A&b

by J. C. Lillis

  “What’s your name, baby?” My voice is all Tera.

  “Ah, Joe. Joe Phipps.”

  “Come on up here, Joe.”

  He makes his way to my stage, blushing. I shake his hand and present him with the bat, and then I duck behind Rosalinda again. I flip on her TUBULAR BELLS setting and lay down a horror-film soundtrack for Joe, a sinister cousin to the Exorcist theme.

  “Tell us your story, Joe. Speak your truth.”

  “Um, here?” He taps the mic. “To everyone?”

  “To everyone.”

  “Well, um.” He clears his throat. “My girlfriend and I are game developers, and we went out for the same job at Space Frog. And I said I didn’t care, and I’d be happy either way, but, uh, she got it, and…”

  “And how do you feel?” I throw in some flatted fifths; the dissonance raises the hair on my arms.

  “I mean, it was my dream job. It’s what I’ve wanted since I was a kid. And I’m really really jealous now. And it…uhhh…”

  “You can say it, Joe. We’re friends here. Aren’t we?” I wave a hand at the audience and they hoot and whistle support. “Even if it’s ugly. You can say—”

  “It sucks.” Joe grips and regrips the bat. “It sucks, and every morning when she leaves I hate her a little, and then that makes me hate myself, and she can totally tell and I don’t know how to stop how I feel and I’m worried it makes me sexist on top of everything else and I hate my brain so much right now and ARRRRGHHH!”

  He whips around and whacks the piñata. The first blow opens a narrow crack. The second dents its side in. The third splits it open and scatters the stage with prizes from Abel’s failed LGBTQ+ Teen Mixer: confetti, chocolates, dollar bills, smiley-face pins, and glow-in-the-dark condoms. The room explodes in applause and I flip on Rosalinda’s BRASS setting and improvise a fanfare.

  Joe surveys his prizes. He crouches down and comes back up with a smiley pin in one hand and a condom in the other. He looks from hand to hand, confusion mushing his brows together. Then his whole face relaxes.

  And he laughs.

  It’s a beautiful laugh. A helpless, spontaneous laugh-in-spite-of-pain. A laugh that says hey, your mouth still knows how to laugh, so your hurt brain will catch up eventually.

  After that, everyone wants a turn at bat. The piñatas are toast in ten minutes, so Abel gets creative. He drags out stuff from the backstage area and the storeroom: a broken mannequin, an old printer, a stack of chipped plates. I memorize the faces of my new friends, shape my background music to their stories. Wyatt, whose art-school nemesis kills it in every critique session. Sheila, whose best friend got pregnant on her first try. Madame Giant Sunglasses in the back, who doesn’t share her story, just whacks the mannequin torso to pieces and then tosses the bat on the stage floor and saunters back to her chair.

  The Smash Session is a smash.

  ***

  They mob me after the show. Well, eight people do. But when you’ve never had a real paying audience, eight is sort of moblike.

  Downstairs, Abel puts out free salt & vinegar chips in the dining room and sells Haterades half price. I sit in the booth made from an old church bench. I sign napkins and cabaret programs. I listen to more stories, jokily absolve them with a flick of water from a Jetsons mug.

  When the crowd’s dispersed and Abel’s wiping down tables with a rag, Madame Giant Sunglasses approaches me. She’s been on the periphery for the past half hour, studying the Castaway Planet memorabilia as if there’ll be a test on it later.

  “Hey. Wanted to say hello personally.” She reaches a hand out.

  “Evil Barrie,” I say, shaking it. “It’s nice to meet you.”

  “Bree LaRue.”

  Abel wipes a salt shaker clear off Table Six.

  “Did you like the show?” I ask her.

  “‘Like’ probably isn’t the right word.” She pushes the sunglasses up in her dark messy pixie cut and studies me with blue-green eyes. “Want to hear a story?”

  “Always.”

  Bree LaRue and I slip into my church-bench booth, and I hear her confession. Eight years ago she had a traumatic experience with some jerky indie film director I’ve never heard of; I don’t watch indie films because they’re too much like the real world and who needs that? Anyway, he made her uber-nervous and she couldn’t give him the performance he wanted, so he fired her and hired another actor and trashed Bree to anyone who’d listen. Bree lost all her confidence, and the actor who replaced her—Sophia Held, the sleepy-eyed blonde I know from that Fleetwood Mac biopic—won a Best Supporting Actress Oscar for the part.

