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“Desert!” Becca whispers, leaning into me. “That guy, he looks exactly like…” There’s a long silence, except for the buzzing of mosquitoes and the Jet Skis out on the ocean.

  And then she’s done. No peep. No scream. Nothing. Just her eyes rolling back into her head as she slumps out of the patio chair.

  Chapter Eight

  “I could tell you, but then I’d have to destroy you.”

  “You think this is funny, Desert? Tell me what’s going on!”

  I think Becca already knows what’s going on. She’s just waiting for me to say it and make it official. “Fine, just lower your voice, will you? Geez. All right, look.” I pause, thinking of an excellent beginning for my shocking revelation. “You know how everyone has a mother and a father?”

  She’s not amused.

  Okay, here goes nothing. “Well, my father just happens to be Richard McGraw. So how’ve you been?” Brace. Brace yourself.

  “What?!!”

  And we’re off!

  “Flesh?! As in Flesh?! Your dad?!” A concert-worthy scream pierces the house, and somewhere in the woods, a deer and several bunnies lift their dainty heads to listen.

  This is going so well. “Um…yep. Pretty cool, huh?”

  Her face searches mine for any sign of a joke. “Yep, pretty cool?! Is that all you can say?”

  Oh, no, no, I have lots more sarcasm where that came from! “Becca, I know this is freaking you out, but try to relax, okay?”

  “Relax? You want me to relax? Right, okay, Desert, I’ll relax!” She stands and starts pacing my bedroom frantically. “I can’t believe this! This isn’t happening! This isn’t happening!” Trembling, she takes the glass of water Mom left her and sips, trying not to choke.

  “Believe me, I understand,” I try empathizing.

  Her eyes, they resemble something like a raving lunatic’s. “No. No, I don’t think you do. This is un-freakin’-believable, okay?! How’s my hair?” She runs a hand through her long bangs.

  “Your hair’s fine.”

  “This is Flesh’s house?” She’s gonna cry. Uh-oh, there we go.

  I hand her a couple of tissues. “Richard McGraw’s house. Try thinking of him that way. My dad. A totally normal, run-of-the-mill human being.”

  She stops and gapes at me like I need a vocab review on words like normal. “Normal? He is anything but normal, Desert! He is the greatest songwriter ever, a legend. He rules!”

  All right, let’s see, how can I put this? “Becca, he eats, sleeps, takes dumps like anyone else. He’s normal, okay?”

  Her eyes light up. “Does Liam know about this?”

  “No, and you can’t tell him either! If you tell him, I will definitely kill you!”

  “You haven’t told anyone?”

  “No, ma’am.” I shake my head.

  She wilts into my desk chair and looks up all weary. “So you’re that ‘teenage daughter’ they’ve mentioned in articles. Why didn’t I notice this?”

  “Honestly, I have no clue. My name’s on dozens of fan websites, too. I’m surprised no one at school’s recognized it yet, especially you, Miss Huge Crossfire Fan! Shouldn’t you have known?”

  “I don’t have a computer.” She scans my collection of movie posters and photos from all the cities we visited on tour last year. “Look at this room! I’ve never seen a bedroom so huge!”

  And I wanted the bigger one down the hall. “I know you’re in shock, but just try to relax.”

  “Stop telling me to relax, Desert! This is like Becca in Freakin’ Wonderland! Do you know what a nothing life I’ve had? This is the biggest thing that’s ever happened to me!”

  Somehow I doubt that, considering her past, but I’ll just keep my mouth shut.

  “Here I was, mad at you because you hadn’t told me where you lived, as if that wasn’t enough, and then out pops Flesh, like the pool guy from the fourth dimension!”

  “I know. This seems weird to you.”

  “Excuse me, weird as hell is more like it.”

  “Fine, but this hasn’t been easy on me, either. I was going to tell you.”

  “When? When were you gonna tell me? Were you gonna invite me over for dinner and spring him on me between soup and salad?”

