The heavy, rhythmic 808s of the Life’s a Mess demo rattled the cheap plastic casing of Jarad’s computer speakers.
He sat back in his swivel chair, listening to the instrumental loop for the fiftieth time.
The acoustic guitar was beautiful and sweeping, but the trap drums gave it a cinematic, stadium-ready bounce.
It was perfect.
He pulled up the Tumblr chat window on his monitor.
Ashley had been online for the last hour, eagerly waiting.
Jarad uploaded the private SoundCloud link of the instrumental and hit send.
Almost immediately, the typing bubble appeared.
se7enteenblack: listening now.
Jarad tapped his fingers against his desk, staring at the screen.
Two minutes passed.
Then three.
se7enteenblack: Jarad.
This is beautiful.
The way the bass drops under the acoustic guitar?
I already have a melody in my head for the second verse.
I can record it on my laptop mic and send you the stems tomorrow?
Jarad hovered his hands over the keyboard.
A laptop mic would get the job done for an internet demo, but Jarad knew the massive potential of this track.
If they were going to do this right, they needed to capture the actual energy of two artists in the same room, feeding off each other’s raw emotion.
JuiceWRLD: The track is too special for laptop mics.
We need to record this together.
In person.
se7enteenblack: In person?
I’d love to, but where are you based?
JuiceWRLD: Chicago suburbs.
I’d fly out to you, but keeping it real, I’m a teenager and my mom would literally lock me in a vault if I tried to hop on a plane by myself right now lol.
The typing bubble danced wildly for a few seconds.
se7enteenblack: lol honestly, valid.
Chicago isn’t too crazy of a trip for me though.
I’ve been saving up some money from a part-time job.
I could probably take a bus or a train out to you next month?
Would that work?
It’ll give me time to get the studio set up and ready for you.
se7enteenblack: It’s a date.
I’m going to start writing right now.
Jarad smiled and closed the chat.
The feature was locked in.
The timeline was set.
But as he leaned back and looked around his room, his smile slowly faded.
His eyes scanned his “studio.” It was a particle-board desk, a pair of ten-dollar computer speakers, and a silver, dented USB microphone resting on a flimsy plastic stand.
There was no soundproofing on the walls, just old posters and bare drywall.
It had worked perfectly for the raw, lo-fi aesthetic of Wishing Well, but he couldn’t invite a generational talent like Halsey all the way from New Jersey just to have her sing into a cheap piece of plastic.
If he wanted to be a professional, he needed professional equipment.
An XLR condenser microphone, a proper audio interface, some studio monitors, and acoustic foam panels to kill the echo in the room.
He pulled up an online music retailer and started adding the absolute bare-minimum essentials to his cart.
When he looked at the final total, he winced.
It was just under eight hundred dollars.
To a teenager with no job, it might as well have been a million.
Jarad glanced at his YouTube dashboard.
The AdSense money was accumulating, but it wouldn’t actually hit his bank account until the end of the next billing cycle, which was at least thirty days away.
He needed the gear now so he could test it and get comfortable with the mixing software before Ashley arrived.
He let out a long breath, formulating a plan.
Hours later, the front door unlocked downstairs.
Carmella and Brian walked in, completely exhausted from their respective workdays.
Jarad gave them time to put their bags down and settle into the living room before he made his move.
He walked downstairs, carrying his laptop under his arm.
“Hey,” Jarad said smoothly, taking a seat on the living room sofa opposite his mother and brother.
“Can we talk business for a second?”
Brian raised an eyebrow, pausing the TV.
“Business? Alright, Mr. CEO, what’s up?”
Carmella sat back with a cup of tea, looking at Jarad with a mix of curiosity and her usual strict caution.
Jarad opened his laptop and turned the screen around so they could both see it.
He pulled up his YouTube analytics, pointing to the estimated revenue counter, which was steadily climbing in real-time.
“I applied for the YouTube partnership program this morning, and the channel was approved instantly because of the traffic,” Jarad explained, keeping his voice calm and entirely serious.
“The money is real, and it’s accumulating. But they don’t issue the first paycheck until the end of next month.”
“That’s incredible, Jarad. I’m proud of you. But why does this sound like a pitch?”
Jarad didn’t flinch.
“Because I’ve secured a collaboration with another artist. She’s incredibly talented, and she’s taking a train from the East Coast next month to come record the song right here in the house.”
Brian’s eyes widened.
“Wait, you’ve got artists flying in already? Bro, you’ve been on the internet for three days!”
“She’s taking a train, and she’s independent like me,” Jarad clarified.
“But here is the problem. My equipment upstairs is garbage. It’s a cheap plastic mic I bought two years ago. If I’m going to make this a real career, I need a proper microphone and an audio interface before she gets here.”
He pulled up a second tab, showing the shopping cart with the studio gear.
“I need an eight-hundred-dollar loan,” Jarad said, looking directly at his mother and brother.
“I’m not asking for a handout. I’m asking for an advance. The second the YouTube check clears next month, I will pay both of you back, with interest.”
The living room went completely silent.
Brian looked at the computer screen, then looked at his younger brother.
The maturity and focus radiating from Jarad were entirely foreign.
This wasn’t a kid begging for a new video game console; this was an entrepreneur mapping out his supply chain.
Brian reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet.
He tossed three hundred-dollar bills onto the coffee table.
“I’ve got three hundred I can spare from my last paycheck. Consider it an investment in Juice WRLD Records.”
Jarad smiled, feeling a massive surge of gratitude for his brother.
He looked over at his mother.
Carmella stared at the money on the table, then at her youngest son.
She had spent years worrying about him, terrified he was going to throw his life away to the streets or the drugs that had claimed so many other kids in their neighborhood.
Seeing him sit here, completely sober, passionately presenting a business plan for his music…
it was everything she had prayed for.
“Eight hundred dollars is a lot of money, Jarad,” Carmella said softly.
“I know,” Jarad nodded.
“And I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t already have the data to prove I can pay you back.”
Carmella sighed, a small, proud smile finally breaking across her face.
“I’ll cover the remaining five hundred. But you are going to show me the receipts. And when this girl comes all the way from the East Coast, she is sleeping in the guest room, and you are leaving your bedroom door wide open. Understood?”
“Understood,” Jarad laughed, shutting his laptop.
“Thank you. Both of you. I promise you’re not going to regret this.”
Jarad grabbed the cash and his laptop, practically flying back up the stairs.
The viral moment was officially transitioning into a professional career, and his bedroom was about to become the headquarters of a global empire.