I put her on speaker so she can hear them, and she laughs. She’s always so damn indulgent with us, relaxed and lenient. When our home base was in my family’s garage, she’d only scold us when we were so loud that we bugged the crap out of Kevin and he couldn’t read or concentrate to do his home chem lab or whatever. She chats with them for a while, asking after their families, checking in with Zane about Rowan and telling Teague and Christian that she wants them to act more like a couple for the paparazzi because she wants pictures. They counter with an offer of a selfie, and she accepts.
She’d talk to them all day, but I suppose we should get some work done at some point. I’ll talk to her just the two of us before I go, but for that everyone needs to say goodbye to the band mom. I hustle them all along, and she promises to send some baked yakgwa she’s been experimenting with. When everyone’s had their fill of loving on each other, I pick up my phone and click it off speaker, taking the call outside.
“Everything okay?”
She tsks at me like she always does, like things being not okay is impossible.
“I’m fine, your father’s fine. Well, same as last time.”
Which means not fine at all, but we’ve all gotten used to exactly how not fine he is. My dad’s been sick for years, and I pay for home nurses to help out. Kevin still lives near home so he’s around to lend a hand too. Mom doesn’t have to do the heavy lifting, but it’s still a strain on her.
At least she’s fine. I don’t think I could handle it if she got sick. It’s ludicrous and not totally fair because she’s as human as everyone else, but I appreciate her attitude. Like, don’t be ridiculous. I’m going to live forever, and nothing can keep me from making dozens of Korean pastries and mailing them to grown men who could damn well afford to get their own desserts because they’re literal freaking rock stars.
“How are you doing? Met any nice girls lately?”
I’m pacing now, the gravel crunching beneath my feet as I walk the length of the garage, trailing my fingers along the cinder blocks, and roll my eyes. “I’m fine.”
“And?” she prods. Right, the same questions she asks me every time we talk. Truth is that I haven’t met many women lately, and especially not any I’d tell my mother about. The only one who’s held my attention for more than a passing second has been Jordan.
“And I wouldn’t call her nice. But yeah, I did kinda meet a girl.”
I can picture my mother settling down in her favorite chair with a cup of tea and sipping at it, her shrewd eyes gleaming with anticipated gossip. I swear she’s worse than the tabloids, but at least she keeps her knowledge to herself.
“How did you meet her?”
“She knows Angie, actually. They went to law school together.”
“Oh, a lawyer, very nice. Is Angie in LA? I know you didn’t come home without telling us.”
“Of course I didn’t. No, Angie’s not here. I—I met this girl on the phone. Her name’s Jordan, she called me.”
“About what?” Yeah, there’s the overprotective mother I know. She’s definitely put her teacup down, is staring straight ahead with narrowed eyes, waiting to spring into action. Because clearly, her son the rock star with all his lawyers and minders and everyone else including his buddies in the band have fallen down on the job and she might need to come to my rescue. My mom’s the best.
“She wanted us to do a charity concert. And you know us, we like doing that stuff and we do it as much as we can, but—”
“But you can’t say yes to everything! You’d run yourselves ragged trying. You boys do plenty and if this girl can’t understand how generous you are and that you can’t save the world single-handedly, then I don’t think you want anything to do with her. Those types of people are never satisfied no matter how much you give. That she’s Angie’s friend speaks well of her, but you’re only human and you need someone who appreciates you.”
Her assurances make me feel less guilty, which I’m not entirely sure I deserve, but it’s nice anyway. Everyone should have someone like my mom on their side.
“I know, that’s what I told her. I said she could try talking to our label about it, but we don’t handle our schedule. I felt bad, because I do think immigration issues are important, especially when it comes to kids who were brought here and grew up here, but—”
“Wait, this is about immigration? Dreamers and children who were adopted from outside the US?”
Her voice has gone from soothing and nurturing to demanding. Why does it matter, anyway?
“Yeah…”
“Then you have to do it.”
A record scratches in my head. What?
“Wait, you just said—”
“I know what I said, but I didn’t have all the information. You call that nice girl back and tell her you’ll do it.”
“But, Mom—”
“No buts, Benjamin. You heard me. You’re going to tell her you’ll sing every song you boys have.”
That…would be a lot of songs. And no one wants to hear that anyway. How has my mom done a complete one-eighty on this? She’s usually pretty chill, helping me and Kev with whatever we need her to, but mostly leaving the decisions up to us. It’s like blue-moon-frequency that she tells us to do something. I’m not sure what’s activated the Mama Park bossy streak.
“Okay, but can you tell me what this is about first? I don’t get why you’re insisting we do this gig after you were just saying we shouldn’t.”
There’s silence on the other end and I have to wonder what’s going through her head. Or maybe she’s just looking toward the heavens and counting to ten. She used to do that a lot when we were kids. Maybe more accurately when I was a kid. I was a pretty frequent flyer in the ER as a kid with broken bones and a concussion or two plus various things stuck in my nose and ears. Kevin avoided all that with his good sense.
