A&b

by J. C. Lillis

  “Cool. So we’ll write.”

  “I’m useless right now, though. My head’s a compost heap.” She blows her nose in a way that is perfectly her: three short fierce honks. “It’s done. I feel it. Between last night and next week, there’s no way I’m not gone.”

  A crisis of confidence on Ava is like a saddle on a pig—it makes no sense and you want to remove it as fast as possible. “Why? What’s the challenge next week?”

  “Dance songs. I’m dead, FARG. Not that I want the prize, but—”

  “What’s the prize?”

  She pauses.

  “The winning song’ll be on Tera’s new album. As a duet with her.”

  I think a small earthquake just ripped through Abel’s backyard. Brandon appears at the glass door with a semi-stern face and c’mon-let’s-go gesture. I give him a shaky one-minute finger.

  Casually, I’m like, “Tera’s dropping a new album?”

  “A surprise one. Out in six weeks. You didn’t hear it from me—shit, hang on.”

  The sound goes muffly. I strain to hear, my brain all fizzy from the Tera news. She’s talking to Medora. I hear the words tomorrow night? and Halloween and ’cause everything happens for a reason, you know?

  “My God, she’s annoying,” Ava gripes when Medora’s gone. “I hate everyone here. I want to launch them into space.”

  “Even Johnny?”

  “He can stay.”

  “What’s tomorrow?”

  “Nothing…” Ava blows her nose again. “We’re all supposed to go to this Halloween thing. Some party. Tera’s lending everyone costumes from her videos.”

  Evil B tries to riot at this news. “Where is it?”

  “No one knows. We’re getting in her limo at dusk and won’t be back till dawn.” She makes a sound like an old door groaning shut. “You know how much theoretical money I would pay to get out of forced partying with the Top 6 all night?”

  “Come to my party instead.”

  “What?” she says.

  WHAT? Evil B says.

  I don’t know what I’m doing, but I can’t stop now. “We’re having a Halloween dance at St. C’s. Tell them you’re sick, wait till everyone goes, and then dress up and sneak out. I’ll come pick you up.” I am astonishing myself with my cool capacity for plotting. “Are there any good sneak-out places on campus?”

  “Uh…yeah, actually,” she says. “But—”

  “It’s business! Completely business. You can come study dance music—Abel and I made this kickass multi-decade playlist. Dance the pain out, get inspired. Then we’ll go somewhere and bang out a song together.” I cringe. Why did I have to say bang? “I’ll have you back way before dawn. Okay?”

  She’s thinking about it. I can tell. “What if someone recognizes me? Sees us together?”

  “Come in a good disguise. No one’ll know it’s you.” Who is this devious person with my voice? “Except Brandon and Abel, but they’re cool.”

  Centuries pass in the seconds of her pause. Empires rise and fall. Men grow beards to their knees. I break myself into a jigsaw puzzle and put myself back together.

  “Okay,” says Ava.

  “Okay…for real?”

  “No, okay for fake. You can pick me up but I’ll be a cardboard cutout.”

  I smile a bit, relieved to hear her joke. “Is Cardboard Ava a good dancer?”

  “She’s classically trained, but a little stiff.”

  “That’s okay. I’ll loosen her up.”

  “Tomorrow,” says Ava.

  “Tomorrow,” I say, and my heart bursts into flames. The good kind.

  When we hang up, Evil B pounces.

  WHAT ARE YOU THINKING!?!

  I cook up excuses as I heave a Halloween box. If Ava wins this challenge, she’ll get to record with Tera. That’s great cabaret fodder, right?

  THAT’S NOT WHY YOU ASKED HER, YOU MOONY-EYED JERKHOLE.

  I tell her to shut it, follow Brandon out the door. When the boxes are loaded in his spotless Honda hybrid, I glance down at my hand on the car door, and freeze.

  Because holy crap, I almost forgot my bracelet.

  Muttering apologies, I fly back inside and retrieve my magic charm from the bathroom, where I’ve carelessly left it next to Abel’s R2-D2 soap dispenser. I whip off my black fingerless gloves and click it back on my wrist, coaching myself through several deep breaths.

  As Abel would say: Jesus H. Christmas. I’ve got to cool down, snuff this Ava fire. Or my tenth cabaret will be a five-alarm disaster.

