The Triumph of Single Ladies

Sasha spun around and saw Alexine Harrison walking toward her, hands in her hoodie pockets, short hair brushing her cheek, kicking a stone with her sneaker. She grinned wide, mischievously.

"Girl," Alexine said, shaking her head. "You sing like an angel who's tired of heaven."

Sasha tried to hide her smile and she waved her hand.

"Oh, stop it, Alexine. You're being silly."

Alexine smirked. "Silly? Me? Never. I'm a serious DJ student. Very serious. I know what I mean just like I mix the beat."

Sasha laughed, though she still looked a little embarrassed. "You sound ridiculous."

"Ridiculous and talented," Alexine said, winking. "But not as talented as you. You keep singing like that, and you'll make the stars shine up in the sky."

Sasha shook her head, trying not to smile. "Please, Alexine... you don't have to say all that."

"I do," Alexine said. "Because it's true. And because if I don't hype you up, who will?" She pointed a thumb toward the school building. "Anyway, let's go. Everyone's already inside. If we take too long, Mr. Gray will start the lesson without us."

Sasha blinked. "Already? I thought we were early."

"Nope," Alexine said. "You were too busy singing sad songs like a tragic movie heroine."

Sasha picked up her bag, rolling her eyes but smiling shyly. "Fine, fine. Let's go before he gives us that long lecture again."

Alexine bumped Sasha's shoulder gently. "That's the spirit. Come on."

They walked toward the classroom side by side; Sasha still thinking about her father, and Alexine humming a beat under her breath.

After some few seconds, they pushed open the door to Studio Room 3, and energetic sounds greeted them; notes from guitars, someone playing the keyboard, someone was on drums, and a few students were humming as they warmed up their voices.

The room itself looked like a place made for young artists:

posters of famous singers on the walls, shelves stacked with beat pads and headphones, colorful lights were around the ceiling, and a big whiteboard covered with music notes from yesterday's lesson. A few amps buzzed in the background. Someone was tuning a guitar near the window. Someone else was adjusting a microphone stand.

The students looked the part too; loose hoodies, chain necklaces, paint on their jeans, hair dyed in strange colors. Some boys tapped rhythms on their desks. A girl with purple braids stretched her fingers for piano warm-up exercises.

Sasha and Alexine slipped into their seats near the middle row.

Alexine immediately pulled out her DJ tools; a small portable controller, two mini turntable pads, and a pair of foldable headphones.

She tapped the pads lightly, testing the beats, bobbing her head as if someone was playing her favorite track.

Then the door opened again.

Dylan Lenard stepped in.

He was tall, lean, with messy brown hair that looked like he had just run his hand through it. There was always a hint of drum dust on his clothes. He wore his usual black wristbands; the ones he used during practice. Everyone knew him as the boy who could make the drums scream, or even worse.

He walked straight toward Alexine.

His serious expression changed when he reached her desk. Without saying a word, he slipped a folded note onto her palm.

Alexine blinked, surprised. "Uh... okay? What's this?" she murmured.

Sasha leaned closer, curious.

Alexine whispered, "Dylan never writes notes. Something's up."

She unfolded the small piece of paper, eager to read what it was all about.

Her eyebrows shot up.

"It says, I have something to show you."

Sasha smiled. "Maybe it's something romantic."

Alexine snorted. "Knowing him? It's probably a new drumstick or something loud enough to break my ears."

Before Sasha could reply, the classroom door opened again.

Mr. Lucas Gray walked in.

He was in his mid-forties, and he carried a bundle of music sheets, a digital tablet, and a long conductor stick under his arm. His glasses slid slightly down his nose as he looked around the room.

"Good morning, class."

"Good morning, Mr. Gray," the students said in unison.

Mr. Gray nodded. "Excellent energy today. I hope you keep it that way."

He set his things on the desk and clapped once. "We're starting a new project."

The room grew quiet.

"This time," he continued, lifting his tablet, "you'll work in groups. Each group will create one full song with vocals, instruments, and DJ elements. And you'll perform it live at the end of the month."

A few students gasped. Someone whispered, "Oh, wow."

Dylan raised his hand. "Sir, can we pick our own group members?"

Mr. Gray smiled. "Yes. But choose wisely. You need balance. A weak team will sink itself."

Another student asked, "Can we mix genres? Like pop with EDM?"

Mr. Gray nodded. "Absolutely. As long as it sounds intentional."

He scanned the room and stopped at Sasha.

"Miss Smith," he said, adjusting his glasses. "As a vocalist, what do you think is the first step your team should take?"

Sasha sat straighter, her fingers brushing her notebook. "We should find a key that fits all parts of the song. Something the instruments can support and the DJ can work with. Once we choose the key, it's easier to shape the melody."

