I Got Booked as a Taylor Swift Tribute Act to Save My Mom’s Daycare, But The Promoters Secretly Sold Tickets for the Real Thing
The Eviction Notice
A plastic dinosaur hit me square in the shin.
“Max!” I hissed, rubbing the sore spot while trying to balance a tray of juice boxes. “Inside voices, please. And inside throws.”
My little brother just grinned, missing a front tooth, and dove back into the ball pit. The main room of ‘EPA’—my mom’s daycare—was a hurricane of primary colors and high-pitched shrieks. It smelled like finger paint and apple slices, a scent that usually calmed me down after a long day at high school. Today, though, the air felt tight. Heavy.
I set the juice tray on the low table, wiping a smear of purple marker off the laminate. That’s when the bell above the front door jingled. It wasn’t the cheerful chime of a parent coming for pickup. It was a sharp, demanding ring.
Mr. Henderson stood in the doorway. He didn’t wipe his feet on the welcome mat.
“Lisa,” he said. He didn’t shout, which made it worse. His voice was flat, bored even. He held a cream-colored envelope like it was a dirty tissue.
My mom, who had been soothing a crying toddler near the nap corner, stood up. She smoothed her apron, her hands trembling just enough for me to notice. “Mr. Henderson. I… I didn’t expect you until Friday.”
“Friday, Monday, it makes no difference when the account is empty,” he said, stepping into the room. He looked out of place among the finger paintings and the alphabet rug, a gray suit in a rainbow world. He extended the envelope. “Ninety days, Lisa. You’re ninety days past due.”
I abandoned the juice boxes and moved closer, standing just behind Mom’s shoulder. She took the paper. She didn’t open it.
“I just need a little more time,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “The enrollment numbers are up for next month. I can pay you half by the first.”
“Seven days,” Henderson cut in. He checked his watch. “You have seven days to pay the full arrears, or I lock the doors. That’s the law.”
He turned on his heel and walked out, leaving the door slightly ajar. Through the glass, I saw a black sedan idling at the curb. A man was leaning against it—Brooke’s dad. He was looking at our building not like a person looks at a daycare, but like a butcher looks at a side of beef.
He pointed at the roof, saying something to a woman with a clipboard, and I caught the words “zoning” and “luxury units” drifting in on the cold draft.
Mom closed the door, shutting out the sight of him. She slumped against the wood, the envelope crumpling in her fist.
“Mom?” I reached out, touching her arm. Her sweater felt thin.
She turned to me, forcing a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. It was a terrifying expression—fragile and glassy. “It’s okay, Everly. It’s just… a mix-up. Go help Max with his shoes.”
“It’s not a mix-up,” I said quietly. “I heard him. Seven days?”
“I’ll fix it,” she said, though she was looking at the floor. “I always fix it.”
She walked quickly into the tiny back office and shut the door. A second later, I heard the muffled sound of a sob, stifled against a sleeve so the kids wouldn’t hear.
My stomach twisted into a knot. Max ran past me, screaming about being a T-Rex, oblivious that his world was about to collapse. We were going to lose everything. The daycare, the income, maybe even our apartment. I felt small. Useless.
My pocket buzzed against my hip. I pulled out my phone, expecting a text from Jacob. instead, it was a notification for our band group chat.
AUGUST RUN – REHEARSAL IN 20 MINS. DON’T BE LATE.
I looked at the closed office door, then at the guitar case leaning by the cubbies. I couldn’t fix the rent. I couldn’t fight Brooke’s dad or Mr. Henderson. But I could sing. It was the only thing I had left that felt like power.
