“Don’t forget to lock the door behind you. We can’t be taking any chances.” The gritty voice of her aunt hollered from the sickeningly sweet smoke-filled living room. “People are getting murdered in their beds every day.”
“It’s locked,” she said resigned. The house was dark, as always. Aunt Marge kept the curtains closed and shades pulled. She didn’t want the Peeping Toms watching her. Who would want to watch a middle-aged woman smoke and drink all day?
“Come in here and let me get a look at you.”
Libby dropped her backpack at the foot of the steps and dragged her feet as she entered the living room. Aunt Marge reclined in an upholstered chair, her feet on a mismatched ottoman. A dented up TV tray served as her coffee table, cluttered with smoking paraphernalia, a bottle of whiskey and a dirty glass.
“What’s wrong?” her aunt demanded while clenching a cigarette between her thin, stained lips.
“Nothing.” Libby didn’t want her aunt to ask questions or take an interest in her. She pushed her long hair behind an ear as she tolerated the inspection.
“You’re not lying to me are you?” Aunt Marge’s eyes narrowed. “I hate liars.”
“No, I would never lie to you. I just have a lot of homework left.”
She grunted in reply. “There’s groceries on the counter if you’re hungry. Now get upstairs and get your work done. You know I won’t tolerate laziness. You prove to those school people you’re doing just fine. I don’t need them snooping around here again.” She picked up the television remote and started snapping it at the television, effectively dismissing her.
Libby made her way through the cluttered house into the kitchen. On the edge of the counter, next to piles of dirty dishes and old junk mail, sat a torn grocery bag. She began pulling things out. A bag of cheese popcorn, a box of granola bars, a bag of red licorice and a warm package of sandwich meat. At the bottom she found a six pack of soda and three candy bars.
She placed the soda and unappetizing sandwich meat on a crusty metal shelf in the refrigerator, grabbed the cheese corn and a candy bar and went up stairs with her backpack. It was always a relief to leave Aunt Marge behind. With any luck she wouldn’t hear from her again today. Hopefully she’d drink herself into a stupor and fall asleep in her sunken chair.
Once inside her room, she pushed the door shut, closing out the ugliness below. She set her things on the neatly made bed. The worn bedspread featured snags and small tears, but she kept it and everything in the room as clean as possible. She picked up the small framed picture of her family. Her mom, dad and little sister Sarah, along with a former version of herself smiled brightly. The photo was taken while on a rafting trip out West two years earlier. Their arms hung comfortably on each others’ shoulders, reminding her of the love they shared. She traced their faces with her finger, returned the photo to its place and wondered when her dad would come back for her.
Libby moved to the two large windows and raised them a few inches. Fall air blew in, making her room feel better. Outside, across the fields, the rear entrance to the preserve was in perfect view. The spot she’d met Peter. She pulled a chair near the window and propped her book on her lap as she began doing homework, checking too often for Peter and the silver tour bus.
Chapter 2
The next day Libby walked solo through the crowded halls of Rockville High School.
“Libby could you come in here for a minute?” Miss Orman called out, in her friendly way. For whatever reason, she’d picked Libby as her charity case, someone to watch over. Apparently there weren’t bigger problems at school, so it became Miss Orman’s mission to save her. Libby didn’t mind; she liked her. She was only a couple years out of college and still believed the world overflowed with sunshine and rainbows.
“Yeah, sure.” Libby hiked the backpack higher on her shoulder and entered the tiny office. It was always nice to hang with Miss Orman. Posters of positive thinking with adorable kittens littered the wall, a bulletin board overflowed with official letters from DARE and school dress code as well as a couple of long strips of student photos.
She dropped her pack on the floor and sank into an orange metal chair squeezed in next to an overflowing bookcase.
Miss Orman settled behind her desk in her tan dress pants and stylish heels. She leaned toward Libby with sincerity in her eyes. “So how are things going?”
