Chapter 2
Melody
Nine months later
“Did you see that playoff game against the Seahawks?” A loud, friendly man leans forward from the backseat of my Honda Pilot.
He’s with three of his equally loud buddies, and I’m driving them to Tipitina’s, one of the oldest live music venues in New Orleans.
It’s a rainy night in the French Quarter, and the streets are shiny and filled with gasoline rainbows. It’s still warm, and the scent is… not great. Hot garbage and urine.
“I sure did,” I call over my shoulder, loving these kinds of chatty rides with football fans like me. “Unbelievable.”
“Knox Bradford was supposed to be this great thing, this first-round draft pick, star rookie.” I can tell by the fellow’s accent he’s old New Orleans, most likely he grew up in the Garden District where the streets are named after trees and the occasional fruit. “He’s no Drew Brees.”
“Not yet, anyway.” I do try to maintain some level of optimism.
I may have only lived in New Orleans six months, but everybody knows the legendary quarterback, who retired years ago. Residents should be moving on to their new QB, but Bradford’s been making mistakes, and he just sank the playoff game.
So, like a first love or the one that got away, many of them still long for the days of Number 9.
“He’s undisciplined,” I suggest, thinking of what my dad would say. “The coaches need to curb that impulsive streak and have him drilling.”
“Do you see how long he holds the ball after the snap?” The man groans, throwing up his hands. “He’d rather take the sack than get the easy five yards, and he lives in the Big Easy!”
A smile splits my cheeks, and I chuckle. New Orleans people love to bitch, but they have the best sense of humor about it.
Looking up, we’re approaching the corner of Napoleon Avenue and Tchoupitoulas Street, and I slow my ride. The sign out front advertises the band Epic Reflexes, and I know they’re in for a treat.
“Have a fun night,” I call at the stop.
“Thanks, little lady.” The fellow pats my shoulder. “You be safe out here.”
“Yes, sir!” I nod, waiting as they climb out and get their footing.
A new ride lights up on my screen, and I quickly accept it. It’s a five-star older woman, booking a ride from Antoine’s restaurant to one of the nicer hotels on Canal Street. I anticipate a lot of stop-and-go traffic getting in and out of the Quarter.
Turns out the woman has a little girl with her, who carries a pink football along with her pink dress, and her fawn-brown hair is styled in matching pigtails.
“You played football?” the little girl calls from the backseat after I took a chance and told her a bit about my history with the sport.
“I sure did.” I meet her eyes in my rearview mirror with a smile. “They called me the Quarterback Princess because I was obsessed with this old movie where a girl played quarterback on her high school football team.”
“I remember that one,” the older lady, who I assume is her grandmother, says. “Wasn’t Helen Hunt the quarterback princess?”
“She was!” I laugh.
“How in the world did you find that old show at your age?” Grandmother Moreau asks.
The rideshare app told me her last name is Moreau, but I’m still guessing on the grandmother part.
“My friend’s dad let us watch it on YouTube.” I fondly remember how completely blown my three-year-old mind was by the possibility I could be a princess and a quarterback.
“Still, it’s a stretch from watching a movie to playing football in real life,” the woman notes.
“Yeah, I think I knew even as a little girl it was reaching for the impossible, but I always loved football. Then I saw Helen Hunt on the field.”
“Who’s Helen Hunt, Nana?” The little girl is on her knees between the seats, putting her small hand on the lady’s shoulder.
“You need to buckle up, now,” I caution gently. “If I had to slam on breaks, you’d fly through the windshield like a field goal.”
The little girl’s eyes widen, and she hops into her seat again, pulling the belt across her lap and shoulders. “Are you the quarterback princess, Miss…”
“Melody,” I supply, not worried about giving my name to two complete strangers in the French Quarter.
Everybody talks to strangers in New Orleans. As they say in A Streetcar Named Desire, it’s a city built on the kindness of strangers. It knows no bounds when it comes to interacting with others.
“Miss Melody,” the little girl finishes.
“That’s what they called me when I was your age. The Quarterback Princess.”
“And now you’re an Uber driver.” Her grandmother’s voice holds a warning.
I don’t think she’s trying to dunk on me. I imagine she’s more trying to caution her granddaughter against getting something outlandish in her head like pursuing a career in football.
“Actually, I was a sports podcaster, but I’m kind of in between jobs at the moment. My friend thought I could do this until I found something new.”
I don’t mention the second overdue rent notice sitting on my dining room table. It’s the whole reason I’m out here taking as many rides as I can tonight. Anxiety tightens the base of my throat, but I do my best not to let it show. It doesn’t help with tips.
