The audition thing came completely out of the blue. It was evening, well after the five o'clock rush, so that the sidewalks were just beginning to be emptied of the overworked and overstressed nine-to-fivers and the flashing neon signs of the Chinese food restaurants and electronic repair shops were flickering frozen shadows on passerby. She was locking the door to the store, while Fatima urged her to hurry up so that they could "get the hell out of here and get a drink already." The ad was on a piece of bright yellow paper that had been taped to the window of the door. It said, in big capital letters: "TFS looking for female singer for new album. Auditions tomorrow @ The Beatstreet Bar. 10 a.m."

"What the hell is this," Fatima snorted, "it looks like it was made by a fifth grader."

"Well, not everybody is in advertising, Tima. Some people only have blank paper and magic markers."

"In advertising? Please. I get coffee for asswipes who make more money than I do. I'm a glorified secretary." She flipped her long hair over her shoulder and pulled a pack of Nicorette chewing gum out of her bag.

"Yeah? Do you work at a fucking record store and get paid minimum wage? Are your colleagues sixteen year old boys who stare at your ass all day long?"
      
"No, they're sixty year old douchebags who stare at my ass all day long."
      
Madeleine had to laugh at that. Fatima never let her get away with feeling sorry for herself. It was one of the reasons they were such good friends. Neither of them could remember exactly how they had met (although Fatima constantly insisted that it involved copious amounts of alcohol and a little person, a story which Madeleine fervently tried to keep her from telling other people,) but now they were as close as sisters. They shared an apartment, they kept the other from gouging her eyes out when she'd had a particularly bad day, they mercilessly teased each other, and they indulged in vats of Ben &Jerry's whenever Fatima broke up with Jerome, her on-again off-again boyfriend. They would share clothes, too, if Madeleine were four inches shorter and wore a size zero.           
      
"What is TFS, anyway," Fatima asked, pulling the ad from the window before they started heading for their apartment.
      
"The Flying Squirrels." Fatima gave her a look that said "What the fuck?" and then burst out laughing, almost falling when her heel struck a crack in the side walk.        

"The Flying Squirrels?"she chortled.
      
Madeleine had to reach over and help her straighten herself. "I know, it's a terrible name, but they're a pretty good band."
      
"Really?" Fatima sounded skeptical.
      
"Yeah. But they don't do the stuff you listen to."
          

"Oh God," Fatima rolled her eyes. "Don't tell me they're one of those freak screaming bands that you listen to all day long."
      
"Refused is not a ‘freak screaming band,' Tima, ok? They're hardcore. And if you had any taste, you would like them, too."
      
"Whatever. Just don't ever try to get me to listen to that shit again. I'm still getting my hearing back." She wiggled a bejeweled finger in her ear for emphasis, then handed the ad to Madeleine, who raised her eyebrows in question.
      

"Why are you giving this to me?"

      
"So that you know where to go tomorrow morning." Fatima said it casually with a shrug of her shoulders, as if it were obvious.
      
"Excuse me?"
      
"Don't ‘excuse me,' Ms. Kelly. I think you should go."
      
Madeleine had to laugh again, only this time it was out of sheer incredulity. "What in the world for?"
      
"Because you have a wonderful voice," Fatima answered indignantly. "And let's face it, you need the money."
      
Madeleine let out a grumpy noise, something akin to a grunt. "Yeah, thanks for reminding me. But, Tima, I can't, ok?"

"Why the fuck not?"
    
"Um, I don't know? Because I'm not a singer?"
      
"Don't be snarky."
      
"Fine, sorry. But there's a difference between singing in the shower and professional singing." Madeleine waved the ad in Fatima's face.  "This thing says they need someone to record with. I don't have any real singing experience."
      
"What about that time you -"
      
Madeleine's eyes almost popped out of their sockets:"Don't you dare bring that up!"

"Ok, ok!" Fatima held her hands up in defense. "But what are you going to do for money?"
      
Madeleine decided to ignore her and instead looked both ways and then started crossing the street. Fatima reached out and pulled her back to the curb.              
"Honey," she sighed, suddenly serious, "I know this isn't what you want. I know you want to be a writer. But you've got twelve rejection letters sitting at home, and rent is due in two weeks."
      
Madeleine looked away from her.
      
"I'm not saying this to be a bitch, ok? You know I love you, but you've got to do something."
      
She bit the inside of her cheek, willing her eyes not to tear up. Tima was right. She'd just gotten the twelfth rejection letter the day before and the paycheck she'd gotten the week before was already gone. Tima had already covered her more times than she was willing to remember, and she couldn't let her do it again. Fuck.
      
"Fine," she finally answered. "I'll audition." Fatima gave her a big smile and pulled her in for a hug. "Don't be so happy," she wiggled out of her friend's embrace, "You don't know if I'll actually get hired. Apparently I have no fucking talent."
      
Fatima pulled her close so that they were arm in arm and started crossing the street without even looking both ways. "Fuck those publishers, Maddy. Who needs them? This time next year you'll be a fabulous singing sensation and you'll be holding Gaga's Grammy."
      
Madeleine would have laughed, but she was too busy trying to avoid being hit by taxi cabs.