Best Of Everything

by R. E. Blake

  But now a girl’s lying in the hospital, and the obvious reason is because she believed she was out of options.

  “What about…Jason?”

  “Lisa’s mother’s taking care of him. But they don’t know if Lisa’s going to make it. Apparently it was pretty bad, and she wasn’t wearing her seat belt.”

  “That poor kid…”

  “Yeah.”

  There isn’t a lot to say. Both our mothers killed themselves with substances. Lisa plowing into a tree while drunk isn’t much different. In a world where so many with real problems are struggling to survive, why some opt to end it all seems not only tragic but unfair. We’ve both seen the fallout, and it’s never pretty.

  “How are you doing?” I ask.

  “I’m kind of shell-shocked. I mean, I thought the whole ordeal was over, you know? And now this.”

  “Derek. Listen to me. It is over, for you. For us. You can’t be responsible for someone else’s actions, and none of this is your fault. You didn’t fly to New York and wave your kid in front of the cameras and falsely claim someone innocent was the father. You didn’t try to get money out of someone on false pretenses. And it’s not your fault if this girl’s unbalanced. It’s sad, and it sucks, but it’s not your doing.”

  “I know you’re right, but it still feels like I’m somehow to blame.”

  “Derek, don’t do this to yourself. People do shitty, stupid things all the time.” I swallow hard. “When we’re kids, we think we’re to blame when it’s our parents. But once we grow up we get that we didn’t cause the problem. As kids we assume we did, because we can’t imagine a world where we’re not the center. But we aren’t. My mom killed herself with booze, and it had zero to do with me. With whether I could have said or done something different, or how I behaved, or any of it.”

  “Sage…”

  “I have my mom’s diary. I’ve been reading it. All these years I’ve blamed myself for her self-destructing, and I was completely wrong. I thought if only I’d been different, she would have been, too. I felt like I caused her to be who she was, when I had it completely backwards – she caused me to be like I am. But I don’t have to stay this way. I don’t have to be a victim. I’m not. And neither are you.”

  My intensity surprises me, and I realize that I’ve bottled this up, ever since reading my mom’s diary. I thought I was the cause of her misery, and I secretly blamed myself. But it was all wrong. Every bit of it.

  I’m not going to allow Derek to saddle himself with Lisa’s bad luck and even worse decisions. He’s already got enough misplaced guilt over his mom’s drug problem. That probably makes him predisposed to feel responsible for Lisa’s substance abuse and accident, but it’s not going to happen while I have anything to say about it.

  I take a breath and keep my voice even. “Derek, let’s talk about this. Why do you feel like you’re to blame?”

  “Come on, Sage. You know why. If I’d maybe done something different…”

  “What? You mean if you’d ruined your life living a lie so Lisa could take advantage of you, maybe she wouldn’t have crashed?”

  “I could have handled it differently…”

  “How, Derek?”

  “I don’t know,” he admits.

  “You have nothing to do with this. You helped her when she was on the streets. You shared some time with her. And then she went home while you went your way. The end. You even helped her out financially when it wasn’t technically your responsibility. The only reason you even know about any of this is because she tried to become part of your life – because you were successful and got a record deal. That’s it. She searched you out because she thought you would be a good meal ticket for her. I’m not trying to be harsh, but that’s what happened.” I’m building up a good head of steam, but I can’t help it. “And when she got caught in a lie – and don’t tell me she didn’t at least suspect that Jason wasn’t yours – she turned to alcohol. I’m sorry, Derek, but I have no sympathy for that. You’re the victim in this. And so’s Jason. But you’re not responsible – that’s completely backwards.”

  I can practically hear the wheels turning in his head. There’s nothing he can say to counter my argument, which is why I went down that road. Left with too much time to think, he’ll convince himself he’s part of the problem.

  When he speaks, he sounds sheepish. “You’re right. I mean, of course you are. I just wish…I wish it hadn’t turned out this way. It’s totally unfair to Jason.”

