Backstage Pass Page 2

  “Hey, Desi,” Marie greets me with that pretty smile of hers. If she’d only lose like thirty pounds, she’d have any guy she wants.

  “Hey, Babalú,” I kid back. We’ve always done this I Love Lucy thing.

  “Sweetie!” Mom cries. “How was school?”

  Can parents ever think of anything else to ask when we come home from school? Did they forget the repetitive, brainless work, the incompetent teachers, the moronic kids who spend their precious energy trying to impress one another? Oh, wait. It was my first day.

  “Hey, guess the good news,” she says, totally forgetting the school question.

  I lean over and kiss her cheek. “I dunno, Dad’s getting a complete identity change, allowing us to roam Disney World freely without being recognized?”

  And her eyebrow goes up.

  I thought it was funny.

  “Desert…” she says, like a reminder of everything we’ve ever talked about.

  “Sorry. What? Tell me the good news already!”

  “Faith Adams is working on some of the new songs for our next set!” she announces, as if this is supposed to be exciting.

  “Why? What’s wrong with Ryan?” Ryan’s our current producer and big-time collaborator when it comes to lyrics. He’s like a young grandpa to me. I don’t want to lose a third grandpa.

  “Nothing’s wrong with Ryan, hon. It’s just that we’re trying to go with something a little more modern and, well, the last songs, as much as the critics liked them, didn’t hit big with the twenty-five-and-under bracket.”

  And?

  “But you can’t pay attention to that. You have to do what you feel is right. Isn’t that what you always said? And besides, if the twenty-five-and-under bracket didn’t like the songs as much, then why’d we nab the Grammy?”

  Mom and Marie exchange smirks like I obviously still have a lot to learn. “Do you really want to explore that one, Desert?”

  “So Ryan’s not going to work with us anymore?” Because if he’s not, I’m gonna throw myself on the floor and have a tantrum right here with those seagulls watching.

  “No, honey, we’re not replacing him. We’re just trying out new blood.”

  “But Mom, Faith’s songs are all, ‘Dance tonight, dance tonight, rock your body, feel all right.’ That’s crap.”

  “Desert, we’re trying to come up with a more up-to-date sound. You know, to appeal to the younger crowd.”

  Great. I was hoping they wouldn’t do this. I’ve seen it before. A twenty-year-old band, like Powerhouse, tries appealing to the younger crowd, and they suddenly look stupid. Forty-year-old rockers dying their thinning hair, trying to look cool for the kids. Why don’t they just let the new bands take care of this? Crossfire has been around longer than I have—seventeen years. Their time is ending. Just let it be and accept it. But nooo.

  “Isn’t this risky?” I ask. “I mean, what if this brings bad reviews? Why can’t we just stick to our sound, to what’s worked in the past?”

  “Desert, sometimes we have to take risks. How do we know what we’re capable of if we don’t try?”

  She’s right. She’s always right, damn her. That’s why I picked public school, to take a risk, try something new.

  “Besides, we are sticking to our sound. It’s just a few songs we’re going to play around with. It’s no big deal. I thought you’d be excited to have Faith around. She’s the hottest thing right now, isn’t she?”

  I guess. Brianna, Marie’s niece and my friend back in LA, likes her a lot.

  “Yeah, she’s way hot right now. Maybe you should go in there and cool her off.” I turn and walk back toward the house.

  “Desert, relax,” my mom huffs.

  I don’t know what to make of all this. It’s just that a new album means touring, and touring means we’ll take off again. I’ve lived on and off the road my whole life and seen about as many hotels and cities, sound checks and catered meals as one sixteen-year-old would care to see. All I’ve ever wanted is one place to call home. Stupid, I know, but a little slice of Seventh Heaven, with Mr. and Mrs. Camden as my folks, the picket fence, and the freakin’ dog. That’s all I’m asking.

