by Gaby Triana
Liam shrugs. “She’s all right, I guess. It’s kinda hard to tell with that crappy guitar. She refuses to buy a newer one.”
“Why?”
“I dunno. I guess because it was her mom’s. She died when Becca was real little—like five or something, in a car accident. Her dad didn’t want to ‘burden’ Becca with memories of a mom she’d never know, so he trashed most of her stuff but let her keep the guitar.”
“Geez, what an asshole.”
“Yep. Then he left her here with her grandmother and went off to start a new and improved family somewhere in Chicago. So as you can imagine, Becca thinks real highly of him.”
“Yeah, I can see how much he didn’t want to burden her.” I guess this would explain the sadness I’ve seen in Becca’s eyes, even when she’s smiling.
Liam digs into his mac and cheese. “At least her grandma cares about her. I feel bad for Becca sometimes, but that’s how she deals with stuff, going off somewhere to be alone.”
Hmm, sad. Okay, now ask him something, Desert, before he starts asking about you.
“So how come you moved to Miami?” Liam inquires.
Damn, cut off at the pass. “No big deal,” I lie. “My dad is working here now.”
“Mmm-hmm,” he mutters, nodding his head like a psychotherapist. “And, let me guess, you’re resenting him for having ripped you out of your normal routine in LA?”
Ha! Good one! “No, not quite. I’m actually very happy to be here.”
“You sound like a game show contestant.”
“Thank you, Mr….”
“Blanco.”
“Mr. Blanco, could I please say hi to my mom who’s in the audience?”
“Why yes, of course!”
“Hi, Mom!” I wave to an invisible crowd. “Thank you, I’ll take Birds of Prey for five hundred dollars please, Mr. Blanco.”
Liam lets out a hearty laugh. “Silly,” he mumbles, shaking his head.
Cutie. And a Hispanic cutie at that. Bonus, mi amor. He’s a bowl full of cherries. Brianna would hate him.
“By the way,” he says. “I hope you don’t think I’m weird because of what I wrote in Smig’s class.”
“Weird? You?” I ask, looking over the Oyes, Blondies, and Animal Housers. “Never.”
“You probably think I’m some stalker now.”
“Well, you did know which lunch I was in.”
“I guess I’ve just noticed you, that’s all. Hey, speaking of stalkers, which way do you go home?”
“Very funny,” I say, shooting him a half-serious look. “Sometimes my mom picks me up. Sometimes I like to walk.”
“You what?” He looks like a rat that’s been dropped in a snake pit. “You don’t walk in Miami unless you really have to!”
“What makes you think I don’t have to?” Paranoia alert! Does he know something he’s not telling me?
“You just said sometimes your mom picks you up and sometimes you like to walk. Nobody here likes walking home.”
“I do.” My tour bus, globe-trotting mentality is showing its true colors. After being cooped up for hours of traveling, the band’s entourage, me included, likes to walk in the cities we visit. It keeps us from going insane.
“Do you want us to give you a ride home?” Liam asks.
“Us? Who’s us?”
“Me and my brother, Michael. He’s a senior. I can ask him if he’ll drive you home so you don’t have to walk. He won’t mind.”
Nothing would make this new life seem more normal than being driven home by a sweet guy like Liam Blanco, but no. Not a good idea.
“Liam, it’s okay, really. I don’t live far from here. It’s just a few blocks. I’ll be fine.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah, I’m sure.” I’m sure I don’t want you to see the castle I live in and wonder why I don’t have a stretch limo picking me up.
“Well, if you ever get tired of walking, let me know.”
“Thanks.” I smile.
The lunch bell rings. I need more time with him. We’ve kidded around a bunch today, but I still don’t know a whole lot about him.
Like he’s heard my thoughts, he rips a sheet of paper out of a notebook and scribbles his phone number. “Here,” he says, folding and handing it to me, “in case you get bored this weekend.”
I stand there like a dork, feeling like Baby telling Johnny, “I carried a watermelon” in the movie Dirty Dancing. Okay, I know, I know…I must stop watching old flicks on AMC.
But I, unlike Baby, am suave. I don’t let too much time go by without a witty response. I am in control of this situation. I am—
“Okay, I’ll call you.”
