by J. C. Lillis
“What just happened?” Abel whispers.
“No idea,” I say.
“Because the show must go on,” Jaz continues, “we have a special treat. Our own Tera Rivera will fill in now with a live performance of the first single from her upcoming comeback album, Happy Returns!”
Tera, always the professional, swans onstage in a pink and black minidress with a glittering gold guitar in her hand. A few days ago, a surprise Tera performance would have rocked my universe. Tonight I don’t even stick around to hear it.
I rush from the bar, shut myself in the bathroom. I have to talk to Ava. Except I can’t. My phone is gone. I don’t have her number memorized.
What if she’s trying to text me right now? I picture my phone buzzing in the woods—or worse, on the desk of a Pop U producer.
What happened tonight?
And is it my fault?
She could have confessed everything. She could be in a hotel room she won’t be able to afford tomorrow, calling my phone to tell me all about it and getting voicemail again and again. She could be thinking I’m mad at her for surrendering her chance, for not giving our best song a national stage like she promised she would.
Or she could be brooding on a bus back to Hyland Hollow, her crown snatched from reach when a groundskeeper found my phone in the woods and reported seeing a lovestruck glamazon flee from the Golden Underground hatch. All our work, undone by two seconds of carelessness.
Both options royally suck.
“Barrie.” Abel knocks on the bathroom door. “You okay?”
I open it a crack. “Can I please borrow your phone?”
***
I go upstairs to the Church of Abandon, sit alone at a cabaret two-top.
I check Ava’s Pop U Twitter on Abel’s phone, but like I thought, it’s already shut down. The social media insta-voting’s already started, and fifteen minutes later, it’s official: Johnny’s snagged the crown. For the next two hours, after the confetti falls, I watch the online conversation pump Jaz’s Ava announcement into a scandal of epic proportions. The rumors unfurl like thorny vines. Ava was arrested for attacking a producer. She attempted to seduce all three judges. She was secretly dating Johnny and when he dumped her, she hatched an evil plan to sabotage him.
I put my head down on the table, worn out from worry and lies. I guess I drift off. When I open my eyes, Brandon and Abel are standing over me, holding hands and looking kinder than I can handle.
“Has she called?” My voice is cigarettes and whiskey though I’ve never had either.
“Not yet.”
“Come on home with us,” says Brandon.
“But she might try to reach me here.”
“She can try again tomorrow, then.” Abel squeezes my shoulder. “C’mon. It’s after one a.m. And you’re still not a hundred percent.”
I return his phone. “Give me one more minute, okay?”
Brandon nods. “We’ll be in the car.”
When they’re gone, I take a long look around at the remnants of the Sour Grapes Cabaret. The shattered glass and mangled screen, the mosaic of mannequin carnage. I spot an odd flash of color on the floor beside my table. A pink mini-umbrella. The one Tera held out when she made the offer she thought I couldn’t refuse. I left it behind and didn’t even notice.
I pick it up and open it carefully, twirl it in my fingers.
I think of what Brandon said on the way back from the hospital. I told him about my talk with Tera, how weirded out I was about the Uplift Plan and her leaking the song. He was quiet for a minute, his eyes on the small spaceship sticker in the corner of his rearview. Here’s the thing about fandom, though, he said. It’s okay to still need what she gave you. Even if she isn’t everything you hoped.
I talk to her again, my voice a wary whisper in my head.
Hey. Tera.
She answers like always. Yes, sweetie.
Do you think Ava’s okay?
I think so, baby. She’s strong. Like you.
Will she call me, do you think?
I hope so. But you’ll be okay either way.
Do you think I can do this? Remake the show? Reinvent myself again?
I’d never bet against you.
Will you be here with me sometimes, still?
She quotes from “Comeback”: Whenever you need me, I’m ready.
I close the umbrella and tuck it in my pocket. Then I leave St. Castaways and lock the door behind me.
Chapter Thirty-Four
The next morning, a new era dawns.