“You have no idea what we went through to adopt your brother. All the time, the money, the lawyers, the home visits. It was exhausting and complicated. And so worth it. I don’t want you to think that I regret it because I never have, not even for a second. Our family wouldn’t be complete without Kevin, just like it wouldn’t be complete without you. Anyway, one of the things we did to help us get through the rough spots was join a support group for people who had adopted internationally or were in the process of doing it. Those people, especially the other moms, helped me when things were difficult and I will always be grateful for that.”
She goes quiet again and I start to get that gross feeling in my stomach like I messed up somehow, but I don’t get how. When we were kids, it had been pretty obvious. I would’ve broken or lost something, or maybe painted something that really didn’t need painting, like the cat.
“Some of those parents had children who were too old for the Child Citizenship Act to apply to, and hadn’t gotten their children citizenship. It was expensive and time-consuming, and they’d had enough. I don’t agree with their actions at all, but I don’t think the kids should have suffered for it. Anyway, these things matter, Benji. They matter to our family and tens of thousands of other families.”
She gets choked up, and it’s the worst feeling in the world. Moms crying are my Kryptonite. Not just my mom either. Maybe Jordan should’ve gone for that—get Mrs. Kennedy on the phone in tears and I would’ve been a goner. I might be able to rock salmon ladder pull-ups, but I am weak.
I have the power to do something about this. For my mom who has always supported me and my friends, and would have continued to even if we were still making a racket in her garage. For people like my brother. Hell, just because I’m not a terrible person.
“Okay, Mom. I’ll call Jordan and tell her I’ll do it. I can’t promise for the rest of the guys, but she’ll at least have me.”
For once in my life, I’m not going to be the problem child. I’m going to do something for a good cause and because it means a lot to the people I love. And because it’s the right thing to do.
3
&n
bsp; I have some pride. Like, an appropriate amount I think. Not so much to make me one of those guys who’ll throw himself on a sword or whatever, but I’m proud of License to Game, I like to think I’ve got standards, ethics, all that good stuff.
But no fucking way am I too proud to grovel a bit. I’m not embarrassed to make this call, but I’m not looking forward to it. Now I’ve got a taste of what it must’ve been like for Jordan to call me, because I’m the one who needs her. Let’s hope she’s more generous than I am.
Good thing I didn’t delete her number form my cell. Had actually saved it as a contact on the off-chance she called me again. I could call her at AHI of course, but this is better. Maybe.
There aren’t so many things that make me twitchy like waiting for someone to pick up the phone. Like when I asked girls out before LtG was a success. Now I don’t really need to, they come to me. And if there’s someone I’m interested enough to seek out, chances are damn good they’ll at least give me a shot. But Jordan? I suck air through my teeth.
“Hello?” Her tone says she knows damn well who I am but doesn’t know why I’m calling. Goddamn do I wish it was to ask her out on a date.
“Hey, Jordan. This is Benji Park. We talked a few weeks ago.”
“I remember. How’s it going, Mr. I’m-Too-Busy?”
Well that’s a kick to the balls but deserved.
“That’s actually what I was calling about.”
Beat, beat, and the song comes back. A minor chord that makes my skin crawl. Maybe rework that part when the time comes to write this thing down. Right now, it’s just a cauldron bubbling at the back of my brain, and it needs to simmer for a while before I dare to let anyone know I’ve even been cooking. I admire Zane for bringing us his half-baked ideas. I can’t do it.
“Are you fucking kidding me?”
The back of my neck prickles, and I want to rub my hand over it so bad. Instead, I tuck my hand under my armpit. I seriously hope I remembered to put on deodorant this morning because I’m going to be sweating during this conversation. Might be already.
“Nope. I, uh, have called to make you an offer.”
There’s a pause and my heart takes the opportunity to skip a beat, the silence deafening before Jordan bubbles over.
“Oh my god, Benji. That is amazing. I mean, we have a couple of other bands lined up already, but License to Game is so much bigger than them and this is going to be the greatest. I can’t wait to—”
“Uh, it’s actually not the whole band.”
The silence is back and I kinda hate it, because I know what’s coming.
“What do you mean, not the whole band? Is Christian going to be on tour with his new side project? Don’t tell me Zane’s going on tour by himself and can’t do it.”
“Oh, uh, no. I…” It is so much worse than that! No, man, don’t say it that way. She should be happy to have you. Besides, I didn’t want to ask the guys when they’ve all got so much on their plates already. I don’t need to involve them in my pet project. “It’s actually just me. You can have me. I’ll play a few numbers.”
She doesn’t seem all that excited about the prospect of having me. I get it. Like if you’re going to have one person from LtG, you probably want Zane. Me? I’m just some guy with a keyboard.
“Yeah, that’s…nice.”
Nice is not a word you ever want a woman to describe you with. And I can pretty much guarantee that this is going to be followed by a “but.” Because she’s trying to be nice but she doesn’t want me.
“But that doesn’t do me a whole lot of good. License to Game is a household name. If I put Benji Park or Teague Martell or Christian Vogel or Nick…I don’t even know what Nick’s last name is. If I put any of you on a program, it’s not going to do me much good. My point is that the guy with the keytar from LtG is not going to sell me so many tickets whereas I’m betting that License to Game would sell out the entire park. I don’t need the logistical headache of trying to add another act who isn’t going to make us some serious bank. So, thanks but no thanks.”
