Backstage Pass Read online

  I wonder how much I could get for those on eBay.

  Chapter Six

  Holy cow. Becca lives here? Looks like the butt end of a bigger house. It’s an efficiency, underneath a bunch of banana and umbrella trees, bougainvillea, and palms that look nothing like the ones on Rodeo Drive. The screened door squeaks when Becca opens it.

  “Hey! You found it okay?”

  You mean, did I machete my way through dense jungle foliage only to locate an inhabited shed? “Yeah, it was no problem. Nice place,” I say, impressing myself with my straight face.

  Becca lifts an eyebrow at me. “This is a no-sarcasm zone, Desert. Didn’t you see the sign when you came through the gate?”

  “I’m serious. It’s very…uh…secluded, tropical. Lots of people would love to live here.” Offhand, I can’t think of anyone.

  “I thought you couldn’t come over this weekend,” she says, letting me in.

  “Oh, I finished my room, so I thought, ‘Why not?’” Actually, there was another session at the studio this morning, and if I had to endure any more torture, I would’ve ruined the recording with the sound of my head banging on a wall.

  “Did you eat? Wanna order that pizza?”

  “Sure, why not.”

  Becca hits the programmed number for Papa John’s on her corded (read: ancient) phone and orders a two-large special with cheesesticks. Yum! Now I’m starting to like this little hut. Even if the A/C unit in the window groans while spewing only slightly chilled air. At least she has terrazzo floors!

  “Where’s your grandma?” I ask.

  “Next door. Hanging out at Didi’s.”

  “Who?”

  “Her best friend. Saturdays are flowerpot-painting days.”

  “Ah. No brothers or sisters?”

  “Yeah, I have a sister. She’s twenty-one, works in Gainesville. I saw your mom dropping you off. Nice car,” she says casually.

  Mom drives an Accord, which is quite a surprise if you think about it. I guess that says something about her response to fame. Anyone can drive a Porsche once they have the cash. It takes someone zany enough, someone who names her children after landforms, to drive a car so far below her means. Me, I would’ve taken the Acura NSX.

  “Thanks. She’s promised it to me for my birthday.” Actually, she promised me anything under forty thousand, but no need to mince words.

  “Lucky you.” Becca sighs. “I’ll be happy if I get a scooter.”

  Becca’s room is the size of my closet, but I like it. Pictures of guitarists cover the walls. Jimi Hendrix. Eddie Van Halen. Eric Clapton. The Edge. And J. C., but I try not to notice that one. The twin-size bed is against the wall. Her guitar is uncovered, on its side in front of sheet music.

  Oh, would you look at that. The music is for “Between the Sheets.” Dad would be honored. I, on the other hand, am mortified. If Becca and I are going to stay friends, I’ve got to tell her about my family somehow, when the time is right. But this isn’t it.

  “Cool room. It says a lot about you.”

  “You think so?” she asks, glancing around. “I guess it says some things.”

  “It reflects your interests, anyway.” I drop my purse next to the closet and myself in front of her stereo. She sits on the floor, back against her bed.

  “What kind of music do you listen to?” she asks.

  Ah, the million-dollar question. “Well, I’m pretty eclectic. My collection’s got everything—rock, classical, rap, reggae, emo.” Yes, emo.

  “Do you listen to bands like The Madmen?”

  “Ha! You actually call them a band? Shouldn’t playing your own instruments be a requirement before calling yourself a band? The Madmen owe their existence to Faith Adams’s theatrics and that’s about it.”

  Becca stares at me wide-eyed, like she doesn’t know what to think of that.

  “I know, I know,” I say, remembering a boy “band” I saw on TRL complaining about what makes a band a band. “A band is any group of people who make music together, even if they’re only humming. Go ahead, let the backlash begin.”

  “No, you’re right,” she says. “That’s exactly how I feel.”

  Well, alrighty! “See? I knew I liked you for a reason.”

  Becca smiles that melancholy smile again. “Faith is cool and everything, but if you strip her of all that glam, there’s not much substance there.”

  “Exactly!” Exactly.

