by Gaby Triana
“Yeah? What is up with that girl? Why would Becca even like her? What could she possibly know about guitar, which is the only thing Becca even cares about? That and Flesh.”
“That girl’s a lunatic, man. She probably just buttered Becca all up about her art, and Becca flipped that someone was paying attention to her. I’ve heard she can be a real bitch.”
“Becca?”
“No, you nerd! Jessie!”
We laugh like idiots. “Well, then maybe we should tell Becca something,” I say.
“Nah. You can’t tell her anything. She gets too sensitive. She’s gotta figure things out on her own.”
Very true. I can be like that too, I guess. “She wouldn’t stop staring at me the whole time sitting there.”
“Yeah, I know.”
So he noticed too. I don’t want to be the one to tell Becca, but I recognize this weird feeling as butt kissing. The story of my life. I’m the stepping-stone people walk over to reach Flesh. “Whatever. She seems happy. Let her have fun, I guess.”
Liam tows me to the parking lot, where hundreds of kids are lined up outside the fence. A few smoking, most chatting. Fire drills are like the ultimate excuse to socialize on campus. Me, I’m getting escorted to a nice red Integra, which Liam clicks open with the remote on his keychain.
“This your brother’s?” I ask, sliding my hand along the smooth, waxed body.
“Yes, ma’am,” he says, opening the car door for me, showing me in. “Hope he doesn’t need it in the next five minutes.”
Two seconds later, a taller, chubbier version of Liam is standing next to us. “I see we both had the same idea,” says the stranger.
“Hey, Mike.” Liam bumps shoulders with him. “You mind if I hang out here for a bit?” He sends Michael the universal, guy-to-guy, I’ve-got-a-chick-with-me-now-scram look.
“No, man, that’s fine. Is this Desert?” he asks, smiling and nodding at me.
Is this Desert? So I guess Liam talks about me. Or maybe Adriana talks about me. Does Michael think I’m Liam’s girlfriend or a reconnaissance project?
“Yeah, Des, this is Michael,” he says to me, then turns to his brother, “who’s just about to leave.”
“Nice to meet you,” I say. I always feel archaic whenever I say that.
Michael says, “All right, all right, I’m outta here.” He laughs and leaves to hang out with some friends along the fence. I get into the car, and Liam closes the door.
You know, I don’t think I’ve ever been inside a vehicle that didn’t belong to anyone in Crossfire, wasn’t rented, or owned by a city guide. And Dylan, my boyfriend in LA, didn’t have his license yet. This car’s pretty nice, complete with leather everything.
Liam walks around the front, then opens the driver’s side and gets in. He starts the ignition, cranks up the air, then leans his seat back. “Ahh! Awesome! Let’s hang out till the all-clear bell rings.”
“Let’s stay,” I suggest with a wicked smile.
He smiles back. Thank God. Houston, we have confirmation of mutual makeout.
I tilt my seat back to the same level as his, turning sideways to face him. “So, where’d you get those eyes?” I swear they’re like gemstones.
“Last I knew, I was born with them.”
“No, you dork! I mean, who has blue eyes in your family? Aren’t you Spanish?”
“So?” He shrugs. “Lots of Hispanics have blue and green eyes. Hispanic means ‘from Spain,’ which is in Europe, you know. Europeans look like anything.”
Blah, blah. Blah, blah, blue eyes, blah. “Come here, you,” I say, leaning into the center console just as Liam moves in too. Our lips meet, soft and warm. After a little while, our hands begin to roam. Over necks, arms, waists, thighs. Nothing serious, but this is how it starts.
This is heaven. Really, truly, right here. In this car. Kissing Liam Blanco. Finally I feel like Desert, not Flesh’s kid, not anybody other than plain ol’ Des. Here with Li.
And a thought suddenly hits me. If Marie’s plan doesn’t work, if Crossfire goes on to make the new album, we’ll be gone again, uprooted. On the road. Crazy, screaming fans. Bus aisles for beds. Planes. Sleeping across time zones.
And that means only one painful thing to me right now. No Miami, no Liam.
