Backstage Pass Page 12

  “Am I right?”

  He’s completely humiliated, I can see. His ears are pink. “Fine,” he admits.

  “Because it’s their biological role, to be ready to go forth and multiply at all times. It’s not their fault. That’s just how they’re programmed. And women are horny, when?”

  “Never. Unless you’re watching porn, then it’s always.”

  “Very funny, jerk.”

  Liam smiles.

  “Marie says that women are horny when they’re ovulating. That’s once, once a month,” I explain.

  “That sucks.” Liam sulks.

  “Why? That’s just nature controlling things, so we humans don’t get overpopulated.”

  “And why are we having this conversation?” he asks, raising his eyebrows.

  “Because you think men are beyond sex, but they’re not. It’s on their minds, twenty-four seven. That’s how nature intended it. The thought is always there. You only learn to control it.”

  He’s thinking about this. I can see he needs some encouragement.

  “Okay, look, men aren’t like dogs, you say? Well, I’ll prove you wrong.”

  “This should be interesting.”

  I’ll ignore that. “Men are so much like dogs, they can be trained,” I challenge.

  “Whatever you say.”

  “Take your dad. Is he married?”

  “Yeah, so’s yours.”

  “Right. There, they’ve been trained. Because no guy in his right mind would ever get married if he fully realized the gravity of the situation. But the promise of sex makes him do it. He figures he’ll always have someone around to screw when he feels like it. And that seals the deal. Boom, next thing you know, he’s walking down the aisle.”

  “That’s a load of crap.”

  “Is it?”

  “Yes,” he says flatly. “Maybe he wants companionship. Maybe he wants kids.”

  “Ah, see? Sex again. Can’t have kids without sex.”

  “What are you getting at?” he asks, taking a seat at his computer desk.

  And I realize…I have no clue. Only that everything I’ve ever believed about men was formed by the way I felt about Dad. And now that’s changed. Now I don’t know what to think. “I don’t know. I’m just trying to sort all of this out.”

  “Let me ask you something,” Liam says, picking up a tennis ball and bouncing it back and forth against the door. “If that’s the case, what you’re saying, then explain your dad.”

  “Leave him out of this.” He is not going there.

  “No, wait, seriously. If that’s the case, then why’d your dad get married? Here’s this guy who can get laid any night of the week, by the most gorgeous of women.”

  “Stop it.”

  “Sorry, I’m not trying to remind you. But if what you’re saying is true, then it wouldn’t make any sense for your dad to have gotten married. If sex would have come easier to him by staying single, then why get married?”

  “Because of love, you dingbat.” Dad loves Mom. That much I know. That’s why this doesn’t make sense. That’s why it hurts so damn much.

  “You see? Who’s the dingbat now, baby? Who’s the dingbat? Who’s the dingbat?” His arms do a victory dance.

  How’d he do that? I don’t like my theories getting disproved.

  “And don’t think for a second that women can’t be trained too,” he adds with a hint of challenge.

  Ah, so he agrees with me? But he’s wrong. “Liam, you can’t train a woman any more than you can train a cat.”

  At this he leans over laughing, and I thank God for Liam’s sense of humor, or else we could be at this Mars-Venus crap all night.

  Quiet for a while, Liam surfs the Net while I peruse his art collection. Breasts, butts, bellies, all smooth bodies, all perfect, even the pictures of the not-so-skinny women. At least he has those up too. That’s a first. A memory of Dylan nags me. Of him ragging on some of the girls at school, the ones anyone anywhere would consider to be normal, but at St. Alf they were seen as fat. But Liam has them on his wall. Art to be seen. And appreciated.

  “So when does she get home?” I ask. Funny, even the thought of meeting the woman who could ruin my mom’s reputation hasn’t made me forget my parents’ dilemma.

  “Adri? She should be home soon.” He leans back to stretch. When he does this, his shirt pulls up, revealing nice, cut abs. Jock abs. Liam could play any sport if he wanted to, just because of those abs. But he doesn’t. What does he do? He collects art.

  And I’m staring at him, why? “Did you tell her I was coming?”

  “Nope.”

  Great. Surprise visit from Matti McGraw’s daughter. She’ll probably think I came to kick her butt.

