Scripted

three

three

           “Yeah, Mace-Face! You go, baby! Sing that chorus!” I obnoxiously called from the other side of the sound booth. The guy in charge of all the buttons and making sure that Mason didn’t sound like complete shit shot me a pointed glare, which basically captured the essence of I-freaking-hate-you-so-much-right-now-but-I-work-for-your-boyfriend-so-I’m-not-going-to-say-anything. I sent the guy a wide smile, and then returned to my cheering, pressing the button that allowed Mason to hear me, even with his fancy headphones on: “You rap that song, Grey! Whoo! You got this!”

           It was Wendy the vocal coach’s turn to sigh deeply, shaking her head at my antics. Technically, though, I wasn’t to be blamed for my current behavior—it was all Mason’s fault. He didn’t want to be here recording, so decided to bring me along to lighten things up. I hadn’t known, however, that his new song happened to be in the genre of rap. Yes, that was correct, Mason Grey (the whitest boy I had ever met) was rapping. Well, attempting to.

           I wasn’t sure what idiot decided that having Mason rap on his next album was a better idea than just hiring a real rapper, but whoever it was deserved a demerit and a half. Mason could sing. Normally pretty well. He had a nice voice, and usually people didn’t mind if he sounded bad because his face was so gorgeous. But currently, he was trying to rap. Mason could do a lot of things. Rapping was not one of them.

           And so, like the supportive “girlfriend” that I was, I felt it my obligation—no, my duty to make fun of him throughout this entire process. Thankfully, Mason also found the prospect of him rapping to be completely absurd, so was mocking himself right along with me. A thick sheet of glass separated us, but even that couldn’t stop us from having the fun that we deserved. Mason Grey rapping. It was just too funny to handle.

           “Thanks for the support, babe!” Mason called into his microphone.

           “Anytime!” I called back, pressing down on the special button once more. I blew him a kiss with the aid of a single hand, and he pretended to catch it.

           Everyone in a ten-foot radius of us groaned, and Wendy instructed him to take it from the top once again.

           “Yeah, I’m not really feeling it,” Mason determined, which was his way of saying, “No.”

           “Mason! We have to finish this song,” Wendy told him strictly.

           “We’ve been working on this for hours, Wend, and I think we’ve exhausted any potential that I may have had in the rap sphere during hour one. This isn’t going to work,” was Mason’s final verdict. He removed his headphones, and then walked out of the recording booth, leaving the backup singers absolutely annoyed.

           “Mason Grey!” the woman scolded. “Do not just give up right now!”

           “Wendy, I’m a singer—not a rapper. I do pop—not rap. Who the hell thought it was a good idea to have me rap?”

           “We want you to meet a larger demographic, Mason,” it was Fred’s turn to step in. “You can’t just do pop your entire life and expect everyone to love you.”

           “Yeah, actually, I can,” Mason said haughtily, making his way over to me with an exasperated look in his eyes. He threw two arms around me and buried his face in the crease between my neck and shoulder. I rubbed his back gently, listening as he whispered a truthful, “I can’t rap, Nat. Why don’t they understand that?”