  “For seven years I’ve been moping at home. Obsessing over Sophia’s success, watching her have the career I could’ve had if I was good enough. I let this whole mess define me for so long.” She sips her Haterade. “But tonight, I don’t know…when I smashed that mannequin, it was the first time I actually felt ready to go back. Get out there again. It was like…” She peers at me sidelong. “Like magic, or something.”

  “Nah.” I glance at my bracelet. “I just…sang what was on my mind.”

  “Well, hopefully you’re also ready to move on.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, the show was probably therapeutic for you, too.”

  “Still will be, next week.”

  “So…it wasn’t a one-off?”

  “Definitely not.”

  “This going to be your life now? Dwelling on your dark side?”

  “It’s a calling.”

  “Yeah, well….” She edges her chair back from the table. “Don’t let it eat you alive. It does that sometimes. I’ve had actor friends who got a part and went to scary places, and…”

  “What?”

  “No, nothing.” Her eyes catch mine and then dart away. “Remember though, it’s only art. It’s not worth your soul.”

  I nod politely like I understand, but I don’t because “art” and “soul” are synonymous for me.

  “Anyway, Barrie,” she says. “Thanks.”

  She grabs both my hands and squeezes them tight and my body jolts with a joy so strong I have to shut my eyes. I’ve made an actual difference to an actual breathing person. I’ve become like Tera by becoming unlike her, a paradox I can’t wait to discuss with her someday on a windswept balcony as we take a break from co-writing the year’s most danceable empowerment anthem.

  “Ah, hello,” says Bree.

  “Miss LaRue?” Abel’s voice. I open my eyes and he’s standing by our table with Brandon, who’s clutching a big cardboard cutout of a busty lady with lush blonde curls and a gray starship uniform. “I just wanted to say thank you so much for coming, my buddy Bran and I are huge Castaway Planet fans, like I don’t know if you remember but we met you ten years ago at a CastieCon in Cleveland—”

  She grins. “Where do you want me to sign?”

  “Across the boobs, please.”

  “That was you?” I gape at the cutout.

  “Twelve years and many follicles ago.”

  She signs the cutout across the chest of her uniform: I SABOTAGED THE ESCAPE SHUTTLE. LOVE & KISSES, BREE LaRUE. She’s clearly just confirmed some old fan theory because Brandon and Abel geek out, which gives them a nice excuse to clasp each other’s arms.

  “OH MY GOD I KNEW IT,” says Abel.

  “But that makes no sense!” Brandon shakes him a little. “Only Sim had the code. He was programmed to keep it a secret!”

  “Ye-es, but when he got his evolution chip, all bets were off.”

  “But—”

  “Miss LaRue, help us out. Can we ask you a nerdy question?”

  “Buy me a drink and you can ask two.”

  They spirit her away, chatting her up about escape shuttles and secret codes. I slip my arm under the table and run my fingers over my beautiful Evil B bracelet. Like magic, or something. Maybe I’ve read too many fantasy books and fed too many superstitions, but I am now nin
ety percent certain there’s sorcery in it, some strange enchantment only Ava can activate. Reverently I trace the cold green metal, the faces etched on the purple blisters. Then I dig the key out of my pocket and unlock the thing, because it’s been killing me for the past two hours.

  When the bracelet releases my wrist, I gasp out loud. My skin is a mess of angry welts. Bright red and shiny, as if the bracelet’s been low-key burning me all night. I touch a finger to my wrist and it stings like holy wow.

  For a moment I wish Viv had stuck around to discuss the possible side effects of her jewelry line, and exactly how bad things might get with prolonged use. Then I decide it doesn’t matter.

  Like Tera said in paragraph five of her Popworld interview, Nothing’s better for art than a little old-fashioned suffering.

  Chapter Twelve

  “You just passed 3,000 Twitter followers,” Abel reports, crunching on a toast point. “And your site’s had 2,457 hits since last night. Reality Rot picking up the videos was huge, Barbarella, we’ll be at capacity this week for sure and—oh. OH MY GOD.”