Mr. Gray gave a small approving smile. "Correct. Very good."

A soft ripple of murmurs spread across the room, admiring.

Then he turned to the rest of the class. "And what must you do before mixing beats with live instruments?"

There was silence.

A few students turned their heads around, some shrugged their shoulders.

No one answered.

Then Alexine's hand shot up.

Mr. Gray raised an eyebrow. "Yes, Miss Harrison?"

Alexine said confidently, "We should make a tempo map. If we don't agree on the tempo, the DJ beats won't match the instruments, and the song will sound messy."

Mr. Gray's face lit up. "Exactly. Perfect answer."

A boy at the back whispered, "Whoa... she knew that?"

Another girl nudged her friend and said, "Alexine's smarter than she looks."

The room came alive after that; students chatting, testing instruments, tapping drum rhythms, and adjusting headphone wires. The energy shifted, everyone was excited and they were ready to create something big.

Sasha smiled at Alexine, who smirked proudly.

"See?" Alexine whispered. "We're going to crush this project."

Somewhere else in the city that afternoon, Charlotte Holland, a forty-nine years old woman, sat straight on the sofa in her living room with her glasses on reading a newspaper.

Her eyes froze on a headline:

"POLICE RAID OLD BORDER ROUTE - DRUG CARTEL ACTIVITY LINKED TO A SYNDICATE."

She gripped the newspaper tightly. A small breath escaped her lips. She trembled, as her memories took her back to her late husband, Damian Cruz, who was killed in a car crash seven years ago while running from the police.

She shut her eyes, and the living room faded.

She saw herself at 19, laughing in a summer dress, leaning against Damian's motorcycle. She remembered his wild smile that was too charming for his own good. She thought it was love. She thought she had found her soul mate, the one she was meant to be with.

At 20, she married him.

She could still hear her father, Erick Holland, yelling in the kitchen that night:

"Charlotte, that boy has darkness in him! He lies. He hides things. You will not marry him."

Her mother, Chalice, had cried beside him, speaking in a low voice:

"Please listen to your father... we can see what you don't."

But young Charlotte had lifted her chin, she had already made up her mind.

"You don't understand him! He loves me. I'm going to marry him with or without your approval."

She remembered throwing clothes into a small bag, running out the door, and climbing onto Damian's motorcycle. She never saw the look on her father's face again.

Three months after, she sent a letter saying she had married him.

Erick Holland died with a heart attack, the doctor said.

A year later, Chalice died too with anxiety.

Charlotte had cried on Damian's chest for days.

Damian had only wrapped an arm around her and said:

"What's done is done. Let's focus on each other."

She believed it.

She wanted to believe him.

Soon after, Maverick was born, her beautiful boy and her bundle of joy.

When Maverick was three, Charlotte saw Damian beating a man in their kitchen. She saw guns in the basement, money in black suitcases, and strange men coming and going at night. When she asked him about it, Damian would always say it was business.

Then he began using her.

He made her carry sealed packets in her clothes, hide cash for him, lie to police, and worst of all... swallow drugs when they needed to cross a checkpoint.

It burned her throat.

It made her sick for days.

But she did it because she still loved him... or maybe because she was too afraid.

Then she became pregnant again.

Damian didn't care, not even for a second.

One night, when she told him she wasn't strong enough to swallow anything, he grabbed her by the arm, and his face was twisted with anger.

"You think I'm with you for love? You're here to work. That's it. Now do your job."

His words made her remember her father's words, maybe he saw something she couldn't. Right there, she knew she had to leave or she'd die.

One hot afternoon, the house smelled of oil and gunpowder. Damian turned his back to pick up the drug packets from the table. Charlotte saw a metal bar leaning against the wall... something the men used to fix car tires.

She swallowed hard knowing it was time, and she grabbed it.

She swung with her all strength and hit Damian in the head. He dropped with a grunt and lay unconscious on the floor. She gasped, tears rushing down her face. But she forced herself to kneel beside him. She slid her hand into his pocket, fingers trembling, and took the car keys.

Then she looked for Maverick.

He was outside... only four years old, holding a small wooden pistol while two of Damian's men showed him how to aim.

Her heart skipped a beat, she knew she couldn't take him.

Not with armed men surrounding her little boy. Her stomach twisted. She placed a hand over it, over the child growing inside her.

She whispered, to herself:

"I'm sorry, baby... I'll come back someday."

She felt like she was tearing in two, as she was leaving Maverick behind. She returned inside, grabbed Damian's wallet, wiped her face, and walked out with calm steps, forcing a small smile.

"Going out?" one of the men asked, raising a brow.

Charlotte waved lightly.

"Just for a short drive," she said.

She got in the car, closed the door and she started the engine.

Her hands shook on the steering wheel, but she didn't look back.