  Becca’s eyes light up. “I think creating meaningful lyrics has got to be one of the hardest parts of writing songs. To come up with words, like Smig was saying, powerful enough to convey a message. I totally respect anyone who can put their thoughts down like that. I can’t do it.”

  “Oh, I’m sure you can. You’re in Honors English!” I laugh.

  She’s not laughing. “Seriously. I can’t. Every time I try it, the words come out sounding like slop, with not even the slightest fraction of the emotion I was feeling when writing them.”

  “Maybe it takes practice.”

  “Maybe it takes talent.”

  I smile. “Talent’s overrated. Lots of people with talent get nowhere without practice.”

  “That’s true. Look, read these,” she urges, pushing the CD insert for Crossfire—Insanity into my hands. “This is what I’m talking about.”

  Oh, goody.

  Becca flips to a song called “Wilderness,” a song I happen to know very well because my dad wrote it next to me on a bus ride to the Meadowlands. He wrote it after having a huge fight with my mom that morning.

  “‘Darkness spreads its wings over my bitter heart,’” she recites, gazing somewhere over the rainbow. “Isn’t that beautiful?”

  “I guess. It’s kinda corny.”

  “Corny? Desert, can’t you hear the pain this man was feeling when he wrote that? That anguish of being distant from someone you love? To put that raw emotion out there for everyone to hear? It’s amazing anyone could do that.”

  “Mmm-hmm.” Damn, she’s pretty good. I don’t remember her being on that bus ride.

  “You don’t seem to think so.”

  “No, I do! I agree. What else you got?” Get me out of here, this is scaring me.

  “There’s lots more, but Flesh writes the best lyrics of any songwriter by far.” She reaches behind her and pulls back the closet door, revealing an early poster of my dad in his wild child days, long hair, no shirt, a hand down his pants. “Isn’t he awesome?”

  If someone could just get me a bucket, I’d like to barf now. “He’s probably not what he seems,” I tell her.

  “What do you mean? He’s well known for being totally sincere and openhearted with everything, from his songs down to his interviews.”

  “Yeah, I know, but still, famous people are always different once you get to know them. So I’ve heard.”

  “I guess that could be true. He’s probably got ten cats and loves bubble baths, right?”

  Let’s not go crazy. “Who knows? Maybe.”

  Becca picks up her guitar and strums a few chords. My stomach growls. I hope she didn’t hear that. She starts into something that sounds like it could be Indigo Girls, but it’s not. It’s totally Becca. And it’s good. Really good. She must, and I mean must, get better strings. Maybe I can sneak her some. But the whole vibe is there. I listen and the more I do, the more I feel something stronger coming through.

  Becca goes out on her own. There’s no me, no CDs scattered about, no cat on the floor next to her. There are no walls around her. Just music rising out of her guitar, at the expense of what seems to be a very broken heart. She lets the last note trail off like a kiss in the wind and drops her head onto the curve of the instrument. That’s when her sobbing begins.

  Okay. Maybe I shouldn’t be here. She’s forgotten she’s not alone. I’ll just be going now. No, wait, Des! Whatever the matter is, this girl has just let me into her soul. Through music. Stay.

  Becca looks up, wiping her tearstained face. “I’m sorry.”

  �
��Don’t be. That was great!”

  “Don’t lie. I’m just a moron who’ll never learn to play right.”

  Excuse me? “Um…Becca, I beg to differ. You play better than some people who’ve been taking lessons for years. Why are you crying? You okay?”

  “Desert,” she begins, “you know how you asked why Liam and I haven’t hooked up?”

  “Yeah?” Oh, Christ, she does have a thing for Liam! I knew it!

  “And I’ve told you how that wouldn’t happen?”

  “Yeah? Becca, I think he’s really cute and all, but if you want him, you need to tell—”

  “I’m gay, Desert.”

  Oh.

  “You can freak out now if I’ve scared you,” she says.

  And I thought my secret was big.

  “What? Why would that scare me? I didn’t know that, but it doesn’t scare me.” Actually, it scares me a little.