I arrive at St. C’s bright and early with a box of plastic bags, a legal pad, and a resolute posture, ready to start the Great Cabaret Revision.
“Need help?” Abel’s there super-early too, scrawling today’s specials on his new chalkboard in loopy cursive. “I can come up and give you a hand.”
“No thanks.” I grab a broom. I am a girl on a mission. “I got it.”
I borrow Abel’s tablet, prop it on a table in the Church of Abandon, and cue up my long YouTube playlist of Best Camp Creekbottom Moments. Counselor Dad, a flawed human being who is nonetheless the only father I’ll ever have, props my spirits up as I dismantle the Sour Grapes Cabaret and think about Ava so hard I’m almost sure it’ll summon her. I fill three plastic bags with mannequin parts and debris. I break down the mangled screen and set Rosalinda on my bare stage so it doesn’t look too sad. I draft an announcement about the Sour Grapes shutdown and tell my Rangers to email me anytime they need to talk. To this week’s ticketholders, I offer apologies and refunds and free tickets to Cabaret B when it’s ready.
I wonder if anyone will show.
I rest my chin on my fist and blink at the tablet screen.
“Tell the truth, Scudd!” yells Dad in his tight khaki shorts. He is chasing Scudd Fisher through the woods with a giant tennis racket and a crazed gleam in his eye. “TELL! THE! TRUTH!”
I allow myself a smile because Dad’s right, as usual. I can still help people through music. But I’ll help most when I write my own truth, no matter what it is: whether it’s sun-yellow happiness or indigo heartbreak or one of the hundreds of shades in between.
My heart feels pretty indigo right now. But I still can’t wait to get started.
“Barrie?”
Brandon’s standing by my table, holding a big flat something wrapped in newspaper.
“Place looks good,” he says.
“Thanks,” I say. “You here for brunch?”
“Nope. Job hunting today.” He grins and unwraps the package. “Figured I’d do it at the bar in case I need fortification.”
“Smart.”
He lifts a huge letter out of the newspaper: a flat metal B with robots stickers all over it.
“Abel asked me to bring you this,” says Brandon. “He salvaged it a couple years back from a café that closed.”
“B for Brandon?”
“Yeah, apparently he was going to send it to me as a birthday gift.” He’s blushing now, turning the color of the comic-book lettering on his new ST. CASTAWAYS shirt. “But then he thought it was too weird.”
“Are you sure you don’t want it?”
“Aw, use it for your stage. You can take the stickers off. Put your own stamp on it.”
I run my fingers over the cool metal. Downstairs a small brunch crowd is trickling in and the smell of Don’s Bittergreen Frittata drifts upstairs, mixed with the sweet, tangy scent of the lemon-blueberry muffins she’s trying out today.
“Thanks,” I say.
“Oh, and also?” He reaches in his messenger bag and pulls out a padded envelope. My name is written on it. Nothing else. “This just came for you.”
I take the envelope. “Who’s it from?”
“No clue. It was on the doorstep when I got here.”
I weigh it in my hand. It’s heavier than a letter, but still fairly light. I tear it open as Brandon heads downstairs, and the first thing I see i
s a flash of glitter.
My phone.
I let out a breath and lift it out, send a rush of loving thank-yous to the universe—but wait. There’s something else in there, another glimmer of gold that winks in the morning light warming the Church of Abandon.
I dip my hand in. My fingers close on a metal band.
No. Freaking. Way.
It’s the sun ring. The one I reached for months ago in the rainbow pile of Viv’s jewelry, because it reminded me of the Tera pendant I loved and lost. The one Viv kicked away, saying that’s not yours.
There’s one more thing in the envelope. A note, scrawled in small, neat handwriting on a card stamped with the Pop U logo.
Dear Barrie,
Found something in the woods. And something in my jewelry bag.
They both belong to you.
The ring can be resized if you need to, but something tells me it’ll be a perfect fit.
Good luck hon. Can’t wait to see what you do next.