  “There was never a good time, Becca.”

  She stops, looking defeated. “You know, I don’t know if I should hug you or beat the crap out of you.”

  “Look, I was waiting until we were good friends, but that didn’t happen until today.”

  Silence. She’s satisfied. Thank God!

  Becca takes a deep breath, trying to absorb everything. “Matti McGraw,” she says slowly. “Now I recognize the name. ‘Special thanks to Des.’ I’ve read that in every CD insert.”

  “That would be moi.”

  She snorts at her own inability to put two and two together sooner. “Great. Now he thinks I’m a total loser for fainting in front of him.” She buries her face in her hands.

  “Hey, look on the bright side. At least you didn’t make a fool of yourself when he carried you up the stairs!”

  Becca squeals and shakes her head over and over. “I was unconscious? Oh, God, I’m such an idiot, idiot, idiot!”

  “No, you’re not. Look, don’t worry, he’s used to it.”

  “Where’s he now?” she mumbles, glancing up.

  “I don’t know. Let’s find out, so you can get this over with.” I jump off the bed and head toward the door, but Becca starts again.

  “No! No, I can’t!” she whines, shaking her hands like they hurt. Her head drops into her lap. “Oh, God! This isn’t happening! Do you know how many times I’ve dreamed of this? Now I actually meet him, and I’m totally flipping out!”

  Oh, for crying out loud. “You want a shot of whiskey?”

  She looks up, blinking. “What?”

  “Come on, let’s go find Flesh.”

  Becca clings painfully to my arm, all the way down the hall, down the stairs, and across the house. It’s about to fall off. “Hang in there, Lion. The great and powerful Oz will see you now.” Slowly I open the door to the studio.

  “Oh, my God, oh, my God,” Becca whimpers to herself, afraid to look inside. When she finally spots him, a screech escapes her lips, but she immediately shoves her face into my arm to mute it.

  Dad’s alone on the couch, an assortment of paper scraps scattered around him. Ripped notebook pages on the seat cushions, cocktail napkins on his knees, and sticky notes on his arms. He looks like the Amazing Post-It Man—more powerful than a paper cut!

  He hears Becca’s imitation of a cat getting skinned and, to my relief, puts on a sappy smile, the kind a giant might wear for a frightened baby. Between that, the ripped shorts, and flip-flops, he looks nothing like the poster boy Becca expects. In fact, he looks like Jimmy Buffett.

  “Hi,” he greets Becca, standing up. Leaves of paper fall to the floor.

  “H-h-i-i!” Ouch! I pry her fingernails out of my arm.

  His hand goes out to her gently. “I’m Desert’s dad, Rich.”

  Good, Dad, good!

  Becca stares at it for a couple of seconds, like it’s a figment of her imagination. Then she takes it. “I’m Becca. Rebecca. Reese. Rebecca Reese. Nice to meet you…finally…Flesh…sir.”

  “Sir?” He laughs, holding her hand for a moment. “Same here, Becca.”

  Her breath quickens at hearing the almighty Flesh speak her name, and I can see her struggling to control it. Otherwise, I’d say she’s doing pretty good. Dad smiles, then acts like a klutz, pretending to fall backward over the mess. I know he’s doing it to make her feel at ease. He lands on the couch and sighs real big.

  “So what’re you doing in this mess, Dad?” Small talk for Becca’s sake. I know exactly what he’s doing.

  “Just trying to organize my thoughts.” He glances around at the work spread out around him. Lyrics. He meant lyrics but didn’t want to use any lingo that would remind our guest of his alter ego.

  “Hey, Dad, did you
know that Becca plays guitar?” I know how much he loves it when I put him on the spot.

  Silence, the kind that means he’ll kill me later. He hates it when mediocre musicians talk to him about how they, too, are in a rock band, headed toward surefire stardom. “Really?” he answers with a smile, fake interest all over his face. At least I think it’s fake.