“What’s a sports podcaster?” Nana asks.
“It’s like a sports journalist, but streaming.” I can tell she still doesn’t understand. “It’s like a radio show where we break down the weekly games. I worked with my friend Susan… until we had a sort of disagreement on our approach to interview subjects.”
“What type of disagreement?”
If I were anywhere but here, I’d think she was prying, but I opened this can of worms. I can’t fault her wanting to know more.
Or I don’t know, maybe I want to talk about it, get it off my chest, only not with people I know. A complete stranger won’t judge, and I can speak freely.
“Susan thought we would get higher ratings if we took more of a shock approach with the questions.”
“Do higher ratings mean more money?”
“Pretty much. More listeners draw more advertisers. She was really into ‘gotcha’ journalism.” I exhale deeply, studying the road ahead and second-guessing myself for the thousandth time. “I didn’t think it was fair to our guests, even if it created more drama.”
“You have standards,” the woman says affirmatively. “You should be proud of yourself for having integrity.”
“I’d be prouder if I hadn’t lost all my income.” I do my best to keep my tone neutral. “I might have standards, but standards don’t pay the bills.”
“But you’re the Quarterback Princess!” The little girl’s voice is infused with so much hope, it lifts my spirits, however briefly.
She reminds me a lot of myself at her age, believing the best of everyone, seeing possibilities everywhere, loving life and football and my family.
I think about my dad and the lessons he taught me from his own personal setbacks.
“That’s right.” I meet her eyes in the mirror and give her a little wink. “Life throws some crazy passes, but if you stay strong and keep your eye on the ball, you’ll catch them and run them in for a touchdown.”
Her expression is serious as she nods slowly, as if I’ve imparted some great wisdom to her. Then she dives forward to give me a hug over the seat before getting out.
“Thank you, Quarterback Princess.” Her voice is as solemn as if I were her football fairy godmother.
Or someone who showed her it doesn’t have to end when you take a stand, even if it seems like no one cares as you exit stage left.
“It was nice meeting you.” The woman pats my shoulder before stepping out of my car. “For what it’s worth, I think you did the right thing, and I hope you get your happy ending.”
“Thank you,” I say, with a little less cheer. “Have fun in the city.”
I turn the wheel towards Canal Street, in the direction of the Quarter. My monitor beeps, but I don’t feel like taking another ride immediately. My brief foray down memory lane has me feeling sad and defeated, and that letter stamped in all-caps OVERDUE has a pain whispering behind my eyes.
I do believe I made the right choice. I have to believe I did. Yet every month, I’m confronted by another article from Susan Jackson, the new star reporter for Sports Illuminated.
Everyone loves her. She’s so brilliant. She’s lauded for her ability to “go deep” and get answers her subjects have never shared in public before.
Last month she did an exclusive interview with a retired baseball player who is notoriously private and rarely speaks to the press. I read it, of course, and I could tell she’d pulled the same crap with him as she did in our podcasts.
I’m willing to bet that’s the last time he speaks to a reporter.
With a heavy exhale, I reach out to accept the new ride request that popped up on my screen. It’s from someone named Eddie Rabbitt—clearly a fake name—and it’s asking for a priority pickup at the JW Marriott on Canal Street, headed to the airport.
Shaking my head, I’m sure it’s some lawyer in town for a conference. That’s always who I get from the fancier hotels in town.
I turn the wheel, am immediately stuck in traffic, and my personal phone lights up with a text.
Coco
A lady on American Pickers has a piece of Fenton art glass!
Lindsey
What channel?
Coco
WYES, of course.
The weight in my chest lifts in the presence of my lifelong besties.
Coco is a baker still living in Fireside, South Carolina, where we all grew up, but Lindsey made the move with me to New Orleans to be the producer on my new podcast Girl’s Got Game. I hope it’ll help me reclaim my career.
I tap the microphone icon on my phone and slowly dictate my response.
Melody
How big is it, does it have the hobnails, and what’s the color?
Coco
It’s a large, pale pink flower vase, and yes, hobnails! How much is it worth???
Closing my eyes, I do some quick mental math. I’m like the Marissa Tomei of antiques. My mother is an antiques dealer, my grandfather was an antiques dealer, my godfather is an antiques dealer…
Melody
Iridescent or solid color?
Coco
Iridescent.
Melody
$60 tops.
Coco
Boo… that’s so cheap! I thought Fenton pieces were priceless.
Melody
Find a mid-century alley cat or a mosaic art piece, and we’re talking real money.