  “What?”

  “Bree LaRue posted a thing. About you.”

  He turns his laptop to me. We’re at the breakfast table, marinating in happiness and devouring the spinach-and-mushroom frittata I just made us. Abel’s in a faded SEX BOMB shirt that looks like it’s been through three wars and I’ve got on the forest-green men’s bathrobe I picked up at Goodwill, which is perfect for post-cabaret lounging and also covers up my wrist. It doesn’t look as bad as it did last night, but my skin’s still itchy and sore where the bracelet was, with pink welts the size of nickels dotting a faint green stain.

  Welts are worth it.

  Last night I was magic.

  Bless me, fans, for I have sinned. It’s been seven damn years since my last post.

  Bree LaRue re-jumpstarts her blog with a detailed account of the story she told me last night, which morphs into a love letter to the cabaret. I fill my glass with sunshine—Abel’s fancy extra-pulp OJ—and read every word twice.

  …I can’t explain why it was oddly magical, smashing a mannequin torso onstage while a fabulous towering vixen sang us into salvation, but I’m going with it.

  I’m going to move forward.

  I have a script in my hand for a new TV pilot about Hamlet’s teen years. My agent’s been calling me every day this week, telling me I’d be a fantastic Gertrude.

  This morning, I woke up believing him.

  P.S. If you want to see videos from last night’s Sour Grapes Cabaret, they’re up on my new favorite guilty-pleasure blog, www.CassTrashesIt.com.

  I hoist a happy glass to Bree’s audition news and resolve to write her a good-luck note later. Then I click over to Cassidy’s site. She’s posted the videos we put up—basically all of them except the Smash Session, which we didn’t upload to preserve the privacy of the smashers. Under a SOUR GRAPES VIDSTRAVAGANZA! header, she’s written:

  OMG THE VIDS ARE HERE AND THEY ARE AS WICKEDLY WONDROUS AS WE ALL FUCKING THOUGHT

  I can’t get over these. Watch them and weep for joy, Cass-holes. I think “Ill Will” is my new favorite song. *KICKSTARTER TO BUY ME PLANE TIX TO CALI PLEASE*

  Is this girl real you guys…like does she have an actual mother or did she drop from outer space??

  “Your mom!” Abel squeaks.

  I look up, still glowing. He’s got his phone in hand.

  “Okay, don’t hate.” He springs up. “But I texted her the link to the cabaret videos—”

  “What?”

  “—because I thought she’d like them, and—”

  “How’d you get her number?”

  “Snooped in your contacts please don’t kill me!”

  “Did she respond?”

  He’s scrolling, scrolling, but something’s not right. “Ahh, no. No.”

  “Abel.”

  “I thought she did, but I was looking at the wrong thing.”

  “Let me see.”

  “Barrie, you don’t want to—”

  He tries to hold the phone out of my reach, but he only has one inch on me and I’ve got my dad’s long arms. What could she have said? It can’t be that bad. She’ll snark and grumble, yeah, but I bet there’ll be a thread of pride woven between the lines.

  Hey. Abel.

  I don’t know who the hell you are or why you’re calling yourself my kid’s “manager,” but I guess my attempts to raise her with some people smarts have miserably failed. BUT WHATEVER. She’s a grown-ass woman now and I know she won’t listen to me any more than I listened to my own mother when I was her age.

  All I’ll say to her (through you now, apparently), is this: If she thinks I’m going to stand and applaud this gross emotional peepshow instead of telling her to quit mouth-to-mouthing the corpse of her showbiz dreams, she’s off her fucking nut. And if she’s not home in a week, I’m putting an ad on Craigslist and renting her room out.

  Very calmly, I hand the phone back to Abel.

  “I see where you got your way with words…?” He winces.

  “It’s okay,” I decide.

  “Oh, honey.”

  “No, it is. There’s only one opinion that matters to me, and it isn’t hers.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t have Tera in my contacts.” Abel squeezes my hand.

  “I sent them to her already.”

  “You—how?”

