Dead to the Last Drop Read Online Free

Stan’s smile. “I never thought of it like that.”
    “Well, you should,” Stan said. “There is a massive metaphysical difference between striving to be THE best and striving to be YOUR best.”
    “Darn right.” Jackson held out his fist and Stan bumped it. Then Theo did.
    But Gard didn’t join his band. Instead, he folded his arms.
    “You don’t agree?” I asked.
    “I do. But let’s face it, most of the public doesn’t.”
    “What’s that supposed to mean?” Stan challenged.
    “It means, as much as I hate to say it, Abby’s point is valid. The public’s been conditioned to think of every art form as some kind of sport.” He exchanged a glance with me. “Or political race.”
    Abby nodded. “Sometimes it feels as though everyone and everything in this country is rigged to be in some kind of competition.”
    “Not everyone,” Stan insisted. “And not everything. True art is not about competition. It’s about expression.”
    I leaned toward Abby. “That’s exactly what the people in my New York coffeehouse community believe. If art feeds something inside you, then you should practice it. That’s it. That’s the only measuring stick you need.”
    “Look, I can see you’re all trying to help me with this, but . . .” She shook her head. “Coming here was a real leap for me. Gard and Stan and the other Open Mike musicians have all been really supportive, and I’ve been so happy playing. But this can’t be part of my real life.”
    “Why not?” I pressed. “I’m sure Gardner is dying to give you a paid performance slot.”
    Gardner nodded. “That’s true.”
    “Come on, you guys know why I can’t do that.” Abby glanced around the whole table, then at me. “You know who I am, Ms. Cosi.”
    “I do now.”
    “So you know I’m not a private person anymore. I live in a bubble and I have a responsibility to my family, my country, and someone else, too. I can’t embarrass them. They know best, and they want something better for me.”
    “What on earth could be better for you than something that makes you so deeply happy?”
    My blurted words appeared to cast a serious shadow across Abby’s face.
    For heaven’s sake , I thought, how could the simple idea of being “deeply happy” bring on such darkness in a bright young woman?
    Then Abby’s hand slid down her tattooed arm, and for the first time I noticed something that shook me up—and shed some light.
    Raised white scar lines marred the tender skin of Abby’s left wrist. The girl was right-handed and those scars were unmistakable. Abby had attempted suicide.
    There was one more thing I noticed: the lines were vertical.
    When Abby tried to end her life, she meant business.

F ive
    I said nothing, but I couldn’t stop the shock from crossing my face.
    Thankfully, Gardner spoke quickly to cover my reaction. “I think what Ms. Cosi meant is that you’re very talented, Abby, and it bothers us all to see you belittling your gift.”
    “Really, you’re fussing too much. I’m nothing special.”
    “But you are,” Gardner fired back. “The people in your past who decided you weren’t good enough were judging you by the wrong music. You told me you’ve been studying jazz on your own, and it shows. Replacing Bach with bebop is exactly what you needed.”
    “It does feel good. I mean, I love the improvisation with jazz, you know? It’s so freeing.”
    Gard nodded his approval. “Just keep up your playing with other musicians—instead of all alone in that dorm room—and you’ll be a shining star. You aren’t going to ‘embarrass’ anyone, if that’s what your family is worried about. They should be proud.”
    “If you were my daughter, I’d be proud,” I assured her. “Consider us your musical family—and if you ever want to perform a full evening of jazz, we’d all be thrilled to host you.”
    “Really?”
    “Yes, really!” Gard and I practically shouted together.
    “I can’t promise anything,