Love,
Viv Felton
Former Pop University Security Officer
Proprietor, Destini Designs
I blink at the signature in disbelief, tracing the star that dots the i at the end of Destini. Then, reverently, I slip the ring on my finger. The sun on the ring is different from Tera’s pendant. The gold is brighter, the rays are broader and more defined, and a subtle smiley face is etched in the center. It’s me. It’s mine. And I’ll never take it off (though I’ll probably have it coated with some protective substance, because the great Barrie K cannot have creeping-crud sores on her piano fingers).
I squeeze the ring and close my eyes. Thank you, I say to Viv: guardian of lost phones, deliverer of Destini. As fairy godmothers go, she turned out to be pretty awesome.
I want to leave the beauty of this moment alone, but I can’t resist. I power my phone on, fingers trembling. There’s a smidge of battery left. The Golden Underground selfie on my lockscreen is even sweeter than I remembered, but…no.
There’s no new text notification. No missed calls from Ava.
Damn.
I set the phone facedown on the table. I unhook my cabaret sign from the chain, lay it to rest on the floor, and have myself a good cry for the show that made me and the weird confusing silence of my girl. I cry for five minutes and stick the tissues in a trash bag when I’m done. Then I hold the big metal B up where the Sour Grapes sign was and picture all the different things I could paint on it. Hearts? Musical notes? Piano keys? Lightning bolts? All of the above?
“Needs eighteen thousand sequins,” a voice says. “Then it’ll be you.”
I whip around. And I almost drop the B right on my flip-flopped foot.
Ava Alvarez stands in the doorway of the Church of Abandon, with a suitcase in one hand, Fernando in the other, and a smile as big bright and bold as a disco chorus.
***
I didn’t think it was possible to kiss for five minutes without coming up for air, but there is still a lot I have to learn about the world. When the we-need-to-talk impulse overrides the we-need-to-kiss impulse, we sit down at a table for two and huddle up.
She strokes my bandaged arm. “You sure you’re okay?”
“Yes. I mean, I have temporary superpowers now…”
“Really.”
“Like, I can summon gorgeous agnostic lesbian guitarists with a flick of my wrist.”
“You cheeseball.”
“Sorry.”
“Sorry I didn’t call you.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“There was too much to explain. I wanted to do it in person.”
“You told them everything.”
“I did, yeah.”
“Was Tera mad?”
“Surprised. Fascinated, I think. But glad for an excuse to boot me.” She rolls her eyes. “I’ve been her fallen pet for weeks now.”
“Why’d you do it?”
“I didn’t want to win without you,” she says, but from the look on her face I know there’s something else. A bad something else. “Plus…”
“Tell me.”
“I heard what Tera did. How she set you up. Leaked your PIG song.”
“Who told you?”
“No one. Overheard her and Bryan Barclay.”
“Whoa.”
“She was saying how she offered you my slot and you turned her down, like you’d said no to a knighthood or something, and then Barclay was like well honestly, she’s a wildcard, her appeal would be limited anyway. Assclowns.”
“It’s fine.” I wave a hand. “She meant well. It worked out.”
“Whatever. She was a dick. Don’t make excuses for her.” Then her voice goes tender: “Look, I want to win, but I have principles. And there’s no way in hell I want to work with someone who’d treat my, ah…” She hesitates, then laces her fingers through mine. “…my girl like that.”
She’s shy and awkward all of a sudden, like she’s about to call up Ma and ask for my hand. It’s melting me but damn, I’m still sad for her.
“You should’ve waited to tell them. Until after your performance.” I shake my head. “That song deserved an audience.”
“Yeah, well. Fernando and I talked it over. And we figured we’d wait for you and Rosalinda.” She loosens our hands, touches her callused fingertips to mine. “It’s really written for two.”
“Well, four.” I tip my chin at our instruments. “Counting them.”
She leans over and kisses me. I am in love with this room and everything in it. Yes, even you, weird ceiling stain.
“So what now?” I say softly. “Back to the Hollow?”
