by Gaby Triana
Becca looks like she’s going to ask for a backstage pass just to be funny, but I stop her with a pointed finger to her nose. “You can’t get any more backstage than this, so don’t even think about it, missy!”
“Okay!” she cries. “But you get to go places, see things, meet interesting people all the time, right?”
“Sometimes. I’ll admit that’s a plus. But then there’s the press, the questions, the cameras, the lies being printed. It’s not always peachy.”
Becca leans back, hands burrowing into the sand. “I can’t imagine. I just can’t imagine what I’d do with your life.”
“Ask for yours back. That’s what you’d do. What about you? What’s your story?” I ask, although Liam’s already told me a good amount.
She stares out at the waves, the kids toting their sand castle kits, the joggers trampling by. “I know Liam’s told you. Better him than me, since I don’t like to talk about it. Don’t get me wrong, I love my grandmother and everything, but it’s not the same. I have no life. Sometimes, it sucks to the point where…I’ve even thought of ending it, you know?” She looks at me, shielding the glare from her eyes.
No. No, I don’t know. “What do you mean? Why would you even think that?”
She sighs and gazes ahead. “Do you know what it’s like to be invisible? You could disappear for a couple of days and no one would even care.”
I think about this but don’t respond. That’s some serious moping going on right there.
“Look, I don’t expect you to understand,” she says, looking away. “It’s complicated.”
“Oh, sure, someone like me wouldn’t understand, thanks!”
“No,” she says, rethinking her comment. “What I mean is, most people don’t understand it—not having anything to live for. I know this sounds crazy, but Crossfire’s music is the only thing that keeps me going sometimes.”
Wow. I’ve heard of people who find solace in music, live for it even, but didn’t know they really existed. Kind of like fairies or something. Crossfire saving Becca from obliterating herself? Fine, I’ll accept it. My dad’s written some pretty great songs. Still, it’s just music. I mean, come on.
I check my watch. Mom should be getting back soon, if she’s not home already, raising hell about the missing kid and car. “It’s not crazy, Becca. Believe me, I get it. We gotta head back. Keep talking, though, I’m listening.”
“Becca!” I shout, because one must shout to be heard in a moving convertible.
There’s that smile again. That sorry, pained smile.
“What’s the matter? Didn’t you have a good time? I picked you up hoping we’d have fun!”
“Yeah, I did! This was awesome! I can’t believe we did this!” She had fun, but not enough to wipe that look of self-pity off her face.
We come off the I-95 ramp onto US-1 and slow down at the first red light. One may stop screaming now. I turn to Becca. “Oye, meng. Que pasa?” I’ve learned much Spanglish in the cafeteria.
“I’m fine. I just know that my life won’t ever be this way. That was a glimpse of your life.”
“A what? A glimpse of my life? Um…hello, we just took a drive, that’s all. What’re you talking about?”
“Desert, c’mon. Nobody lives like this.”
“Like what? We cruised around. Doesn’t everyone our age cruise around for fun?”
“Yeah, but not in Jaguar convertibles, being stared at.”
“So?” Geez, can you say party pooper?
“Nothing. It’s just a painful reminder of where you’ll still be dropping me off—my street, my crappy house, my crappy room, while you go off to—”
“Okay, enough already!” Next time I’ll pick up Liam instead. He doesn’t bitch nearly as much. Uh-oh. I forgot I said I’d call him this weekend.
“Sorry.” She pulls off my scrunchie then rings it around the stick shift. “Desert, I just want you to know I won’t be a leech to you, I promise.”
Well, that’s something nobody’s ever said to me. “I never thought you would be, Becca. If I did, I never would’ve talked to you, or gone to your house, or picked you up. I did all those things ’cause I thought we were friends, not leeches. So stop feeling so damn sorry for yourself already!” I smile, and her face has a hint of genuine happiness in it for once.
We pull up to her house. “Now get out, you leech!”