  Chapter Twenty

  I will be a soldier for the Sour Rangers.

  I will use my talents to help other people.

  I will NOT love my fellow artist.

  I will focus.

  I will focus.

  I will focus.

  I stand behind the screen in my velvet jacket with new rubber-grape epaulets, performing modified Tera affirmations under my breath. But all I can think is she’s coming she’s coming OMGGGGG. Ava Alvarez is coming here.

  Each crowd has its own character, and this one is especially aggrieved. I gaze out at them from the crack in the screen and oh, they need this so much, with their folded arms and haunted faces and the way the spindly lady at the frontmost table stabs her Bitter Chocolate Tart with her dessert fork.

  I can help you, I promise. I can still do this, even if I’m not feeling it.

  “Hey.” Brandon’s beside me, clutching his list of lighting cues. “Solo green spotlight stage left for ‘Outside Looking In,’ right?”

  “Yes, please.”

  “What’s up with you tonight?”

  “Hm?”

  “You’re smiling.”

  “I am?” My hand flies to my mouth. Crap.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Nothing! It’s under control.” I rub the bracelet. Come on, baby. Help me out.

  “AND NOW,” Abel thunders from my stage. “The woman you’ve been waiting for…The EM-PRESS of EN-VY, the QUEEEEEEEN of GREEEEEENNN—”

  Hoots and whistles and boot-stomps. Oh God, please don’t let me mess up.

  “EEEE-VIL BARRIEEEEEEEEEE!”

  I stride onstage in a whoosh of velvet and feathers. This is usually The Moment. When I scan the room and share glances with the audience and assure them, without a word, that they’ll leave feeling lighter. When my bracelet conducts every dark thought inside me. When my spotlight pops on and my mind electrifies with the words and melodies I’m about to unleash.

  The spotlight doesn’t pop tonight.

  And I go blank.

  I am a woman possessed, and not in a good way. The room falls away and rebuilds itself into tomorrow night’s Halloween wonderland, alive with twinkly ghost lights and flickering jack-o’-lanterns and the tattered robes of Evan the Floating Swamp Ghost fluttering in the ceiling-fan breeze. Ava twirls into my thoughts, whirling on the dance floor to Tera’s “Happy Endings,” and in my chest a thousand golden butterflies burst forth from green cocoons.

  Say something! I scold myself.

  “Hello…” It comes out all breathy and giddy. “How are you guys tonight?”

  A confused murmur travels the room. My spotlight finally comes on, circling me and Rosalinda in its sickly glow. Come back, I beg Evil B. Please please please.

  YOU TOLD ME TO SHUT IT.

  I didn’t mean it. Temporary madness.

  YOU’RE ON YOUR OWN, LOVERGIRL.

  I sit down at Rosalinda and crack my knuckles. I’ve got this. “Remaindered” is my opener, a sinister confessional that builds to a crescendo. It’s always a crowd-pleaser, and now it’s a lyrical triumph since Ava helped me sharpen up the verses two weeks ago.

  Ava Ava Ava.

  The butterflies riot in my chest.

  My fingers stumble on the first chord.

  Things do not improve from there.

  If you’ve ever seen Camp Creekbottom IV, you’ll remem
ber the awards banquet scene where Everything Goes Wrong: the dessert table overturns, Scudd Fisher sets the shabby stage curtains alight, and Counselor Dad ends up in the crossfire of a ketchup/mustard squeeze-bottle fight. Tonight’s show is an on-par debacle. Actually it’s worse, because these people bought tickets in their time of emotional need, and although the tickets are reasonably priced, I have let them down. I start “Hate U More” in a major key. I drop lyrics on “Outside Looking In” and blank out during “Wicked Sister” when Ava’s face shimmers to mind. I trip over the Good Barrie mannequin during “Bitter Duet.” Even the Smash Session falls flat: only three people come up to bat, and Raina from Redondo Beach is clearly unimpressed when the surfboard I made her fails to buckle after three solid whacks.

  Evil Barrie has called in sick.

  Oh Lord, I hope it’s curable.

  ***

  I know I have a dance-decoration date after the show, but first I request five minutes to wallow in shame.