“No,” she says. “I think it’s time to move on.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, see…” She digs a piece of paper from her pocket filled with formidable financial scribblings. “I’ve got almost three thousand dollars from my challenge wins, two hundred from busking on a corner this morning—”
“You didn’t!”
“Scandalous women draw crowds. Oh, and also…” She circles a figure on the paper. “TV Tantrum offered us two thousand bucks for an exclusive. If we tell our story.”
“Are you kidding?” I crack up laughing.
“We might as well, right?”
“I’m game if you are.”
“I know it’s not much. I know what things cost here.”
“We’ll figure it out. We don’t even have to stay.” Ugh, could I sound more presumptuous? “I mean, you don’t. Or, I mean, we, if—”
“We is an excellent word choice,” she says. “If you think so too.”
My lips find several ways to tell her yes, I think so too. On the ceiling of our happiness, reality looms like a floating swamp ghost. I need a full-time day job and so does Ava. We need a place of our own, here or somewhere else. We need to figure out how to be girlfriends and co-writers as we chase down our dreams—our separate dreams and together ones—and create our own Destini.
I know the complicated part is just starting. But right now, for this one moment, it all seems beautifully easy.
Easy as A + B.
Which is what I sketch on the flip side of her paper.
“What do you think?” I say.
“Are you gonna carve that on a tree?” She side-eyes me. “’Cause that’s gross, and sappy, and also blatant tree abuse.”
I expand the sketch, turn it into a sign outlined in lights. I slide it to her and watch her read: THE A+B CABARET.
“Right.” She grins. “I fucking love it.”
She morphs into business mode immediately and Lord, I adore her. Numbers and goals unfurl on the paper.
“I’ll call TV Tantrum back,” she says. “We’ll pool all our songs. Do a setlist tonight.”
“I’ll make us a website and a Twitter and a YouTube channel.”
“Can we play here next Friday?”
“I’ll check with Abel. Maybe Cassi
dy Wu can stream it, too.”
“I see us playing South by Southwest in three to five years.”
“Really.”
“We win a Grammy in seven years tops.”
I pause because I know what can happen when you dream too big, but screw it—the threat of failure shouldn’t kill the fun of dreaming. “At least an AMA,” I say.
“FARG,” she says.
“Yes?” I love the name now.
“We’re gonna need an A.”
“On it.” I rip a corner off the paper, draw a miniature A on it, and hold it next to the giant metal B. “Yes? Your initial’s first, so I figured mine could be bigger.”
She throws her pencil at me. “You’re trouble, you know that?”
“Most round-headed people are.”
She’s chasing me around the table when Abel pokes his head in.
“Hey. Pop U Scandal Twins.” He’s beaming at our reunion, and possibly wondering how long he’ll have two girls crashing in the guest room. “You two want to play something? ’Cause there’s like fifteen people down there and I bet half of them would cream their coffee for a private performance.”
We look at each other. Ava nods.
“Give us fifteen,” I say.
Brandon dashes upstairs and fusses with a spotlight. Abel goes out on the street, ringing a bell and luring an audience with Ava’s name and half-price mimosas. We convene in the back stairwell, running through the words and tweaking the harmonies. We only played the full song twice in the Golden Underground. It’ll be rough, but that’s okay.
“Anyone out there?” Ava murmurs, tuning up.
“About twenty people,” I report. “And one goat.”
“What?”
“Made you look.”
“Screwwwww you.”
“Later, babe.” My face blazes. “…Sorry. I can’t pull that off.”
Abel introduces us and we step into Brandon’s warm center-stage light. I twist my sun ring around and around on my finger. My eyes scan the room, sweep the back wall out of habit. Before my other performances—at talent shows, open mikes, even the Pop U semifinals—this is the time when I’d dream up a last-minute Ma appearance. She’d show up at the back of the room, full of helpless pride and misty-eyed regret. Maybe someday that’ll happen. But I don’t need the fantasy now, not when this is my reality.