We stay in the car well into fifth period. I’ll just tell Madame Girard tomorrow that I wasn’t skipping, I was practicing my French out in the field. During sixth period I can’t process a single word Mr. Evans says. Too many things on my mind. Too many to count. Only my pen tries to make sense of things.
Go, if you wish
But leave me here
I don’t want to roam.
Moonlit park
Kiss the dark
Blue eyes home.
Chapter Seventeen
Obviously J. C. didn’t get it when I said Becca plays guitar. I didn’t mean a Fender. Now he’s showing her all the essentials for setting up a multitrack, digital recording suite. From converters to recording/editing software, everything you’d need for laying down the basic tracks to polishing the final mix.
Becca’s completely speechless but happy. Her eyes are packing years’ worth of awe of a place only dreamed about in her little bedroom.
J. C. drapes a guitar over his chest. “See, what you wanna do is pedal the open A, like this.” Waaaang. “Then you palm mute the power chords, like this.” Wa-oh, wa-oh. “Then you alternate the picking for the sixteenth notes.” We-eee! “And if you wanna get these pings, you gotta choke up on the pick.”
Pedal, power, palm, picking, ping, pick. Dr. Seuss could’ve had fun with those.
“There’s music out there, Rebecca, music beyond top forty,” J. C. says, pushing his black hair behind his ears, grabbing his glass full of clinkiness. “You just gotta find it.”
Okay, maybe it’s time for J. C. to continue finding transcendental nirvana or higher vodka or whatever the hell he was seeking when we came in, before he scares Becca away.
“Girlies.” Dad rushes in with that get-ready-to-work attitude. “Time to go. Out of the booth, come on. Wait outside if you want.”
Phil, in his usual way of communicating without words, hands me his bass with a smile, pretend-suggesting that I play the parts instead of him.
I take his cue. “Dad! You mean you don’t want us in here? Come on, look, I can do it. No melody outshining, just keep rhythm, right, Phil?”
Phil pulls back his precious instrument, wiping the strings down with a cloth, all with that silent grin of his.
“Very funny. Out!” Dad smacks my butt with his iBook. To Becca, he simply grins. He’s probably not thrilled that she’s here, but that’s just too bad. She’s staying. I need her.
“Don’t we get to watch?” Becca asks me, all worried.
“Through here,” I say, showing her the door to the waiting room. “Hey, so where’s Jessie today? Are you guys still talking?”
“Yeah, we are, but not today. What did you guys think of her?”
Skanky. “She’s nice.”
Becca plops down on the sofa and raises an eyebrow. “Yeah, sure. Liam didn’t look thrilled yesterday. I don’t care.”
“And is she interested in you? Like, you know…?”
She brings her thumb to her lips and nibbles off a piece of skin. “I think so. She’s said she’s into both guys and girls.”
“She did? She actually said that? How do you come around to things like that in conversation?” How do you find out from someone if they’re gay, too? That must be so weird.
“I guess she picked up a vibe. Probably saw it in my eyes or something.”
“Well, that’s good eye-reading, right?” I ask, reaching over to grab a bag of Chex mix on the snack table. I pull it open.
“Yeah, the only problem is, she keeps talking about you and asking questions.”
See? I knew it. Not good. “Like what?” I ask, picking out the pretzel pieces from my handful of mix.
“Like if I’ve been to yo
ur house, and if I’ve met your dad, and what he’s like, and all that.”
Great. A leech. Becca hooked a leech. And she doesn’t see this? Maybe she sees it but doesn’t care.
“I don’t care, though,” she admits, grabbing some snack mix. “She’s nice to me.”
Look what the cat dragged in. Enter Faith, towing a bag full of beach crap, hair thrown back into a knot, no makeup. She sees us and does a great impression of someone who could care less. “Coffee,” she mutters.
“Over there.” I point to the little table in the corner, complete with mugs, filters, creamers, and an assortment of sweeteners.
She’ll be insulting me in three…two…“What do you care…Beach…Sand, I mean Desert?” Faith growls, glancing at me out of the corner of her eye.
How totally original. She should write pop songs! Someone overdosed on tanning oil this morning.
“Just being nice,” I say with a grin.
“Why?” She throws her bag into the corner.