  “Listen, she’ll probably ask you questions. You don’t have to answer any of it if you don’t want.”

  “Thanks, Liam, I know that.”

  “Believe it or not, Des, Adriana feels bad for your situation. She’s on your side, I think.”

  I’m not even sure what side I’m on anymore. What used to be clear sides are now starting to blur together. Are Marie and Adriana really on my side? Why would Marie betray my parents, even if it was for me? Does that mean she loves me more than she loves them? And now Adriana is on my side, says Liam.

  “Liam, your stepmom’s a journalist. She’s got her own agenda. She doesn’t care about me. She doesn’t even know me.”

  “She doesn’t have to know you to sympathize. And you’re wrong. She doesn’t have her own agenda. She just feels strongly about parenting. Freedom of speech, baby.”

  Sympathize. Is it really that bad? Maybe tag-along touring isn’t so bad. What am I saying? Of course it is. God, I feel I don’t know anything anymore. My brain is a ball of mush. Thoughts of Liam and mush. I rub my eyes.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. Didn’t get much sleep last night.”

  A door closes at the opposite end of the house. The jingle of keys. Something being set down. Bags of groceries maybe. Voices of little kids, squealing.

  “There. She’s home. Let’s go,” Liam says, jumping up. Has he been waiting for this?

  We trek through the hallway. Photos engulf us from both sides. Little Liam, sandy blond, cutie smile, missing teeth. Carrie, maybe? Doing a handstand. His brother, Michael, more menacing, with Liam in a headlock. Two younger girls with dark eyes, his half sisters. A nineties-dressed dad. A wedding picture. Dad and a dark-haired, thin woman. Adriana.

  Suddenly it all seems a little too surreal. What would Mom say if she knew I was here? It’d go something like this: It’s time to kill you, Desert. And really give the dirt-diggers something to write about. But have I sided with the enemy? No, I’m just visiting the enemy’s lair. How different can Mom and Adriana really be, though? I mean, aren’t they both mothers, doing what they feel is right for their children? Don’t they share this much in common, at least?

  In the kitchen the same woman from the wedding picture stands at the refrigerator door, rearranging its contents to make room for new items. Only she’s older, more worn, little lines around her eyes.

  “Adri,” Liam says, startling her out of her skin.

  She drops a ketchup bottle but catches it against her body before it hits the floor. “Ay, mi hijito! I didn’t know you were here. Weren’t you going to the movies with Michael?”

  Liam presses his lips, looks at me. “I was. Something else came up.”

  Me. I came up. Didn’t know he had plans already. I guess I should’ve asked first before inviting myself over.

  “Oh, hi!” Adriana says, realizing he has company. Her smile is bright, brown eyes to match.

  “Um,” Liam says uncomfortably. And brilliantly, I might add.

  Adriana searches his face. “Ahh,” she says, smiling at me. “This is Desert?”

  He nods.

  “Miss McGraw!” She hurries to unload the bags of produce, still in her arms. She pushes it all into the fridge without special arrangement and
closes the door. She wipes her hands on a towel then outstretches one. “So nice to meet you.” Her eyes are like, practically twinkling.

  What do I say, “Same here”? I take her hand. “Thanks.”

  “What brings you around? Not that you’re not welcome. You’re most welcome.”

  “Just visiting Liam.”

  “Ahh,” she says again, nodding at me, then at Liam, then at me. Like it’s slowly dawning on her that we’ve hooked up. “I didn’t know you were such good friends.”

  “I told you,” Liam says.

  “Verdad. Right. Desert, let me ask you something, mamita…

  .” Mamita? Like, whatever, lady!

  “You don’t have to answer right now, but would you do an interview with me?”

  “An interview?” An interview?

  “Yeah, mama, like—”

  “I know what an interview is,” I interrupt, not meaning to. And what’s with that mama crap?

  She laughs, then tilts her head, smiling like a Barbie doll. “Right, of course. Silly. Verdad que I can be silly, Liamsito?”

  Liam nods, somewhat embarrassed.