  “It is, Derek. What my mom did to me was unfair. What yours did to you was, too. But you can’t stop people from doing bad things – you can only decide not to do them yourself. Lisa crossed a lot of lines you or I never would have. But that’s Lisa’s problem, not yours or mine. Don’t let her make it yours.”

  The silence on the line is deafening.

  “Has anyone told you you’re awesome today?” he asks quietly.

  “The only one whose opinion matters is you.”

  “I miss you, Sage. Especially now, with all this crap…”

  “I know. Get on a plane and come out here. Find some excuse.”

  “I’m trying, but they have me booked solid. I keep bugging my manager to free up some time, but with travel taking a day each way, we’re talking three or four days, and our first gigs are coming up soon, just like yours. There’s no way they’re going to let me bail now.”

  “Did you ever think you’d kind of hate having a record deal?”

  “I know. Way different problems than dodging the third rail, huh?”

  “I guess our lives aren’t so terrible. If we were together right now, I’d say they were almost perfect,” I admit. But that doesn’t help much at the moment.

  “Yeah. My manager said that this morning. He said once the album breaks, I’ve got it made. I’m young, decent-looking, and I can sing. It could be a lot worse.”

  “Speaking of which, I finally saw the finished art this morning for my album. Did I tell you what they named it?”

  “No. We were busy listening to me whine about how hard it is being me.”

  “What your manager said reminded me. Because it’s true for both of us.” I pause. “They’re calling it Best Of Everything. What do you think?”

  When he answers I can hear the smile in his voice. “I think that’s perfect. We’re really lucky, Sage. We really do have it made.”

  I think about how long I lived as a loner, my time on the streets, and before that, the hell that was my existence with my mom and Ralph. I close my eyes, thinking about the misery that flows page after page in the diary, and how terrible life can be if something inside you breaks and you can’t fix it. I think about Lisa and Jason and a mother who’s got to be torn in two watching her child fight for her life after making yet another stupid mistake, and my throat tightens as I nod.

  “I know, Derek. Believe me, I know.”

  Chapter 17

  Saul’s decided to invest in a second video to follow up the first, and I’m standing on the seashore with a blanket over my shoulders, watching the camera crew prepare for the first shot of the day. We’ve got a stretch of Laguna Beach to ourselves as the sun rises over the multimillion-dollar mansions that dot the surrounding hills. The director for this video is a woman named Joan who speaks with a thick Texas twang.

  A golden retriever named Buddy is wagging his brush of a tail by my side while his trainer holds his leash. Buddy is my new best friend ever, and the first shot will be me throwing a tennis ball for him to chase in the mild surf. I’ve been petting him for the last twenty minutes, and Buddy wants to live with me now, in no small part because of the treats I’ve been feeding him.

  Joan walks over and looks up at the brightening sky with a wary gaze. “You ready?” she asks, and I nod. An assistant removes the blanket and I take up my position by the surf line. I’m wearing bell-bottom hip-huggers that are a quilt of multicolor patches sewn together, with leather laces holding them closed through medieval-looking eyelets. My c
utoff black T-shirt shows enough midriff to be flirty without revealing more than I’m comfortable with. My Janis lyric tattoo peeks out from one side when I raise my arms, which is kind of cool.

  Portable speakers blare the opening notes of my song, Joan screams “action” through a megaphone, and then I’m running down the beach with Buddy by my side, carefree as a newborn. I stop and throw the ball into the air in a high arc and he goes berserk, leaping into the waves with pure joy on his furry face. I watch as he retrieves it and comes splashing back to me, and then Joan yells “Cut” and we get ready to do it all over again.

  Buddy stands obediently as he gets toweled off by his trainer, and after five minutes of hurried blow-drying, he’s dry enough for another shoot. He’s got to wonder why these crazy humans are interrupting an awesome game of catch with unnecessary drying, but he’s good-natured about it, and after two more takes it’s a wrap.

  We move to the second scene, where I’m kicking waves while skipping barefoot through the surf. By the time it’s completely light out, we’ve nailed two more scenes and are ahead of schedule.