She laughs, steps out, and closes the door. Then she leans into the car. “Thanks. This has been one hell of a weekend. I’m glad we’re friends. Not ’cause of your dad, even though that’s a major bonus, but because I always have a blast with you.”
Looking depressed half the time is having a blast? “Same here, Beck. Oh, look, we’re down to one-syllable names, see? That really means we’re friends.”
“That’s right. Des,” she says, with that face of hers. I guess that’s just Becca for you, all mopey, all the time. “Later.” She flashes me a peace sign.
On the drive home, I wonder about her. I wonder if maybe I didn’t just get myself into something I shouldn’t have. This is how it starts, you know, by telling people your secrets. Then your life’s no longer your own. I hope she’s right; I hope she’s not a leech and I can trust her.
Pulling into the garage, I can see that Mom’s not back yet, but J. C.’s car is here. I put the top back up and make sure everything’s just as it was before I left. This little joyride was way too easy. Dad must really be absorbed by this album!
The garage entrance leads into the kitchen. Inside, I open the fridge and grab a diet Coke. I make it two. Dad never refuses ’em, and J. C. doesn’t drink anything without the proper alcohol content. And Faith…well, who cares?
When I get to the studio door, I can hear jamming from inside. J. C.’s onto something with that funky riff. Dad’s accompanying him on bass. It’s making a lot of sense, except for the nasty voice as the third layer. I don’t want to intrude, but with as much as they’re into this, they probably won’t even notice me, so I walk in.
You know how they say the devil takes many forms? Well, there’s Faith, crooning some God-awful crap, but no, even better, she’s singing in her freakin’ bikini! Bouncing up and down, beads are flying, like she’s really into the jam, but I’m sorry…any woman anywhere can see what she’s doing.
I wait until they come to a break before announcing my arrival with, “Nice! I didn’t know you guys already started working on the stage act.”
Faith looks at me like she’d smack me with a flyswatter if she could. “We’re not working on the stage act,” she flat-out imitates me. “By the way, thanks for my water, Desert.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, did I forget?”
On his stool, J. C. snickers behind his guitar. Dad greets me with a smile. “Is that for me, girly?”
I’m still holding the cold soda cans. “Yeah.” I toss one over to him. “Sorry, J. C., I would’ve gotten you one. Didn’t know you were here.”
He smiles, cigarette dangling from his lip, and holds up his glass of vodka on the rocks for me to behold.
“Ah. Gotcha.” I look over at Freak, Faith I mean, and make it a point to stare at her body for like, five whole seconds. That’s what she wants, isn’t it? For everyone to gawk at her boobs? I’ll gawk.
“Yes?” she asks, like I didn’t pay the twenty bucks for this peep show.
“Yes, what?”
You’re in my house, supposedly working on a serious project, with two grown men giggling like four-year-olds at your Barbie-doll self, while my mother isn’t home to watch over you, and all you can say to me is “Yes?” Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t throw your sorry ass out the door!
God! How I’d love to actually say all that!
I don’t have to. Faith looks over at Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum, rolls her eyes like the child here just doesn’t get it, and pulls a full-length sundress out from her straw bag. She slips it on, with a sarcastic smile, and does a ta-da with her arms. “Happy?”
I won’
t waste words on her. I walk out and slam the door.
Great. How’d she do that? She’s managed to make me feel like an ice princess. I’ve never been a prude, but still, is there any good reason for that ridiculous display? It’s not as if Dad and J. C. are gonna ask her to cover up. I hate this! Feeling like a patrol guard, keeping the so-called adults in line. I’m sick of it! What would’ve happened if I hadn’t interrupted? Free lap dances for everyone?
Heading upstairs, my stomach hurts. I slam the door shut and yank out a sheet of paper from my notebook. I throw myself onto the bed.
Intruder alert, who can this be?
New member of the family?
I swear to God, if she does stay
It’s me that will be going away
I cannot take it; I can’t ignore
The desert just inside the door
I want out now, please let me go
To places where the waters flow.