—Such a loser.
After school I zip out fast, in case Liam decides to check up on me. I’m about half a block down Main Avenue when I hear Becca’s voice calling me from behind. “Desert!”
Oh, joy.
“Hey!” I turn around with mock surprise. “What’s up?”
“Where are you headed? Millionaires’ Row?” She cracks up at the idea.
I laugh a little nervously. “Yeah, right! Nah, I was gonna stop at the 7-Eleven.”
Now shoo, go home.
“Listen, last week, you said you liked my gig bag, and I mean…I don’t know of anyone who knows what that’s called. Most people say ‘guitar case.’”
Oops.
“Do you play guitar?” she asks with hope in her voice.
“Um…no, I don’t, actually. I just heard a friend say ‘gig bag’ once. He has a…garage band back in LA.” Yes, nice recovery!
“Really? That’s so great. I don’t think I could ever be in a band. I think I’d be more of a solo artist. So you at least like guitar, then?”
“Well, yeah.” I guess you could say I’ve been forced into liking it.
“Would you mind if I came over to your house sometime? I could play some songs for you, see what you think of them.”
“Umm.” My brilliant responses have a way with me. “My house is still a horrendous mess of boxes. Why don’t I go to yours instead?”
“Wherever. I just meant get together. Are you doing anything this weekend?” She squints at me in the afternoon sun.
I want to tell her, “Actually, your favorite band has their first recording session at South Beach Sounds this weekend, and I’d really like to hear the wonderful new implementation of Faith Adams’s amazing input. ‘Dance tonight, dance tonight, rock your body, feel all right.’ Yeah!”
But instead…“I can’t this weekend, Becca. I promised my folks I’d get my room organized. Next Saturday, maybe? We can order pizza or something.”
Becca looks down at her sneakers and then seems to compare mental notes of her wardrobe versus mine. “Okay,” she answers finally, a little disappointed. “We’ll talk on Monday…or call me if you want. You have my number.”
“All right.” I try to smile real friendly. “Later!”
She flashes me a peace sign. I watch her head off into the other part of the Grove, the not-so-nice part. I feel really bad about not hanging with her, but I’ve just got to witness the musical merger of classic rock and teen pop. C.R.O.P., they should call it. It sounds a lot like crap.
I’m heading into my neighborhood, a lively mélange of oaks and palms lining the street. Bougainvillea and hibiscus blossoms litter the sidewalk like confetti. This is the part of Miami they show in postcards—except in postcards you can’t smell this bittersweet bite of salty air. Should I call Liam tonight after the session? No, we get out too late. That’s all right, I shouldn’t call so soon anyway. I’ll e-mail Brianna instead.
Our house is easily the prettiest one at the end of the cul-de-sac, with the backyard facing Biscayne Bay. Dad’s outside, in shorts and a baseball cap, picking up the paper. It’s two-thirty in the afternoon. Why can’t he pick up the morning paper in the morning, like any normal human being? I’m trotting up the garden path toward him when I hear the low, rumbling sound of an engine not too far behin
d me. I turn around and spot a car facing our house that wasn’t there a minute ago. A stalker, for sure.
Just as I’m flipping a graceful bird at whoever it may be, a great big zoom lens appears out of the passenger window and someone snaps a picture.
Chapter Five
At South Beach Sounds, later that night, things suck.
“I don’t believe this.” Mom speaks to no one in particular, a wisp of smoke curling from her mouth. She only smokes when she’s aggravated. Like now.
From the couch Marie and I keep our lips zipped. We know better than to speak when she’s like this.
“Did you see who else was with him, Desert?” she snaps again, just as I’m noticing she’s got the same creases on her forehead as I did when Becca deemed me creepy looking.
“No, Mom. Sorry. Couldn’t even tell you for sure it was a guy. All we saw was a camera, so we went inside, and that was it.”
“Jesus!” She flails her arms then paces to the glass that separates us from Dad, Faith, J. C., and Ryan in the sound booth. Max and Phil are off somewhere working on rhythm. She exhales her smoke and leans her forehead against the cool panel. “That was a tabloid shot, Marie. How did that happen so quickly?”