  “Of course you didn’t know. It’s not like I have a sign on my forehead.”

  “All right, you’re the one who said this was a no-sarcasm zone, not me. Look, I’m fine with that, really. I mean, I’m not gay, but that doesn’t mean we can’t be friends, right?”

  She wipes her eyes with the inside of her shirt. “That’s what kills me. Anyone I ever meet that I’m remotely interested in is never interested in me.”

  Is she talking about me? ’Cause that would really make me feel crappy. “I’m interested in you. I don’t have to be gay to be interested in you as a person, do I?”

  She smiles sadly. “Thanks, but you know what I mean.”

  “I know.” I don’t really, but what else can I say?

  “I’ll never find someone. It’s so hard.”

  “Of course you’ll find someone, Becca. You’re a very pretty girl with a beautiful soul. You just showed me.”

  We sit quietly for a minute.

  “Nobody knows, except Liam, so please don’t go broadcasting it.”

  “No problem.”

  Becca exhales deeply. “I don’t mean anything by telling you this, okay? I don’t expect anything from you. Just wanted you to know, that’s all.”

  “Okay. I appreciate it.”

  Now what?

  For the next few minutes, we don’t speak. Becca tunes the guitar and continues to space out like I’m not there. We need something to get this ball rolling again.

  “Pizza!” the delivery boy shouts, knocking so loud on the front door that even the cat meows out of a deep sleep.

  Thank the sweet Lord. Food.

  Chapter Seven

  Shadows enfold, shadows embrace

  Through a dark veil, behind the face

  Hides a deep void, a sleeping cocoon

  Butterfly waits, freedom come soon

  Will you accept me? Will you believe?

  Will you cast stones at what you perceive?

  I need you to love me, a sleeping cocoon

  Unfolding my wings, freedom come soon.

  Late in the afternoon Mom enters the kitchen, interrupting my poetry session. The look on her face spells you-better-have-a-good-explanation. “Desert, someone’s here to see you.”

  “What? I haven’t told anyone where we live! Don’t look at me like that, Mother!” I jump off the island stool and head toward the foyer.

  What the hell?

  “Becca! How did you—?”

  “Find out you live here?” Her expression is one of hurt and shock. “You took out papers from your bag to make room for the CDs I lent you, then left them on the floor. Your schedule,” she says, holding it up, eyebrows raised, like any idiot could recognize the neighborhood, “has your address on it.”

  Oh.

  Blood drains from my face. She goes on. “Millionaires’ Row. Thanks for telling me.” She hands me the schedule by the very corner like it has cooties. I guess she could’ve sliced my face with it if she wanted to. “So I live here, what’s the big deal?” I mean, really.

  “Nothing, except you were basically laughing at my house the whole time you were there.”

  That is so dumb. “No, I wasn’t.”

  “If I had known this, I wouldn’t have invited you over. No wonder you didn’t want me coming here.”

  “I really did have to organize my room.”

  “You lied to me.”

  “I haven’t lied to you about anything!”

  “Well, you sure as hell didn’t tell me you were rich!”

  I think that’s the first time I ever heard someone call me that. It almost sounds like an insult.

  “All right, so what was I supposed to say to you? Hi, Becca, I’m Desert, and my parents have lots of money? Is that what I should’ve said? I don’t care about that, so why should you?”

  “Well, not telling something is the same as lying. You’re withholding information.”

  “Girls?” My mother has joined us in the foyer. “Would you like to come in and argue somewhere a little more comfortable?” Her polite way of scolding me for acting like a dumb-ass.

  Becca and I look at each other, a little embarrassed. “Sorry,” I tell her. “I should’ve said something. Wanna come in? This is my mom, Matti.”

  Becca smiles nervously. “Hi.” She then takes her first real look around. Her eyes soar up to the ceiling at the entrance chandelier. The marble staircase. The parquet floors. She’s in awe. “Nice shack.”

  I laugh, showing her in. “Come in, dork. Sorry about the mess.”

  Mom’s been unpacking some of the boxes today, so there’s kitchen stuff all over the counters. And the dining room, and practically everywhere. Dad’s been—wait a second! “Mom? Where’s Dad?”