Look, I ain’t going for a Nobel Prize, all right? Whatever….
Chapter Ten
Right as I finish my homework, and I’m about to settle into bed, Mom knocks on the door, hard. “Desert, open up.”
Yikes. She hasn’t come out of her room since she got home with Marie, but now she wants to talk to me? As I’m about to doze off? Super timing. I hope it’s nothing major. I have to get up early for school tomorrow.
“Come in, it’s unlocked!” I shout across the room.
The door opens, and there stands my mom, ponytail all limp, loose hair strands around her face, dark circles under her eyes. I would’ve expected her to look this way tomorrow, considering they’re about to have an all-night rehearsal with J. C., but now?
“What’s up?” I ask.
“Desert, what’d you do today?”
Ugh. The question. It means she knows the answer, she’s just giving me a head start before hunting and shooting me down. How does she always figure me out?
“Um…went to the beach with Becca?” No more, no less.
“Oh, yeah?” she asks with a hint of sadness, like she’s yet to see the beach since we moved.
“Yeah. Why do you ask?”
She leans onto the door frame and sighs. “Des, honey, listen. There’s a lot going on right now with the recording and all…your father’s stressed, I’m stressed.”
I remember Dad and J. C. earlier today, giggling at the G-string Wonder, looking anything but stressed. “He is? He didn’t look it this afternoon.”
“Desert, I don’t care how he looked or anything you might’ve seen, okay. All I came to tell you was I have enough going on right now, between the sessions, the move, the paparazzi, the hiring of new help, promoters who are still hassling me about last year’s deals, Marie going home for a couple of weeks—”
“Marie left? In the middle of recording?”
She goes on, ignoring me, “Without having to find sand in your father’s car, along with this!” She flings my scrunchie at me.
Oops.
“Hey, my scrunchie! Where’d you find it?” I ask all innocent, smiling my fakest smile ever.
She points a finger at me and starts wiggling it around. “Drop the act, okay? The next time I find out you’ve taken that car, any car, with or without a license, without my permission, you can forget about getting one for your birthday. Do you hear me?”
Do you hear me? God, I hate when she says that! Of course I hear you, how stupid! I have to remember never to ask my kids that question when I’m a parent. But hey, if this is all the punishment I’m getting, I’ll happily comply. “Yes, Mom,” I force out.
“Good,” she growls. “Good night.”
“Good night.” Door closes.
That’s it? How totally weird! That wasn’t too bad. I guess she really does have a lot on her mind.
Chapter Eleven
Is it me, or are people staring? I’ve gotten way too used to the wonderful sense of anonymity in these halls, but now Trumpet Kid and Flute Girl right there just eyed me. Quick glances, not like my gawking at Faith yesterday, but definitely making eye contact.
At my locker Becca catches up and shoulders me softly. “Hey, you.”
I see she’s wearing eyeliner. Impressive. “Hi. I tried calling you last night, but nobody answered.”
“Yeah, we were having dinner at Didi’s.”
“Didi!” I laugh. “Why do I picture someone with poofy white hair and leathery skin?”
From Becca’s frozen face, I’d say I’m not too far off with that description. “Hey, don’t make fun of poor Didi! She works real hard to get her hair to puff up like that.”
“Wow, I was right? You gotta introduce me to her. She sounds smashing, baby.”
“She is,” Becca says with a laugh. “Did you do your English homework?”
Did I do my English homework? “Of course I did. Why? Didn’t you?” Too busy reanalyzing all of Flesh’s lyrics last night, now that you’re one with him?
“Yeah, I did, but first I needed some inspiration.” She pulls out a Crossfire CD insert from the front pocket of her bookbag and starts reading aloud some of Dad’s phenomenal lines.
“Good lord, Becca. Put that away.”
“What do you think your dad meant by ‘The melody calls, it beckons and falls, its rhythm explodes, my body—it holds’?”