  I sit with Brandon on the concrete platform outside the St. C’s back door. He’s swinging his legs dejectedly. I’m not, because mine touch the pavement.

  “I’m really sorry.” He makes hatch marks on the concrete with a penny. “It was probably my fault. I was talking to Abel and I missed that lighting cue—”

  I shake my head. “No.”

  “I saw it throw you off, though.”

  “It wasn’t you. I promise.” I look at him. “Wait—you talked to Abel?”

  He shrugs. “Yeah.”

  “Are you guys good?”

  “Yeah, I mean…sure. He’s acting normal now.” He scratches the back of his neck. “Guess he was just in a weird mood before.”

  “Brandon?”

  “Hm.”

  I tilt my head to the heavens and survey the stars.

  “I have a secret confession.”

  Abel opens the door midway through this sentence.

  “You’re having Secret Confession time? You little sneaks.” He sits down, squeezing between us. “Why wasn’t I invited?”

  “Your secrets are icky,” Brandon cracks.

  “Mine is too,” I say. “It’s extremely bad.”

  “Ooh, yay!” Abel rubs his hands together. “Did you do something scandalous?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is that why you fucked up tonight?”

  I shoot him a look.

  “It’s no biggie, Barbarella. Everyone has off days.”

  I sigh. “Yes. It is completely why I messed up tonight.”

  “Uh-oh,” says Brandon.

  “Tell all,” says Abel. “It’s about Ava, isn’t it?”

  Brandon’s like, “Ava?”

  I take a deep breath and tell all. Abel knows some of it but I have to fill Brandon in on everything, from Ava’s first text to our secret arrangement to the blurted Halloween invitation. Abel makes a string of hilarious empathetic faces while I talk, as if he’s the best friend in a silent film called The Wildly Inappropriate Crush. Brandon makes the concerned-counselor faces that remind me why I didn’t tell him in the first place.

  “I knew it!” Abel clasps his hands when I’m done. “The Enemies to Lovers trope! My absolute favorite!” Brandon eyes him. “I mean, besides the Hot Android Learns to Love trope.”

  “Yeah, except the Bitter Rivals trope was serving her well,” Brandon says. “And now she’s probably scared. She falls in love, maybe the show goes south. Right?”

  I make a duh face. “Look what happened tonight.”

  “Can’t you fake it?” says Abel. “Be all tough on the outside and mushy on the inside?”

  I glance at the bracelet. “Apparently not.”

  “Maybe it’s time for an image change.” Brandon spins his penny on the platform. “Abel? Thoughts?”

  Abel hops down and paces for a second, stroking his chin. “I don’t know, man. This is super-hard—shut up, Bran.”

  “What?”

  “Preempting a that’s what he said.”

  “I would never attempt one of those in a crisis.”

  “Sorry.” He turns back to me. “See, it’s tough. I would never vote against love, but like, nor would I advocate retooling a proven, successful brand.” He cocks his head. “Barb?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m afraid you’re screwed.”

  “God!” Brandon zings the penny at him.

  “Well, it’s true!” Abel says. “If love means more shows like tonight? Eventually she’ll have to choose one or the other.”

  “Maybe you should cancel on her,” says Brandon. “This seems really fraught. You can say we called off the dance if you want.”

  I think it over for a second. “I don’t want to do that. Not after what happened to her,” I decide. “But I do think we should keep it strictly business.”

  “You think that’s doable?” says Brandon.

  “I’m very disciplined,” I say.

  “We’ll help. Right, Bran?” Abel makes a two-fingered V and toggles an I’m-watching-you between him and me. “We’ll keep an eye on you guys. Make sure there’s room for the Holy Spirit between you.”

  “Ugggh,” Brandon groans.

  “What? You’re Unitarian now. Those jokes can’t touch you.”

  Behind us, Kira bumps the door open and pokes her head out. She’s holding a gorgeously creepy sign she painted with ABANDON ALL HOPE scrawled in fake blood. “Lady and gents,” she says. “You coming or what?”

  “Yes! Sorry,” I say.

  “I finished all the bat lanterns,” Brandon tells her. “They’re in the box with the zombie heads.”

  “Fan-frickin-tastic.”

  Kira grumps away and Abel’s like, “What would we do without you, Bran?”

  “Wellll, you’ll find out.”