Marie gets up from the couch and stretches, her arms in the air. “I wish I knew, Matti. You want me to look into it?”
“That would be ideal, thank you,” Mom says, her reflection in the glass showing major annoyance.
Marie looks at me and makes an ugly face. I make an ugly face back. If only Mom knew how much we made fun of her when she’s not looking. Marie then flips open her cell phone and starts investigating while pouring herself some coffee.
I look at my mom over there. She looks tired. I know what she’s thinking: Why can’t people just leave us the hell alone already?
Over the years lots of journalists have written about Matti Thomas McGraw being one of the only women in the music business to raise her child on the road, pointing out how the rock ’n’ roll lifestyle can’t be too good for a toddler. And it’s kind of true, for the most part. Most other wives stay home and take care of the kids, while the musician dads revel in the fantasy world of the music business.
I know it must be hard for her to take all that stress, but you know what? It doesn’t have to be this way. She could hire someone else to take her place. We could stay home, flip pancakes together. But we’ve beaten this topic into the ground. She’s already said it—“I’d rather jump off the Brooklyn Bridge than be told how I should live my life.”
So it’s pretty much a lost cause. The only chance of me having one place to call home is if Crossfire stops touring, and now that seems highly unlikely. Besides, touring is how we’ve always paid the bills, says my mom. Crossfire puts on the best live shows out there.
In the sound booth, however, is a ray of hope. The Faith-Flesh liaison is getting off to a rocky start. Looks like it’s not coming together. Dad keeps glancing over at Mom with a frustrated look, but he never loses his cool. It’s always amazing to me how my dad’s stage act is so different from his real self. Everyone thinks he’s this wild, emotional dude, throwing himself on his knees while reaching out to the crowd, when really he’s calm and hardworking. I totally believe that it’s him who’s kept this whole enterprise together for so many years.
I see him shaking his head, taking a pen from behind his ear, writing, putting the pen back, crooning, and shaking his head again. It could easily take forever to hear them work on one, complete song.
“Mom?” I ask. “Can I please go for a walk?”
She pulls away from the glass and settles down at her laptop, concentrating on her keyboard. “Not right now, hon.” Tappy-tappy-tap.
“Why?”
“Desert, honey, if the press already knows where we live, I don’t want you going out there right now. This is the next place they’ll come looking for shots of us. You want to be in tomorrow’s papers? Go right ahead.”
Great. That’s the last thing I need is for everyone at school to know who I am so soon. You see why my life sucks? Liam and Becca don’t ever have to deal with this controlling crap. Then I stop to think about Becca. I can’t believe what Liam said about her dad. And her dead mom’s guitar. God, that’s so sad. Maybe I will go over her house this weekend and listen to her play.
Max and Phil come in, sniffing for sushi. “Desi!” Max cries, touching the top of my head like I’m still three years old. “The girls are visiting in a few months, so you’ll have someone to share this boredom with.”
“Janie and Jocelyn. Coming to join the fun,” I say.
Max’s nine-year-old twins are so lucky. They live in Arizona with their mom, Linda. They don’t tag along. Neither do Phil’s kids. See? It really pisses me off.
“Yep,” Max says with a smile, like he can’t wait. “They’ll be on Christmas break.” He points to the sushi. “You hogging dinner all for yourself?”
“No,” I say, punching his leg. “But leave me some, you slobbish pig.”
He laughs. This is normal between us. I love Maxie-Max.
But then Max sees Dad’s death-look through the sound booth window, drops the wasabi back in its place, and picks up his drumsticks. Silent Phil follows suit, grabbing his bass from the corner where he set it down, and they go back out into the hall. My dad has succeeded in transmitting telepathically, “When we’re all finished, we all eat.”
My stomach is grumbling, and even though I know he wouldn’t mind if I ate, I decide to wait. I pull a scrap of paper from my back pocket. Liam’s phone number. He’s such a nice guy. This would be too weird for him if he found out. Maybe I was better off at St. Alf’s, where at least I wasn’t the only kid with famous parents. I won’t call him tonight. Maybe tomorrow.