Some kid with geeky hair just looked at me too. “I think he meant for you to read it over and over until you’re completely crazy.”
“I think he was probably experiencing some sort of temptation, from the sound of it, don’t you?”
“Whatever, dude. Think whatever you wanna think, Beck. That’s why he’s called an artist.”
We head off toward first period. The hallway’s packed with students going through their morning routines. Something’s slightly off. Are people whispering?
“Rain forest.”
“Mountain,” someone says in a tiny voice as two skinny kids whisk past me.
“Did you hear what those jerks just said to me?” I turn around quickly, only to see the idiots disappear around the corner laughing.
“No, what’d they say?” Becca asks.
“Nothing, forget it.” Yes, I’m definitely drawing attention. Did I put clothes on this morning? Becca wouldn’t have blabbed already, would she?
For a few seconds Room 214 falls silent when we walk in. Then the chatter starts up again as Ms. Smigla comes around, collecting our homework. She nabs my crappy poems, glances at them, and looks up with a grin. She either likes my writing or my name still amuses her. Either way, she says nothing. Very unlike Smig.
Liam rushes in just as the bell rings and looks over at me quickly. I can’t quite read his expression, but there’s no smile today. I was going to call him last night, but after dealing with Faith yesterday, I was in a pretty sour mood. Now he’ll probably think I’m not the least bit interested. I should’ve called!
Ms. Smigla begins class by reading through the poems without mentioning anyone’s name. She pretends to like them all, hard to believe, but I know she’s trying to encourage everyone’s creativity. You can tell the ones she really likes from the way she stops and dwells in discussion.
“‘Will you cast stones at what you perceive?’” she asks the class in that melodramatic way of hers.
My ears perk up.
“Interesting parallel to someone significant. Anyone know to whom this poem refers?” She looks up, searching for an answer.
Nobody grabs this one. It’s a case of “Anyone? Anyone? Bueller?” from that Ferris movie, but there are no takers, just a couple of coughs. Oh, for crying out loud. Jesus! Jesus Christ! Doesn’t anyone watch the History Channel?
Liam raises his hand. Ms. Smigla happily calls on him. “That’s about that prostitute in the Bible, when everyone wants to stone her. But Jesus makes them all feel guilty.”
Yes! And the points keep pouring in for Liam Blanco!
“That’s right. Someone here feels persecuted,” Ms. Smigla says, glancing around.
If she looks directly at me, I will personally see to her crucifixion. Lucky for her, she doesn’t. She then adds, “I suppose we all do sometimes.” She goes on to the next poem.
Kuntz glances over. Kuntz has always been in his own little world over there. Weird that he would suddenly notice me. But then Pigtails glances over. Pigtails has never shown me her face. All right, enough. I know what’s going on here. My pen scribbles like mad.
Who did you tell?
I push the scrap onto Becca’s desk.
She reads it and gives me a quizzical look. Then she writes something and hands it back.
What are you talking about?
Why would everyone be staring at me
today unless you said something??!!
I haven’t said anything!!! I swore I wouldn’t!
Then tell me why people have been
giving me weird looks today!
How the hell should I know??
Well, if it wasn’t her, then who was it? Nobody knows but her!
Nobody knows but you.
Becca reads this and pauses, faking attention to Ms. Smigla. Then, she jots down:
That you know of.
She turns up her palm and shrugs. Ms. Smigla gives us a warning look.
She’s right. Maybe someone finally checked the Crossfire fan-site and saw my name in Dad’s bio. Damn. Well, what did I expect? If everyone knows about me, then fine, I can pass right through the initial shock phase and move on with my life. Becca took it well, right? We’re still friends. The only thing is, I was hoping to know Liam better before the beans were spilled.
Liam does not turn around the entire fifty-five minutes of Smigla’s lecture. When the bell rings, I’ll just go over and explain that I was really busy unpacking this weekend and had things to do. He’ll understand. Then I’ll definitely call him tonight. That’ll get the message through to him.