  Plus, new songs mean new videos. Some kids last year talked about Crossfire’s videos, like the one for “Between the Sheets,” where Dad looks like a semidork, dressed in leather pants that someone else obviously picked out for him. He looked so lame, but for some reason, it hurts more when you hear someone else saying it. “I mean, please, he’s thirty-nine, not twenty,” some insensitive imbecile said straight to my face.

  I go up to my room and close the door. All right, so fine. A new album with a new sound. Would I be a total jerk to wish they’d just call it quits this time around? When do we put rock ’n’ roll past us and become a normal family, hmm? Does anybody care what I want?

  I sit at my desk and stare at my favorite shot of me and my folks. I’m between them, arms around their shoulders, and my long, wavy hair is draped over their heads, like a blond three-headed monster. Sigh. That answers the “normal family” question.

  I should check on Brianna. She was pretty pissed that I wanted to leave LA. I start a new e-mail:

  From: saharagobi@crossfire.com

  To: “Brianna Roman”

  Subject: French Literature 101

  Hey mama-san, what’s up? just checking up on ya. How’s LALA Land? u gotta come visit me! we got a place in coconut grove on the water, short drive from south beach. It’s hot as hell here…95 degrees in the shade. school’s all right so far. one down, 179 to go. still incognito. I’ll fill ya in later. write me back, k?

  Love ya,

  Desert :-)~

  P.S. faith adams says hi.

  Chapter Three

  Desert McGraw

  Smigla, Per. 1

  H. English

  Toss a stone

  Into the lake

  Ripples echo

  Storm clouds roll

  Toward the shore

  Consumed by gray

  I stand alone

  I don’t hear

  I don’t see

  Wash over me

  I scan over my English homework before class starts. If Ms. Smigla doesn’t like it, well too bad.

  As I’m on the way back to my desk, Liam passes me and turns in his homework poem. He flashes his bright blue eyes, and something in my gut flips over. With many a desk between us, he looked like your typical, everyday guy. But now, when we squeeze in and out of the same aisle, his chest looms a lot higher than mine, and he seems, well…yeah, baby!

  Let me just say for the record that I have no boyfriend and plan on keeping it that way, thanks. I have absolutely no desire to cater to a grown baby’s needs this early on in my life. Brianna’s boyfriend, Gus, requires twenty-four-hour roadside assistance and takes pride in the fact that his girlfriend gives him everything he needs. Well, almost everything. And it’s only because of that almost-everything that she receives anything in their relationship. By dangling the little s-word in front of his face like a carrot in front of Bugs Bunny.

  “Have you and Liam met yet?” Becca asks as I walk past her and slump into my seat.

  The first few days of school I tried avoiding her, but it didn’t work. We ended up talking every day in class, and now it’s a whole week and a half later. The problem is, how can I tell her about myself when there’s an ode to my dad written on her notebook?

  “We haven’t met with actual words,” I say, “but that little exchange was worth a thousand of them.”

  “He wants to meet you, but I think he’s shy.”

  “Shy? He doesn’t seem shy.”

  “He can be. If he thinks a girl won’t like him.”

  “Does he think that about me?”

  “Well, you do give creepy looks sometimes. I wouldn’t doubt it if that’s how he sees it.”

  “But I—Creepy looks? Do I really?” Suddenly I’m aware of the creases on my forehead, the ones my mom loves to point out.


  “That’s okay. You’re stressed from the move. I know,” Becca says, remembering my excuse on the first day.

  Right. Stressed from the move. From wondering how long I can keep up this charade, maybe, but not from the move. “Hey, Becca, if you and Liam are such good friends, how come you guys aren’t hooked up?”

  With her dark brown hair hanging in her face as she hustles to finish her homework, it’s hard to see her expression, but I think she’s hiding it on purpose. After a snifflike laugh, she says, “It’s not like that between us.”

  Inquiring minds want to know why. I would press the issue, but she obviously doesn’t want to talk about it.

  The bell is about to ring, and a dozen other students hurry to complete the assignment. Am I the only one who actually does homework at home?

  “Liam!” Becca calls out suddenly.

  “Oh, crap! Please warn me before embarrassing me like this,” I mumble, pushing back loose strands of hair, tugging at my hoop earring.