  Buddy and I are inseparable during the breaks. As I’m staring out at the Pacific, scratching behind his ear with his big head resting against my leg, I feel a pang of loneliness. I have twenty people behind me all working as hard as they can to make me look alluring, or at least interesting, yet I could be on a desert island for all the kinship I feel. Even with all the activity, every day there’s nothing to do but hope in vain that a miracle will happen and Derek will make it to California before he has to go on tour.

  Whoever said long-distance relationships were the hardest wasn’t kidding. Phone time’s fine, but there’s no substitute for Derek in the flesh – something I’m keenly aware of every night as I stare at the ceiling.

  Joan’s assistant approaches and gives me a tired, fake-cheery grin – I know everyone here has been up since 3:00 in the morning, because when I arrived at 5:40 they were all set up and doing their final checks. We had to start at that hour because of our permit – we only have the beach until 9:00. Two bleary-eyed cops stand by the strand, watching us curiously, and the assistant clears her throat.

  “You want some more coffee?” she asks. “We should be ready for the next scene in about five.”

  “That would be great. And some more treats for Buddy.”

  She gazes down at the dog and grins. He’s won everyone’s hearts. “Nothing’s too good for Bud.”

  We finish the final two beach shots, and I reluctantly return Buddy to his trainer, a heavyset man named Stu who’s quick to laugh. His ruddy complexion and reddish sprigs of wayward hair make him look like an adult version of the kid everyone made fun of in school. I decide that Buddy’s got a pretty sweet gig, running on the beach and wolfing down endless treats, as does his owner. Maybe if the music thing doesn’t pan out I can get a job working with pups – there are certainly worse ways to make a living.

  The shooting ends at 11:00 p.m. at Knott’s Berry Farm, where I’ve been filmed on a bunch of different rides I normally wouldn’t have ridden at gunpoint. A white Suburban car service returns me to Los Angeles, the one-day marathon shoot over with enough material to cobble into a three-minute video. The plan is to film the next one while I’m on tour, live concert shots mixed with candid road footage. That’s assuming there even is a next one – if an act doesn’t break big, two videos is maximum before the label cuts its losses and moves on.

  I’m looking forward to Friday, when Melody will be in town for a couple of days. Even though I’ve been keeping crazy busy, I don’t really have anyone to talk to. The band guys are cool, but they’re the band, not my friends, and besides, they’re all male. Some things you can only talk to a girl about, and Melody, for all her sex-obsessed ways, is a good listener.

  I feel like every hour without Derek is a wasted hour of my life. With the first shows coming up in just a few short days, I’ve given up hope of getting to New York again before the tour starts. Derek calls every night like clockwork, but he hasn’t been able to get away either, so we’re resigned to a long break before we see each other again.

  The following day I’ll be on a talk show with Jay accompanying me on acoustic guitar. I’m looking forward to singing in front of an audience again. My wrist is getting better, but it’ll be months before it’s really mended. I’m so used to playing and singing all day from my days on the street that in spite of all the activity, I feel a little bit like I’m slacking. Even though the logical part of my mind knows that soon I’ll be singing almost every night, the fear that I’m losing my edge is constant.

  Ruby picks me up at 1:00, and we drive to the Paramount lot, where the show is filmed. The host is a popular comedian whose daytime TV career took off three years ago and blossomed into a franchise.

  I’m the last guest, and I wait in the green room, watching the monitor while a thirty-something actress with a new miniseries talks about her four cats. A celebrity psychic rounds out the lineup, and I’m glad I missed his fifteen minutes – he looks kind of like a creepy television preacher sitting beside the actress, with lacquered hair the color of straw and a shifty look in his eyes.

  Jay’s strumming his guitar by the wet bar, and Ruby glances at him every now and then with interest. Even though he’s probably five or six years younger, in his mid-to-late twenties, she’s checking him out, which I find funny. It’s the first time I’ve seen her act anything but professional, and it somehow makes her more human.

  “You ever been on TV before?” I ask Jay, making conversation.