  I fill him in. I did it last night, right after we got home. I sent the links to two places: the inbox of Nickie Serrano, the Pop U rep who contacted me four months ago to let me know my audition video had passed the first two rounds, and Tera’s fan mail inbox. (For one second I thought about asking Ava to pass them on, but I will not have my second chance with Tera tainted with her perfect fingerprints.) I know from Tera’s Billboard interview that she never opens fan mail during a Pop U season, but I am optimistic that chipper, efficient Nickie will forward it to her. To heck with Ma, right? That’s all I really want.

  I feel it in my bones: Tera will see this soon, and she’ll know I’m Army of Awesome-worthy. She’ll sign me to her auxiliary label, Hammertale, the one with darker, more experimental acts like Dog Teacher and Phoneyard. We’ll have songwriting sessions in her studio and long, intimate chats over dinner. I’ll help organize Hammertale charity concerts and softball games. And one day in her limo, while I’m still in my cleats or whatever charity softball players wear, she will remove my ball cap and tuck a strand of my bob behind my ear and whisper…

  “Who wants sugarrrrr?”

  The front door squeals and Brandon saunters in with a bakery bag and a yellow rose wrapped in green paper. I’m hoping it’s for Abel, but he scoots over and hands it to me instead. “For your triumph, sweetie.”

  “Thanks.” I hug him, wondering how many plaid shirts he has because this is the fourth one.

  “So for the lighting,” he says. “I was thinking you’ll need a third spot stage right if you’re doing the Smash Session every week.”

  “That’d be great.”

  “Maybe we get a wave projector for extra drama, throw a green gel on it. We’ll work it out for next show.”

  “So you’re staying?”

  “Well, yeah, I mean…” He shrugs like no biggie. “I want the show to be perfect.”

  Abel grins. “Perfection could take weeks. Months, even.”

  “Hey,” says Brandon, like he’s noticing him for the first time.

  “Hi,” says Abel, shyly.

  “Had fun last night.”

  “Me too.”

  Brandon grabs a plain cake donut and tosses the bag on the table. “I got your oatmeal raisin muffin, Barrie, a couple Boston Cremes, and for you—” He smirks at Abel. “Jelly…Still?”

  “Always.” Abel nods.

  Brandon heads for the guest room. I turn on Abel the second he’s gone: “Ummm. OKAY.”

  “What?”

  “Jelly?” I bre
athe, miming sexiness.

  “He knows what I like.”

  “What happened last night?”

  “Aw, it was no big deal.” A smile bursts across his face. “Except for the part where it totally was!”

  “Holy—What happened?” I start planning what to wear to their wedding. Green sequins. A black-feather fascinator.

  “We…might have hung out with Bree LaRue for forty-five minutes after you left.”

  “Ahhhhh!”

  “She might have had a second Haterade and told us shocking behind-the-scenes tales about Castaway Planet.”

  “EEEEE!”

  Abel rips his donut in half and licks jelly from the inside. “Then we took the long way home, and Bran tripped and fell on the sidewalk, and he like seized my hand as I helped him up, and…”

  I lean forward. “Yes?”

  “He held it for three seconds before he let go.”

  “Oh,” I say brightly.

  “It’s progress! Right?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “You should’ve seen him before you got up. Awake at the crack of dawn. Humming in the shower. Smiling like he has a secret.” Abel lifts his shoulders, his left hand splayed over his A+B tattoo. “What if the secret is me, and his—you know. Newly renewed passion?”

  “Oh my God.” I hug his right hand with mine.

  “Cross your fingers.”

  “Fingers crossed. Toes crossed. Utensils crossed.” I make an X with my knife and fork.

  “What’re we crossing things for?” Brandon sock-slides out of the guest room.

  “She’s, ah—hoping you’ll be her intermission act every week?” Abel shoots me a panicked glance. I shrug and nod.

  “Oh…I don’t think so. I mean, I’m sorry, but I think I’m about done wallowing.” Brandon sneaks a sip of Abel’s coffee. “I loved putting myself out there, though. It was therapeutic, you know? I felt powerful. I felt…cool again.”

  “You are cool,” Abel says softly.

  “Thanks! Wow—look at that sun. What a great morning.” Brandon grins out the window and takes another swig of coffee. “You know what I’m gonna do today? Like, right now?”