  Liam comes over and crouches between us. Most of the guys at my other school would’ve stood there, staring down with a hint of arrogance. But this guy is now at just the right level to hypnotize us with those piercing eyes. My God, stop staring at him, Desert. Look away, for decency’s sake.

  “Yo,” Liam says.

  “Yo?” Becca rests her arm around his shoulders.

  Liam laughs, and I see his smile up close for the first time. It suits him. Sometimes you see a guy, think he’s hot, then when he smiles, it’s like, “never mind.” But this…this is quite the specimen.

  “Li, Desert. Desert, Li. She just moved here from LA,” Becca informs him.

  “Okay, let’s leave the details of my life out of this, missy,” I hear myself say, turning my attention to Liam. “Hi. Nice to meet you.”

  You have gorgeous, gorgeous eyes, my love. Whoops, did I just say that? Hope not.

  “From LA, huh?” He tilts his head in interest.

  The bell rings, and students shuffle back to their seats.

  “We’ll talk later.” Becca shoos Liam away from her desk.

  Twenty minutes into a lecture about imagery, Ms. Smigla asks us to find a buddy for an exercise. Becca’s leg kicks out toward me. “Wanna work together?”

  “Sure,” I say. Like I have a choice.

  I then notice Liam turned around, trying to send Becca some sort of telepathic message. Becca lifts up her palm, like saying, “What?” then shrugs and looks at me uncomfortably. “Um…do you mind working with Liam instead?”

  “No, not really.” So much for being shy.

  Liam comes over and switches seats with Becca, who takes off to pair up with Kuntz. “Hi again,” he says. “Okay if I sit with you? If not, I’ll be on my way.”

  “No, it’s cool,” I answer, looking at his fine form. Yes, indeedy. I like him much better here than there.

  Ms. Smig writes MESSAGE in all caps on the whiteboard then turns to face the class. “Message,” she says dramatically, like she missed out on Broadway and is now trying to make up for it.

  Liam and I exchange a quick glance and try not to laugh.

  “A message is what you want to convey through imagery. Take a minute to come up with a few words powerful enough to create a clear message. It can be about yourself, someone else, a place, anything, but don’t reveal what it’s about.”

  Blah, blah. I check out Liam’s arm. Strong. Tanned.

  “For example,” Ms. Smigla continues, “fragile, porous, alive, colorful—all adjectives to describe a coral reef, but feel free to use any part of speech you like.”

  Nails. Clean. Groomed.

  “When you finish, trade with your partners and see if they can guess what you’re describing. Go ahead.”

  Liam and I take deep breaths and get to work. What the heck do I write about? All I can think of is him sitting next to me. I can’t write about him. What do you know about, Desert? Think. I start scribbling verbs.

  reaching

  begging

  What else, what else. These girls in the audience, they’re always…

  pleading

  crying

  trying to connect

  There, that’s good for now. I glance over at Liam posed like Rodin’s The Thinker, desperately trying to get his thoughts down. He sits back and surveys, lunges forward, scratches out, and rewrites. Then he looks at me, and I see that shyness Becca was talking about.

  “Done?” I ask.

  “Yep.”

  “Okay, let’s switch.”

  He scans my paper. “Awesome,” he says, like my imagery is the best he’s ever read. “Is this about someone who needs help?”

  “Actually, no. It’s a crowd at a concert. You know, up at the stage, trying to touch a rock star like he’s a god or something.”

  “Oh.” He sighs, eyes still on the page. “Yeah, I see it. That makes sense now.”

  I glance at Liam’s paper. His handwriting is nice and neat. I tell you, he is racking up the brownie points faster than you can say “gaga.”

  He’s written

  golden-haired, beautiful, interesting,

  honey-eyed

  What on Earth? “Honey-eyed?” I ask. Okay, so his adjectives need a little work.

  “Yeah.” He shifts in his seat and nibbles on his thumbnail.

  Oh, wait. This isn’t about his mom. Or his dog.