  I stand there, leaning on the counter, completely speechless. I haven’t the faintest idea what to say to this. Nobody’s ever asked me for an interview before. Nobody’s ever cared what the kid has to say about rock ’n’ roll.

  She sees I’m lost for words. “Desert, don’t take me the wrong way; I’m not setting out to hurt your mom, okay?”

  Great. Another person not setting out to hurt Mom. But now Mom’s gone, isn’t she? Wandering the streets like a zombie, lost.

  “I’m just concerned with parenting issues. It’s the key to raising responsible kids, you know. One of the reasons our country’s kids are failing miserably, emotionally—just watch the news—is poor parenting. Not that your mother is a poor parent. I’m sure she’s not. But don’t you wonder what you’d be like if your mom regarded you as more important than her career?”

  Wow. Un-freakin’-believable of her to assume my mom thinks managing is more important than me. I haven’t even agreed to an interview yet, and she’s already asking dirty questions. Let me tell you what, it’s a gutsy as hell question. And as much as I want to attack her for it, could she be right?

  She turns around to bark at the girls, wrestling at the kitchen table over a coral-colored marker. “Carolina! Lilian! Paren ya!” Immediately the girls straighten up.

  Whoa. Drill sergeant. “I’ve thought about a lot of things,” I tell her. “Enough things to fill a book, but I don’t know if I want the world to know.”

  She nods silently. Liam traces the outline of the floor tiles with his foot, listening, staying out of the way.

  “It would be fascinating to see things through your point of view. Think about it, at least?”

  “I will.” Mamita.

  We hang out with Liam’s sisters for a while. Adriana doesn’t bring up the subject again. She comments on the lack of rain, the heat, the pasta dish she’s preparing for dinner. Liam doesn’t mention it either. He helps Carolina draw Mickey Mouse with her markers. Lilian asks me if I’ll help her draw a playground. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a playground in real life. But I know what they look like.

  And then it hits me. How sad that is. That we never had time to go to a playground. That my mom never took me, because of how busy she always was, still is. That sitting here, with these little girls, makes me feel like a big sister. This is what it feels like to have a nice, quiet afternoon at home with the family. This is Seventh Heaven.

  To talk about it openly with Adriana, surely for a psychologist to pick apart later, now seems inviting. Healing even. Before I could flip the interview idea in my head one more time, I hear myself say, “I’ll do it.”

  Liam looks up.

  So does Adriana, over from the stove, wooden spoon stirring, eyes smiling. “Good, mamita. Good.” She squints at the school calendar on the fridge. “How does a week from next Saturday sound?”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  This interview is my chance. My chance to be heard. I’ve argued with Mom too many times on this subject. Between Dad’s exploits and the pressure on Mom to stay home, Crossfire’s sure to end.

  And that’s what we all need right now. A little sanity. Dad needs it. I need it. Mom needs it. Mom, especially.

  Ignoring Adriana’s offer to drive me home, I pace quickly through the streets. A car drives by and honks. I look over. Some creepy idiot fluttering his tongue at me. Maybe Liam’s right. Maybe I need to stop walking alone. I hurry home.

  Again, Dad’s by himself. Mom’s car is still not in the garage. I can hear a guitar in the studio. But I’m not going anywhere near it. I don’t want to talk to Dad or J. C. or anybody right now. I enter my room, closing the door behind me. My computer flashes photos at me. The screensaver is set to shuffle through my digital album.

  There’s me and Dad, hanging out on a hotel balcony. Milan, was it? Dad and Phil, raising glasses. Mom and I, hugging. Mom and Marie, waving. I sit at the desk and watch the show for a while.

  When I move the mouse, I notice new e-mail in Outlook. Among the dozens of newsletters I subscribe to, I pick out the message from Matti McGraw and click it open:

  From: matildemcg@crossfire.com

  To: “Desert McGraw”

  Subject: I’m ok

  Honey, I’m sorry I left without saying anything. I can’t be around your father right now. I need some time alone. I’m at the Clevelander. Call me in Room 14. Don’t worry, I’ll be back soon, I’ll explain everything. Two days tops, sweetie. If you can’t handle Dad for two days, let me know. I’ll come home. I love you.—Mom

  I’ll explain everything. That’s all right, Mom. I already know everything. I try to imagine her, sitting in a dark hotel room, crying and smoking, flipping through cable channels. Watching the Food Network through tears. And it doesn’t seem right. She should be here.