  She must pick up the panic in my voice, since she says, “Hmm, probably in his cave,” and runs off to make sure he doesn’t come out of his private studio for anything while Becca’s here.

  “Didn’t you say your father was an artist?” Becca asks, picking up a slotted spoon, running her fingers along it like it’s made of gold or something. Fine, so it’s silver.

  “Yeah, he is.”

  “But not a starving artist, I can see that.” She puts down the spoon and picks up a bottle of Cristal instead.

  “My mom’s a manager,” I say, like it’s her career and not much else that explains how we live. Obviously, that doesn’t work.

  “A manager?” she laughs. “Of what, Microsoft?”

  “Something like that.” Behind her, I spot the Billboard and American Music awards being used as stops to the dining room door. Must evacuate the premises, quick! “Wanna see my room?”

  “Okay, but can I check out this place first? Your house, it’s so…beautiful. I’ve always dreamed of living somewhere like this.”

  She doesn’t understand. It’s not all that great. “Um…sure. Here, let me show you. Living room, dining room, great room, patio, pool, garage, guest bath. Now, wanna see my room?” Big smile.

  “Oh, my God!” Her hands fly to her mouth, eyes like saucers.

  Oh, no! She saw the family portrait, or a Crossfire poster, or my dad waving to her from outside, I just know it.

  “That’s your backyard?” she cries, gliding over to the French doors, opening them up. The hot breeze from the bay swoops in and surrounds us.

  It’s an incredible afternoon, and I can see why she’s amazed. The water is glistening like diamonds in the dying sun. Dozens of sailboats line the horizon. Jet Skis and wave runners circle each other, like kids playing tag. Pelicans sit on posts, lazily watching the view. I guess I never really noticed how nice it is out here.

  Becca skips over to the pool, following its curve like a yellow brick road. I hadn’t exactly thought of what to tell her about my dad, but I have to think of something quick. Mom can’t keep him captive in the studio all night. Not what I had in mind for breaking the news.

  “Becca, I’ve gotta tell you something.”

  She turns around to face me. “If it’s about what I told you, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable or make you think I’m after you.�
��

  “No, no, that’s not what I was gonna say.”

  “I’m almost sorry I said anything, ’cause now you’ll think I’m weird.”

  “I don’t think you’re weird. Well, maybe a little.”

  Her sense-of-humor meter is on low as she stares at me for a second, scanning my eyes, reading my face. Then it kicks in. She grins big and shakes her head.

  “Kidding!” I say.

  “Sometimes I’m not sure.”

  “Look, what I was gonna say is…”

  Damn. How do I do this? I can’t just tell her straight out. She’ll faint. “Let’s sit over there.” I walk her to the patio chairs, underneath the big sun umbrella. “Becca, we’re friends, right?”

  “I should hope so.”

  “Good, ’cause you know how you had this great big secret to tell me but were afraid to? You thought I’d take it the wrong way?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Well, it’s only fair that I let you in on something too, but you have to promise, no…swear, swear you won’t tell anybody, okay?”

  “Sure. What is it?” she asks, palm to her heart. “You’re scaring me!”

  “Sweetie?” Mom’s back, rounding the pool and wringing her hands. “I haven’t found Daddy. Have you seen him?” She lowers her stare to let me know that Flesh, lead singer of Crossfire, is running loose on the grounds somewhere and we must catch him. Quickly.

  “No, I thought he was in the studio!” Crap! Crap! She can’t see him before I tell her!

  “No, honey, only Faith.”

  “Studio?” Becca’s eyebrows shoot up.

  “Yeah…um…photo studio, my dad’s a photographer, I mean, no, he’s not. Okay, Becca, look…”

  Becca’s head turns back and forth to examine my nervous face, then my mom’s, then once again past my shoulder, to see—

  Dad comes out of the pool shed, wearing his Rock Is Dead cap and brandishing the bug-net pole over his shoulder. “Hey, girly!”

  No! Not like this! Aauuughhh!