  “Not one-on-one like this. I did the talk show thing with my last band, but that was just a performance and then cut to commercial.”

  “It’s pretty cush. The audiences are always supportive. We’ll kill it.”

  He nods. “You’ll kill it. I’m just along for the ride.”

  The stage manager escorts us to an area behind a scrim, where we’ll do the song, and then I’ll talk to the hostess for a few minutes before the credits roll. Jay adjusts his microphone and I get comfortable on my wooden stool, my ratty jeans and Chucks pretty much what I wear every day regardless of what I’m doing. My concession to celebrity is a new white top with a few sequins and a stylized rendering of a French impressionist cancan dancer on the front. I saw it in a shop on Melrose and had to have it, even if it was a week’s fast-food budget.

  The manager counts down, and then the hostess is introducing us and the audience is applauding. The scrim slides off to the side and I smile at the crowd.

  The first chords ring out like a challenge, and then I’m in the song, one of the originals from the album that’s going to go out as our second single. Sebastian argued against performing the lead single until the album was released, and Saul agreed. The audience doesn’t know, of course, and by the time we’re done with the folksy Southern-influenced tune, everyone is whistling and clapping so loudly it hurts my ears.

  The hostess approaches and invites me to sit by her side as the applause dies down. I get comfortable and take a sip of water from a waiting glass. It’s just me and her now, the actress and the psychic on a sofa to the side of me.

  “Wow. Sage, Sage, Sage. That was incredible,” the hostess says, shaking her head.

  “Thanks.”

  “You know, I saw you on the show when you made the semifinals, and I knew you were going to win. It was that obvious.”

  I’m blushing, but manage to force a shy smile. “Not to me. There were some amazing talents on that show.”

  “Do you still talk to any of them?”

  I hesitate. Is this some kind of trap? Her expression is open and honest, so I decide it isn’t. “Yeah. Jeremy, the one with the colored hair? He’s now on Broadway doing the lead in Phantom of the Opera. I got to see it on my last trip. He’s so good it’s sick.”

  “Oh, yeah! I remember him. He was really sweet.”

  “He’s a good friend. And an amazing singer.”

  “Yes, he is. And what ab
out Derek? He’s no slouch himself.”

  “Yeah, I always thought he should have won…” I say, and the audience murmurs a shuffled protest of no.

  “Do you guys still talk? When you’re not in New York?”

  This is getting a little too close for comfort, so I deflect. “Jeremy or Derek?”

  “Well, either.”

  “Sure. We’re all going through the same things right now, dealing with all the good stuff that’s happened since the show. It totally changed my life, and I know it’s done the same thing for both Jeremy and Derek.” I decide that if she goes after Derek, I’m going to tell her it’s none of her business. I’m not going to be someone’s punching bag, TV or no.

  “Well, that’s great. You’re welcome back anytime you want,” she says, and then glances at the stage manager. “We’re out of time, so tell everyone about your new album and when it’ll be available, Sage.”

  “It’s called Best of Everything, and it releases in three weeks! The song we performed is the second off the album. I’ll be on tour to support it, so when I’m in town, come on out and say hey!”

  More applause and then I’m fake-talking to the hostess as the house band plays the closing song, barely making out anything she’s saying, which as far as I can tell is thanking me again and wishing me all the luck in the world. When I get backstage Ruby and Jay are waiting, and we file out to her car before the audience makes it through the main doors.

  “That was great, Sage. You two were brilliant,” Ruby says. “I loved the way you worked together.”

  I wonder whether she and Jay aren’t maybe going to hook up tonight so he can show her more of his tremolo. I envy them if they are. For a second, a wave of self-pity washes over me, and I feel isolated – there’s Jay and Ruby, and me, the third wheel. Maybe it’s just my imagination, which is a distinct possibility; I’ve been reading way too much of the diary and wallowing in self-pity over my romantic situation. I resolve to have some fun with Melody over the weekend, because once she leaves I’m going to be all about performing in the weeks leading up to the tour.