If this is Jordan trying to be nice, she really needs to work on her people skills. And I can’t—absolutely cannot—go back to my mom and tell her Jordan didn’t want me. A) Embarrassing, B) I really hate disappointing my mom, and C) I find myself really wanting to help with this. Not just because of some friends of my mom’s and not just because if Kevin had been born a few years earlier, that could’ve been my brother. Yeah, it’s personal to me, but it should be fucking personal to everyone. Like, have a heart. We’re all human, and don’t they understand what they’re doing to people and families? Or maybe they do and they just don’t fucking care.
Not to mention—and this is kinda selfish and self-centered, but there you have it—I feel like this could be a turning point for me, personally. I’m not a bad guy, but I haven’t ever taken much responsibility for myself. I’ve never had to. Going like I did from being a kid to being in a world-famous band—yeah. I have people to handle that shit. And have lived in my own bubble for an embarrassingly long time. I don’t want to run for office or anything but I don’t think it would kill me to take interest in some more grown-up stuff, especially when it’s so important.
I have to keep Jordan on the phone. I have to get her to say yes.
“Hey, what if I do an original song? Like one no one’s ever heard before?”
She sucks air through her teeth. “Again, nice, but not going to sell a ton of tickets.”
The woman is brutal. Doesn’t give a rat’s ass about my ego. Which, fine, her helping people is way more important than me feeling like the man, but damn. This is harsh. Maybe if I explain why though. Jordan’s got to have a heart. I mean, you don’t go into immigration law—especially not working for a non-profit—because it’s going to make you a ton of cash. That’s something you have to have a passion for, and where did hers come from? And how the hell did this turn into her taking pity on me? But whatever. I am not going to let my mom down. So here’s plan C: begging.
“Hey, Jordan. Please. I’m asking you to let me play this show as a favor. From you to me. Please.”
There’s a pause and I wonder if she’s turning this over and over in her head. I don’t really understand how we got here either, and yet here we are.
“How exactly is this a favor? Are you planning to start a solo career too and you want to use my show as a stepping stone? You want to be one of those asshats who claims to have sold out their first show when in reality it was all the acts around you who actually sold the tickets? Not on my watch you don’t.”
“No! No, that’s not it at all. I mean, I don’t know what exactly I’m going to do when LtG splits for good and it might include me going solo, but I have no plan yet so that’s not what this is, at all. I just…” Man, I am not super excited about sharing this. Makes me feel vulnerable somehow even though Kevin isn’t. He was one of the lucky ones and there isn’t a damn thing anyone can do about that. But it’s a serious thing and I spend so much of my life being…not. LtG is super important to some people and I totally respect that because it’s been my whole life too, but…no one’s life depends on us. We’re a bunch of overgrown kids doing what we’ve done since we were too young to drive. Zane and Teague and Christian have moved on, or at least are on the path to going off on their own and I don’t want to get left behind.
And maybe I feel some guilt for having been such a fuck up when I was a kid. Like what if that legislation hadn’t gotten passed when it did? What if it were my brother on the line now? My parents are on top of stuff like whoa, but I know things slipped through the cracks because I was such a mess. They missed the window to sign Kev up for space camp because I tried to jump my bike off the roof of the garage into our pool and that didn’t work out. And my mom missed him placing first in a science fair because I got a concussion from having the bright idea to play street hockey with rocks after we lost our last ball. So, yeah, I owe them. Big time. This isn’t the most direct way to make u
p for it, but in some ways it feels more important than other things I could do. They’re the kind of people who actually like it when you give to charities in their names instead of buying them gifts. Once I bought a whole herd of goats for some farmers and I think my mom was prouder of me for that than she was when LtG’s first studio album went platinum.
Okay. I can do this. I can explain to Jordan why this is important to me. And hopefully she’ll be gentle.
“You know my brother Kevin, right? The one who’s getting the PhD? We’re like twins. Really fucking weird twins, because we don’t look anything alike, and we don’t have the same birthday, and we have totally different personalities, but—”
“This makes you twins how? Are you one of those sets of twins where one was born at like 11:59pm and the other was born at 12:01am?”
“No. My birthday’s in February, Kevin’s is in April, but we were in the same class at school. He’s adopted.”
There’s no response, and I pace my kitchen a few times, my bare feet slapping against the cold tile.
“He’s adopted, and he’s got citizenship through the Child Citizenship Act. But he wasn’t too far off from being too old for that. Those people? The ones you were telling me about? Who’ve grown up here but get deported because someone forgot to dot the Is and cross the Ts on some fucking piece of paper? That could’ve been my brother.”
“You’re very fortunate it wasn’t. Isn’t.”
“Yeah, I know. And I want to do something about it, which is why I want to play the concert.”
There’s a definite chill in her voice when she replies. “That’s nice, but like I said, I’m not interested in you. It’s all of LtG or no dice. I don’t care how guilty you feel or that you’ve all of a sudden grown a conscience. Not my problem. My problem is filling a stadium and helping as many people as possible stay here when they’re as American as you or I or your brother are.”
Rogue Hearts Page 27