Mom gets up to stand in the doorway to the sound engineer’s room, so I take over her laptop to kill some time. I switch user profiles from hers to mine and log in. Let’s see if Brianna has anything interesting to report. It’s strange that I haven’t spoken to her in weeks. That’s the longest we’ve ever gone without talking.
Open new e-mail:
From: [email protected]
To: “Brianna Roman”
Subject: Geometry
hello? anybody home? earth to Bri, come in Bri. i met this guy who’s way cooler than Gus, jk. how is Gus anyway? still grabbing your butt in public? so, his name’s Liam Blanco, as in William White. lol!! what’s going on at st. alf? have you seen Dylan? does he carry around the dictionary I gave him for his birthday? I’m actually liking my school. did you know the crappy cars here don’t only belong to the teachers? miss you, mama-san. come in, Bri.
Love ya,
Desert :-D
PS faith adams wants your autograph
I log off. Marie’s next to me, sipping her coffee and trying to get a good signal, but her cell phone keeps failing her. I wonder if she’s heard from Brianna. “Babalú, do you know anything about Bri? She’s like, lost.”
“No,” she says, pushing buttons, then giving up and shoving the thing into her pocket. “Haven’t talked to my niece in a while.”
“Whatever. She’s probably busy with school. So what’s with Faith?” I ask, eyeing the sushi just sitting there, begging us all to come, eat, and be merry.
“Nothing.” She sighs. “Hopefully she’ll inject some youth angst into the songs, something the last set was missing.”
“But why? I mean, they’re not teenagers,” I say, looking at my dad and the guys. “It wouldn’t make sense for them to write about our problems.”
“Maybe not, but listeners want something universal that everyone can relate to.”
“But that’s pop! I mean, hello?” Is this not obvious?
Marie shrugs. “Whatever it’s called, that’s what Crossfire needs.”
That’s what Crossfire needs? I don’t want to tell Mom how to do her job or anything, but isn’t that what Marie is for, to advise against dumb decisions? Whatever.
“Where is she stayin
g?” As far away from us as possible, hopefully.
“Right now, downtown, until your dad sets her up in your spare room.”
“What? My house? Oh, puh-leez!” I cross my arms. This happens a lot, people who collaborate with us temporarily get invited to stay at the McGraws’—by none other than Flesh himself. But Faith is dangerous! And not to mention ugly!
My mother turns around in the doorway. “It’s just while they’re working on lyrics. Maybe two months or so.”
“Two months with Faith? I don’t believe this. You better get a force field around your bedroom door. She’s after Dad.”
“Desert, your father’s not like that,” she says, turning back to the soundproof glass, “so please relax.”
Why? Why must I always relax? I’m relaxed just fine, thank you! Okay. Think positive. Think happy thoughts. Think…Liam.
I turn to Marie and whisper, “I met a guy.”
“Oh, yeah?” she says with a hint of protective tigress in her voice. “After only two weeks in town? What’s he like?”
On the other side of the glass, Dad gets up and starts pacing. This is not good.
“He’s nice. Not a jerk, real cute. I think he likes me. Well, hopefully. We’ll see.”
Marie nods, agreeing. If Marie approves of the guy, that’s usually a good sign. She didn’t like Dylan.
Sigh. Boring! Let me outta here. I want to walk Ocean Drive, but Mom’s right. The same studio used by dozens of other famous bands is exactly where more photographers are likely to be waiting.
On some nights the creative juices overflow, and we can feel the electricity in our bones. The separate parts—drums, guitar, bass, and vocals—all click together like magic, and poof, you’ve got a musical work of art. But some nights leave us wondering how on earth we’re gonna repay our hardworking fans who shell out the bucks for Crossfire CDs, live shows, and concert DVDs.
At 11:00 P.M. Faith Adams looks frazzled. Poor baby. She piles a napkin with sushi and shovels the pieces into her mouth. No one speaks much except for Marie, who’s back on her cell phone yelling at God knows who. Max and Phil snort and swallow their food. Dad’s not hungry, I guess. He opts for a diet Coke with lemon, then pens twenty minutes’ worth of lyrics before chucking them all into the trash.