  He says it playfully, but Abel and I know. We see the look on his face and his reddening ears and we know.

  “Yeeeeeah. I, ah…” He glances at me, then Abel. “I found a new place.”

  Abel flinches. “Really?”

  Brandon nods.

  “’Cause I told you, you can stay as long as you want.”

  “I know, but…” He traces the hatch marks in the concrete. “I need to do this.”

  “Okay. Sure, yeah.” I try to catch Abel’s glance but he’s staring straight down, worrying the gravel with the toe of his green hightop. “So what’s it like? An apartment, or…?”

  “Yeah. It’s cool. A two-bedroom. Hardwood floors, stainless steel fridge, big balcony off the main room. Very affordable.”

  “How’d you find a place like that near LA?”

  “I didn’t,” says Brandon. “It’s back east.”

  I go cold. I knew it, I knew he’d go back sometime, but I didn’t think it would be now. Tears prick my eyes. Why didn’t I appreciate this more while it lasted, this feeling of having a family?

  “Oh,” says Abel. “Yeah, I mean. Of course it is.”

  Brandon stands up and goes to him. They stand there shyly, like a couple of seventh-graders who can’t work up the nerve to ask each other to dance.

  “You knew I couldn’t stay out here forever,” says Brandon.

  “I know,” says Abel. “…Why not?”

  “I’ve got friends back home. My mom. Probably still a job, if they’ll take me back.” Brandon lifts his head and looks him in the eye. “It’s time, A. You know it is.”

  Those words. It’s time. The best two words in the English language when you’re waiting to go onstage. The worst two words when they mean goodbye.

  “This is what you want?” says Abel.

  Brandon looks away. “Yeah.”

  Abel drums up a smile. “Okay. Then that’s great. I’m happy for you.”

  “Thanks, buddy.”

  Never has the word buddy seemed so tragic.

  “Watch it, though. Two bedrooms? I’m coming to visit.”

  “You better.”

  “Is
there a pool?”

  “Yep. But no neon Speedos allowed.”

  “Hey, hey. They’d make an exception for me.”

  “I bet.” Brandon fake-punches his arm.

  “You’re not like, leaving tomorrow, though, are you?”

  “Um…”

  “You’ll stay for the Halloween dance?”

  “Ah, sure. Yeah.”

  They go quiet. The evening breeze ruffles their hair. I want to shout at both of them.

  “Well.” Brandon hooks his thumbs in his pockets and lifts his brows at me. “Guess those mannequins aren’t gonna goth themselves up.”

  “We’ll be right there,” says Abel.

  They fist-bump as they part and it’s awful.

  When the door clanks shut behind Brandon, Abel joins me on the concrete platform. His left hand roams his right bicep, wandering to the place where Brandon punched him. We sit in silence until I see a tear sneak down his cheek and plop on his velvet emcee pants. Then I put my arm around him and squeeze him tight, and I let two tears of my own break free.

  “See, you’re smart, Major Barbara.” He pats my hand and smiles tightly at his hightops. “Don’t fall in love.”

  DON’T %*$&# FALL IN LOVE, Evil B seconds.

  I won’t, I promise them.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  “Let the masquerade begin!”

  The next afternoon, Abel is awash in fake cheer. We’re in separate bedrooms, across the hall from each other, doing dry runs with tonight’s Monster Mash ensembles.

  After a nine-hour sleep, I am fully recovered from my bad show and ready to focus on today’s professional tasks: Ava’s intro to dance music, and writing a song that conquers the hearts of the voting public.

  I am feeling invincible, because I am Tera.

  I admire myself in the tall guest room mirror, which is still not tall enough to display all of me. From various Goodwill finds and a discount bolt of shimmer at the fabric store, I have fashioned an A-plus replica of Tera’s outfit in the “Queen of the World” video. A golden sequined jumpsuit with flared legs and a halter top. Gold boots I spray-painted myself. A platinum bob I found for cheap at the beauty shop. And a copy of her awesome crystal-studded crown, which looks pretty darn cool for nine dollars of rhinestones and spray-painted floral wire (even if it is a touch lopsided). I’ve always loved Halloween: the one day of the year when you can blatantly dress as your number-one obsession and people will smile instead of snicker.