  Two days.

  I open some newsletters. Sales, Desert! Big Events, Desert! Free Shipping, Desert, with any order over a hundred dollars! How totally exciting! Not. I scroll through each to find the unsubscribe link. The new mail bell pings. I haven’t even found time to sit and personalize all my sounds yet. I click over to see the new message.

  My stomach tightens. Brianna.

  From: bri4nn4@stalphonsus.edu

  To: “Desert McGraw”

  Subject: Loser

  stop emailing me, u ass. ur the one who left, right? btw retard, ur dad’s doing it with marie she talks too freakin’ much now leave me the hell alone.

  My pulse. It’s everywhere. Throat, fingertips on the mouse, ankle. Blood pumping, rushing all over my body, trying to provide oxygen, trying to save me. The flat-screen monitor, bearer of the news, silent.

  Your dad’s doing it with Marie. That can’t be true. She’s lying. No, she’s right. Of course it’s true. Why didn’t I see this? Do I hear laughing?

  Marie. Doing my dad. Lying to me, to everybody. Every nerve under my skin is alive. I want to kill something, somebody. I want to hurt her. Them. Both of them. All of them.

  Mom? Don’t cry, Mom. It’s okay, Mom. Mom, please stop! Stop crying! Where am I?

  Suddenly I’m on the monitor in a rage, hurling it away, crashing, sparks, glass on the floor. Keyboard flying, dangling off the desk. Chair, thrown against my bed, bouncing off, turning on its side. Books from the shelf, out, flinging across the room, one by one.

  “Dammit!!” A voice is screaming. Mine? Can’t be. “Screw all of you!! Go to hell!!”

  Backpack chucked on the floor, framed photographs plucked off the wall, flung to the mirror. Glass cracking. Papers everywhere. Goldfish in the aquarium, oblivious.

  I can’t take this anymore! My heart, it’s gonna burst. It’s gonna break. It’s gonna…

  Lie down, honey. Sweetie, it’s okay. Lie down. I’ll be fine. Daddy loves me. I know he does. Shh, it’s all right. Breathe, hon. Breathe.

  It’s taken me two days to
find Marie. Dad hadn’t spoken to her since last week, since they postponed the sessions. I figured she’d be in her condo on Collins Avenue, but she’s not. She’s hanging out with Faith at Max’s on Ocean Drive, about three blocks down.

  When Marie opens the door to my livid form, Faith bolts down the stairs, disappearing along Ocean Drive. I stand in the doorway, as expressionless as I can get. My lack of beach bag, towel, and sunscreen should indicate I didn’t come to hang out with her on the sand. “How dare you.” Not even a question.

  “Desert—”

  “Don’t,” I say, extremely composed. I swore to myself on the way here in Michael’s car that I would not lose control again, no matter what. She doesn’t deserve to see me lose it.

  “Come in,” she says, pulling back the door.

  “I only came to tell you something.”

  “Come in and tell me,” she urges, gesturing inside.

  “No.”

  Marie stands there, sarong and linen shirt over a swimmer’s one-piece. Her eyes are swollen. She’s been crying. Good.

  “Suit yourself,” she says, rubbing her tired face.

  I can feel my heart quickening again, veins expanding, lungs fighting collapse. Deep breath, Desert. Deep breath. My fist squeezes against my thigh. “Stay away from my father.”

  A gust of breath escapes her, almost a laugh. “Really? That’s what you came to tell me? Stay away from your father?” Her lean on the door gets a little too comfortable. “Or what?”

  “Or there’s no telling what I might do to you.”

  “Is that right?” She obviously thinks I’m joking.

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “Desert, honey—”

  “Don’t call me honey, you lying, scheming—”

  “Excuse me!” she interrupts, holding up her stupid hand. “But I do believe you know nothing about the situation.”

  “I know enough. I know you betrayed us, me, my mom, just to be with my dad, and for what? For sex? You are such a tremendous loser!”

  “No, Desert, not just for sex. For love, okay?”