“Fine,” Libby offered her standard answer. Adults either pretended she wasn’t there or looked at her with pity. Miss Ormon was the closest thing she had to a friend.
“Tell me, how are your classes going?”
“Math Chem is hard, but I’m doing okay.”
“How about at home? Anything you want to share with me about your aunt?” Her face showed compassion.
Libby would never consider that dilapidated old house a home. There was nothing of hers there, other than a few token items. “I get by. I just try to stay out of the way and not upset her.”
Miss Orman forced a smile, but her lips were pressed tight. “Sounds like a good plan, but promise you’ll let me know if you have any problems.”
Libby nodded.
Miss Orman’s phone rang loudly on the desk. She ignored it. Miss Orman was the only person who had a clue about her horrible life with Aunt Marge. She leaned in and asked, “Have you thought any more about college?”
“Yeah, I want to go into graphic design, but I’m going to wait for my dad to come back before I pick a school. We’re going to check out campuses together.” Libby and her dad planned to travel East to visit colleges since she turned 14.
“That’s wonderful,” she smiled. “How about friends? Are you making any progress?” Her voice sounded hopeful.
“Not really, but I don’t mind. They all think I’m a freak.” It was easier this way. She never needed to talk about her tragic life.
“You are not a freak.” Miss Orman gave her a pointed look. “You are a gifted young lady who has been through a difficult time.”
That was an understatement. Miss Orman’s support made Libby feel just a little bit protected, like maybe her Mom was still here.
“It’s okay. I’d probably think the same thing about a kid who lived with the town crazy woman.” Or the other events that turned her from the popular girl next door, to the ostracized outsider.
“I don’t want you walking around believing those kids. You just need to make an effort to get to know them better. What happened to you working at the concession stand during the football game?”
“My aunt said no. She thinks I’ll be corrupted by all the kids who drink and have sex in public.” Libby rewarded Miss Orman with a rare smile.
“Fine, we’ll come up with something else.” She curled a lock of hair behind her ear.
Libby pondered her thoughts for a moment unsure if she should share her news, but then couldn’t help herself.
“I met someone,” Libby blurted. Miss Orman looked up, visibly surprised. “At Parfrey’s Glen, by my house.” Her pulse rate jumped just thinking about it.
“That’s great, tell me about it.” She scooted her chair closer.
“I was just sitting there when this huge bus pulled in. It was this family that travels all around. One of them, this guy,” her face warmed, “he came over and talked to me for a long time. It was really sweet.”
Libby wrung her hands as she spoke. She couldn’t hold back her smile.
“Well, that’s terrific!” Miss Orman leaned back and slapped her hand on the desk. “So who is he?”
“His name is Peter and he is so nice.” She blurted. “He and his brothers are in a band and they perform all over.” She couldn’t contain her joy as she recalled their afternoon together.
“What were they doing in Rockville?”
“Just stopping for a break, I guess. When I left they were having a big picnic. They weren’t performing here. I don’t know where they were going, but he said they’re promoting their new CD.”
Miss Orman nodded. “W
ow, that’s impressive. So, what’s the name of their band?”
“I don’t know. He told me the name, but I can’t remember.” Libby looked toward the ceiling and tried to recall. “Something like Double Danger, I don’t know.” How could she have forgotten already?
Miss Orman pursed her lips giving away her concern when Libby couldn’t answer.
“He said they’re touring the country,” she offered, to make up for her lapse in memory. Libby realized how far fetched the story sounded.
“Where do they play next?” Miss Orman tilted her head just slightly and waited.
Of course, Libby didn’t know. She shrugged and chewed at her lip.
“Well, that’s still great. Too bad we don’t know who the mystery man is. Maybe you’ll see him again?” Miss Orman smiled, but this time it didn’t look genuine.
“I don’t know, I doubt it.” Libby tried to predict how she and Peter would ever hook up again. Most likely it would never happen. “Probably not,” her head dropped and she focused on the floor. More than anything she wanted to escape this tiny office and blend into the woodwork.