“No reason.”
Because ultimately, you’ll get me a permanent home. I’ve gotta be nice to you, Freak.
Instead I say, “I’ve realized how important it is having you around. Your input is really going to boost this ticket to where it needs to go, Faith.”
Becca squeezes my arm, whispering, “Adams?”
“Shh,” I respond, still smiling at the tanned demon before me.
Faith freezes, except for her tongue clicking. I’d say she’s scared, half expecting to see the aliens who’ve abducted the regular Desert and replaced her with this ray of sunshine, pop out of the utility closet.
“What are you on?” she asks with a sneer.
“I’m not on anything. Meet my friend Becca.”
Remember when you took your first-grade pictures and the photographer said, “Say cheese,” and you’d just widened your mouth, showing teeth, but not smiling the least bit? This is the greeting Faith bestows on Becca before asking, “Is this the girl you said you couldn’t be friends with?”
I love Faith. She’s such a doll. Maybe if I glare at her hard enough I can burn a hole into her forehead.
“What is she talking about?” Becca asks, all innocent, watching Faith disappear into the corner café.
“The first day of school, when I saw your notebook, the one that says ‘Flesh is a god.’”
Becca examines her lap. “Oh, that one.”
“I just wasn’t sure at first we could become friends, but look—look where you ended up.” I gesture to the lovely interior of South Beach Sounds, surely a dream come true for Becca.
“True.” She sighs sadly. Is there any pleasing this girl? “I can’t believe that’s Faith Adams. Isn’t it weird how things turn out sometimes?” she asks, hugging a sofa cushion like it’s a floatation device and she’s drowning.
Yeah, like how Becca happens to be Dad’s biggest fan, my boyfriend is the stepson of an evil tabloid reporter, and my mother’s best friend is setting up the family business for failure. Sounds like something out of a movie.
A voice crackles on the speaker. “Adams, we need you in here.” Max and Phil trample into the sound booth just as Dad’s making his announcement.
“Coffee, I’m getting coffee, you prune,” Faith replies, fully knowing my dad can’t hear her. She flings the stirring stick onto the floor. My first urge is to run over there and yank her bleached hair right out of her scalp. But then I think about home, staying in Miami, being with Liam, and suppressing that rage gets easier.
“Did she just say…?” Becca starts, but I nudge her.
“Yes, a joy, isn’t she?” I try picturing Marie on the phone with Faith, convincing her to join the recording efforts. What could she have told her? Hey, if you record with Crossfire, you’ll help them down that spiral path?
“I can’t believe I’m here,” Becca says. “This is so totally awesome!” Her knee begins to bob up and down.
Look at her, all google eyed, like a kid in a candy store. “Get over it.”
She doesn’t even hear me, because the session begins with a blast. Literally. Someone’s blown a speaker or a monitor, and I can see Dad, Ryan, and the engineers are extremely thrilled about this. After some replacements and fine tuning, they start again with a song they’ve been calling “Number Two.” It’s been a couple of weeks since I gave them a big listen, and I have to admit, they’re sounding a lot tighter. But that’s without Faith’s lyrics. Looks like Dad’s stalling on that.
Mom just walked in. Her face is all pale. Marie’s two paces behind, as usual, but they’re not, like, together. Marie glances over, gives me a sympathetic grin, and sits at the desk with the laptop. Mom leans against the wall and lights up. This is the most I’ve ever seen her smoke.
After laying down some basic tracks, all but Dad and Faith leave the sound booth. Vocals. This is just what Becca’s been waiting for, but I haven’t exactly told her there’s no reason to get her hopes up, considering Faith’s been working on them. They start with a song appropriately called “Number Four.” Dad lets loose his trademark falsetto, the one that begins half his songs, only this one’s a ballad. And then, ladies and gentlemen, the horror…
“Baby, I miss you…lying here in my room…cannot forget you…woohoohoo,” sings Flesh, only it can’t possibly be Flesh. Apparently the same aliens that abducted and replaced the real Desert McGraw have caught hold of her father, too.
But Becca is forgiving and dedicated. She remains calm, listening. She adores Flesh, like her notebook says, and she knows there must be better stuff coming shortly, right?
