her eyes. "But they're just going to play an extended encore tonight instead. We'll need you in the conference room at eight AM sharp tomorrow to discuss the rest of the tour."
"So I'm just supposed to..." I gesture helplessly at nothing.
"Enjoy the show." She hands me a lanyard with an ALL ACCESS pass. "Don't be late tomorrow."
She clicks away on her heels, leaving me standing there with my guitar case and the bitter taste of failure in my mouth. The pass dangles from my fingers, mocking me with its laminated shine.
A stagehand brushes past, already forgetting I exist. The distant sound of the crowd filters through the walls, their excitement a stark contrast to the hollow feeling in my chest.