Miss Orman reached out and patted her arm. “I think it’s wonderful you met someone, even if you never see him again. Just think what a great memory you have. Heck, maybe he’ll make it big someday and you’ll recognize him on TV.”
“Yeah.” Libby’s spirits deflated. It was all basically a dream. A really great dream that no one would ever believe. Heck, she couldn’t even remember the name of his band. Why didn’t she think to ask him more questions? “Well, I better go.” She picked up her backpack and boosted it onto her shoulder.
“Hey kiddo, look on the bright side. Maybe you had a brush with a future star.”
With a forced smile, Libby left the office.
# # #
Heart pumping music blared through the studio. Giant fans created wind-blown effects for the action shots.
“Peter, lower your chin. Good!” James the photographer yelled over the music. James moved constantly to catch every angle possible. Photo shoots tended to go long and today was no exception.
The bright lights burned down as flashes popped. Peter always got a kick out of all the primping for the shoots and the goofy way photographers posed them for the perfect look.
“Adam, this way. Hold your concentration! Remember, you are a serious rocker.”
Adam and Peter broke into laughter. “You can’t say stuff like that if you want us to concentrate,” Adam replied and pushed his fingers through his mop of curly hair.
The guys walked around the set and laughed to shake off pent-up energy.
“You guys are killing me.” The photographer lowered his camera while the hairstylist came to fix Adams hair.
“Ya know, it’s hard to be a serious rocker, when you travel with your mom and she’s always nagging you to brush your teeth and pick up your clothes,” Peter added.
James couldn’t resist laughing. “Okay, this is the last set. Let’s pull it together for a few more minutes. Remember, this is for Rolling Stone, it’s worth the effort.”
Peter couldn’t get over the fact that Jamieson would grace the cover of the legendary magazine. Their popularity shot through the roof this past year. They were living the dream.
“Okay guys, I want you to think brooding rocker, think Kurt Cobain, or Jim Morrison.” James raised the camera to his eye.
The brothers, always consummate professionals, fell back into place doing their best to follow direction even though they were slap happy after three wardrobe and set changes.
“You do realize they both died of drug overdoses,” Garrett added.
“Yeah, and you should be very sad about their wasted talent. Now show it to me on your faces,” the photographer said with a pointed look.
The threesome switched gears and slid easily into character. Peter thought about his dream to be a career musician, not just part of a boy band with the shelf life of a Twinkie. He intended to spend his life creating music, and to move people with his lyrics and harmonies. Jamieson had been fortunate with great reviews and success beyond his dreams, but this was a fickle industry and he refused to be a flash in the pan. He wanted to have a lifelong career like Springsteen or Bon Jovi. Their careers had legs and so would his. Giving a serious expression wasn’t so hard after all.
Twenty minutes later the primping and posing ended and they headed off set.
“Guys, grab some lunch while we go over details for the rest of the day,” their middle-aged manager, Wally instructed.
A few minutes later, with their plates piled high, they gathered around a large table in a meeting room at the studio. A good number of their entourage joined them: publicist, make up, hair, security, manager and more.
“We have another busy day ahead of us,” Wally said scratching his balding head. He opened a binder filled with tour information. “The CD signing at Virgin Records begins in one hour. We’ll bring you in through the side fire exit.”
“That’s good,” Adam interrupted. “We’ll know where to get out when the fire starts. Cause we’re so hot!”
“You are such an idiot.” Peter said.
“Security is already in place, so hopefully we won’t have any problems like in Miami. Roger has been working with store management. You have two hours to get the crowd through the signing. We can’t go long because you have a live interview with WABC-TV at four. Sound check follows that. Oh yeah, tonight we’ve got a kid from Make-A-Wish who will shadow you until after the concert. Anybody want to take lead on that?”
“Boy or girl?” Garrett asked, wiping mustard off his fingers and onto Adam’s sleeve.