“I love you so much, baby…aching for you, yeah, aching for you,” Faith adds, doing her best to sound like a singer, all the while sliding her hand up my dad’s arm.
Against the wall Mom scoffs, grinding out a stub on the adjoining glass, then leaves. A waning smile straightens Becca’s lips. Halfway through the next putrid number she gives up, leaning back into the sofa, saddened by the unforgivable passing of Flesh.
Staring straight ahead, she asks, “What the hell is this?”
I never realized how echoey this room can be, listening to my laughter multiplied over and over again. If I wasn’t so sure it was me, it could sound like some mad scientist cackling at his success in reanimating dead tissue. Catching my breath, I wheeze, “This is a sad, sad ending for Crossfire!”
Marie was right. They are self-destructing anyway. Those have got to be the worst, pop-sounding, bubble-gum-chewing, teenybopper crap lyrics I have ever heard.
Awesome.
Chapter Eighteen
It’s been a week since Becca’s disillusionment at the studio. She’s still trying to get over it by listening and relistening to our whole discography. I’m at my locker, getting my copy of a rare import Crossfire CD she wanted to borrow, when some guy appears next to me.
“Hey, you Desert McGraw?” he asks.
“Yeah.”
“Dude, your dad’s band used to be really hot, like when my grandfather was in elementary school.”
No, wait. Is he serious? Is he seriously standing here, insulting me to my face, thinking I haven’t got any feelings whatsoever? “Really?”
“Yeah, man.”
“Then that would make him the youngest twelve-year-old to ever have children to bear a scummy little punk like you.”
He stands there, biting his lower lip. Five feet away his slightly smarter buddy chides, “Bro, you asked for it.”
What a great way to start the day. I walk away without another word.
Liam waits for me outside Smig’s class every day now that Becca hangs out with Hoochie most of the time, making me walk alone to class. He leans on the wall, leg bent at the knee, looking very James Dean.
“What happened, babe?” Babe, that’s new. “Bad hair day?” He thinks he’s being funny. Great, just the kind of support I was hoping for.
I head past him to the classroom. He pulls my arm back. “Sorry, Des. You okay?”
“Fine. Just
some jerks getting on my back about my dad.”
“Who?” Liam glances down the hallway, searching.
“I don’t know who. Remember, I’m new here.” Why, does he want to beat them up for me? That’d be kind of chivalrous and cool if he’d do that. “Just some idiots after homeroom. Don’t worry about it.”
“Well, I worry.”
“Don’t.”
“Can’t help it.”
“Why?” I’ve been wondering this for a while now. “Why do you care so much about me, Liam?”
“What do you mean?”
Let’s see, what do I mean? “I mean, why do you care so much about me?”
He looks around, turning up his palm. “You wanna talk about this now? The bell’s gonna ring.”
“Yeah, that stupid bell always telling us what to do. You’re right. Forget it.”
“No, wait. Okay,” he begins, trying to think up a response to this impromptu question. “The first day I saw you, when you came in, and Smigla called your name, you looked like a deer caught in the headlights. Then you got defensive and shot everyone a dirty look. At first I thought you were just in a bad mood, but then I found out who you really were, and I felt bad for you, that you had to do that. That must suck.”
“So that’s it? That’s why you’re with me? Because you feel sorry for me?”
“That’s not what I—” He reaches for my face.
I push his hand away. “Well, I don’t need your pity. Give me any other excuse. Tell me you think I’m nice, have a sweet ass, anything, I don’t care, but don’t tell me you feel sorry for me.”
“Jesus, all I meant was…”
“Honestly, I thought you’d say because I make you laugh, or you think I’m smart, or I’m likable.”
“Likable?” He snorts. “You make that difficult.” He turns on his heels and enters the classroom.
Nice. Thanks, Liam. Thanks. So now I’m not likable.
Becca rushes up. “Everything okay?”
“No, everything’s not okay.” I shove the CD into her hands. “Liam’s mad at me.”
Becca’s become immune to my ranting. She leans in, hand resting on my shoulder. “Why? What happened?” Finally some genuine concern.