  He looks me square in the face. “Your eyes. They’re honey brown. Very pretty,” he says softly.

  Now, there comes a point in a girl’s life when she must differentiate between a guy’s rap for the sake of pure conquest and his honest-to-God sincerity. And I’ll be damned if Liam is faking this just to get a date.

  “Um…thanks. Yours are even better.” What? Nice comeback, Des.

  “That’s all right. You don’t have to reciprocate.”

  Reciprocate? Great word! “I’m not reciprocating!”

  He pretends to be taken aback by my answer, palm at his chest.

  “I mean, I am, but not because you wrote that, but because it’s true. Your eyes are the first thing I noticed about you.”

  Get a grip, Desert!

  We sit there, staring at each other for a few seconds—something Marie says you should never, ever do. Brush off the compliment, keep up a casual conversation, anything, but don’t stare at each other. He’ll think you’re desperate. Funny, but with Liam I don’t feel that way.

  Ms. Smigla yaps some more about the openness of imagery and what a powerful tool it can be. Ms. Smigla has never yapped truer words. And Ms. Smigla never seems to stop yapping.

  Liam takes his paper and adds something else to his list. He pushes it back at me, and I read

  See you at lunch, Desert?

  There’s a goofy face next to my name. Thank God he spelled it right. Last year Dylan, this guy I went out with, wrote Dessert, and I was like, holy freakin’ idiot, Batman! It just ruined everything.

  “I have first lunch,” I whisper.

  “I know,” he mouths. His hand covers a smile as he waits for my reply.

  From across the room I spot Becca watching us. She smiles a sad sort of smile. What’s that all about? Before I could consider the implications of this little hookup, my pen writes

  Sure. Save me a seat.

  Chapter Four

  Funny, Dad and the guys love to say how being in a rock ’n’ roll band gives them a license to act immature and weird. So what, then, is the excuse for some of these kids in the cafeteria?

  One guy is wearing a polo shirt with the collar up. He’s sitting with his other Animal House buddies and a chick with long stringy braids, no makeup, and a headband. A headband, hear me? Then there’s the perky Blondies over there, all fresh and ohmigod! And in this corner, weighing in at weirdness maximus, is a group of people I’ve come to lovingly refer to as Oyes, due to the word so liberally sprinkled throughout their Spanglish. Each of them is wearing some sort of Tommy Hilfigeresque couture. Very flattering, I must admit.

 
All right, all right. Be nice, Des. Give them a chance. Besides, I’m sure I seem weird to them, considering I’m sitting here alone, waiting for my blue-eyed poet to appear. But it’s okay. For once I don’t feel like I’m in a fishbowl with everyone peering in to my life. Dare I say I feel almost normal? Mmm, this baked macaroni and cheese sure is a delicacy.

  “Desert,” a voice whispers by my shoulder.

  I look up and see Liam standing there with his tray.

  “Oh, hi!” I say, like I totally wasn’t expecting him.

  “I guess you were the one to save me a seat, huh?”

  “This ol’ space? Nah. I’m holding this for any one of my other numerous friends.”

  He laughs and settles down. “Sorry I’m late. I left my CD case in third period. Had to go back and get it.”

  “Ah. It’s okay.”

  “Have you seen Becca?” He glances around the noisy and, might I add, smelly room.

  “I just saw her in Ms. Gallo’s class. Said she was skipping lunch today. That can’t be healthy.”

  “Typical,” he grumbles, popping open the plastic wrapper to his spork. “She goes off somewhere to play that guitar for a while.”

  I know how that goes. How many times have I seen J. C. sitting in a hotel hallway moping with his guitar? Too many to count. He always smiles up at me and says, “Hey, Des! See you tonight, baby.” We never exchange too many words, but I always know he loves me like I’m his own kid, since he almost never gets to see his. The whole band treats me that way. They’re like anybody’s uncles, except with tattoos and nipple rings.

  “Have you heard her play? Is she any good?” I ask. We could use a female teenage roadie, if only to keep me company.