“Don’t you have respect for anything?” Adam shook his head, wiped at the smear of mustard with a napkin and tossed it into Garrett’s glass of soda.
“Let’s see.” Wally ignored them and looked over his notes. “It’s a twelve-year-old boy, his name is Jacob.”
“Nah, I’ll pass, but when you get an eighteen-year-old girl, she’s all mine,” Garrett added.
“I’ll take him.” Peter signaled, his mouth stuffed with a bite of sandwich. He grabbed his Mountain Dew, took a long drag and swallowed. “What’s he got?” Seeing kids suffer broke Peter’s heart. He remembered his own hospitalization for appendicitis at age fourteen. He’d been terrified. He couldn’t imagine how scary it was for kids who were really sick.
“Some kind of cancer. It doesn’t look good,” answered Wally. “Roger, anything you want to add?”
Roger, their trusty bodyguard, was tall and built like a giant oak. Whenever they were out and about he became a constant companion. Peter loved having him around. Roger served in Iraq for a while and didn’t want to settle into a regular job when he returned home. Working for Jamieson was anything but regular.
“Yeah, the crowds at Virgin Records are huge and the entry space is tight. We’re gonna have to make a fast in and out. No time for shout-outs or photos.” Roger stared at Adam. “And yes, that means you Adam.”
Adam loved to let the girls fawn over him, but it drove Peter nuts. Adam was so damned cute with his silly grins. He held the group up constantly with his friendly, banter and willingness to pose for photos with every single fan. Roger constantly had to shoo the girls away. Probably the most difficult job on the tour.
Peter loved the fans for their enthusiasm and support, but that’s where it ended. There was a fine line with fans and he wasn’t interested in crossing it. It was impossible to connect with a girl who’d screamed your name moments before and then trembled with nervousness the whole time she talked to you. Or worse yet, cried. Touring wasn’t a normal way to meet and make friends. He wanted to meet someone the old-fashioned way, not under the guise of fame.
Peter thought of the girl, Libby. Meeting her felt normal. No crowds, no cameras, just two people hanging out. She looked so beautiful and relaxed sitting under a tree with her long blond hair blowing in the breeze. He loved that she didn’t know who Jamieson was. Even if she di
d, he wasn’t sure it would make any difference. He wouldn’t mind seeing her again.
Wally interrupted Peter’s thoughts. “We’ve got a busy day, so let’s stay on task. That’s all I’ve got.” He snapped the binder closed.
# # #
After hours of hand-cramping signatures, a limo whisked the brothers, their publicist, manager and bodyguard to Madison Square Garden where the roadies finished their stage setup. Including lasers and pyrotechnics, it took a crew of over thirty more than twelve hours to create the enormous stage and set.
The television crew from WABC was in place and ready to film. A half hour in hair and make up and the Jamieson brothers were ready as well.
They sat in matching directors’ chairs and faced the interviewer, Andrea Jacobs. The attractive young redhead wore masterfully applied thick makeup. She probably looked better without it.
Two cameras were set among the many lights. The news producer stood close by and began the countdown. “Five, four . . .” He signaled the last three counts by pointing his finger on each beat.
“This is Andrea Jacobs, reporting live from Madison Square Garden. Joining me today is the chart-topping teen sensation, Jamieson.”
Peter hated it when the press reduced their sound to a teenybopper boy band. The camera panned across each of the brothers and then back to include all three as a group.
“In a few short hours this arena will overflow with thousands of teenagers and adults too! What is your secret to attracting such a diverse crowd?”
Peter lifted his microphone. “It’s really the music. Our sound appeals to a wide audience.”
“No argument there,” Andrea responded. “Your latest single is climbing the charts at record speed. Last week it debuted at number seventeen and this week it’s at number five. Is it true you write your own music?”
“Actually, Peter is the genius behind our music. Adam and I contribute, but Peter’s instincts are on the pulse of what’s great,” Garrett answered.
Rock and a Hard Place Page 2