  Becca spits out a goofy laugh. “Desert! No, I don’t! What’re you talking about?” She starts biting her nails. I’ve never seen her bite her nails.

  “Becca, don’t be modest. You should hear her, Dad.”

  “I don’t play! I suck. I just mess around, that’s all.” Nail fragments fly to the floor.

  “You write your own songs?” Dad asks, way out of character. Or is he?

  “No! God, no! Well, sometimes. I have some songs, I mean, that I wrote, but mostly, I just play your songs, other songs, I mean!”

  “That’s not true,” I interrupt. “You played one today that was yours. I know it was.”

  Are her eyes glowing red at me? “No, I didn’t! That was nothing.” She turns to my dad and grins nervously. “It was nothing.”

  Now should I embarrass her further and ask her to play it for him? This could be so much fun!

  “Any lines to go with them?” Dad inquires.

  “Nooo, definitely not. I can’t write lyrics to save my life.”

  She’s right about that. I saw her homework poem.

  Dad slouches back on the couch, sighing heavily. “Desert can. She doesn’t think she can write, but she can. Ask her to show you sometime.”

  “Um…hello? Leave me out of this. Who cares, Dad?”

  “I do. You’re a gifted writer. You should put it to good use.”

  “Good use? My words get some pretty good use right where they are, in my head, in private, not all over the place for everyone and their mother to see, thank you very much.”

  “Is this yours?” he asks, holding up my poem, the one I was writing in the kitchen when Becca showed up.

  “Yes, that’s mine! Give it back, scavenger!” I can’t believe him!

  “It’s strong, Desert. I like it.”

  “Yeah, well, it’s not yours to read! It’s for school.”

  As much as he’s enjoying this, he gives it back without a fight. “It’s what good lyrics are made of.”

  “I don’t care.” He’s not going to start this argument again here now, is he? “I’m private. You’re not.”

  I’ve stunned him. “Me?” he says, pointing at himself. “Not private?”

  Becca stares at my dad, then at me. Then at my dad again. No doubt she’s thinking this is all very surreal.

  “I am private, girly. I write lyrics because I have to, because it kills me if I don’t, not so everyone can hear my thoughts. It’s like…a need.” He jots something down on one of his Post-Its.

  A need. Please. E-mail is a need. Cable is a need. Becca just stands there real awkward, like a twelve-year-old boy at the Playboy Mansion.

  “Come on, Becca. I’ll show you the yard again.”

  “Thanks for what you’ve done,” she blurts.

  What’s this?

  Dad tilts his head. “What’s that?”

  For a second Becca looks like she’s got nothing else to say. But then…“For giving me a reason to listen to music. Your songs, with all the crap out there, they actually mean something.”

  Please, when I meet my lifelong idol, remind me to use the word crap.

  Dad’s heard it all before, but still, he seems genuinely touched. “Why, thank you,” he says gallantly, with a smile gorgeous enough to make even me a fan. “Thanks for saying that. You’ve made my day.”

  Oh, puh-leez! That should be Becca’s line, Dad.

  “I know this is stupid, but if Desert and I are gonna be friends, can I just get something out of my system?” Becca asks, kneading her fingers.

  What now? Why do people insist on making fools of themselves in front of celebrities?

  “Knock yourself out, sister,” he says.

  With confidence unknown to me, she strolls over to Dad, reaches out her hands, and pulls him to his feet. Then, listen to this, like a grown woman meeting her real father for the first time, she reaches around and hugs him. Hard. “Your songs”—she sniffs—“they’ve meant everything to me.”

  He does his best must-appreciate-my-fan hug then looks at me. I can just see those deer and bunnies in the woods starting to hold paws and sing gaily right about now. He smoothes down her hair. “Shh. I know, I know.”

  No, he doesn’t, but whatever.

  Normally my eyes would do a major roll at this point. But then something tells me Becca really, really needed this.

  Chapter Nine

  This woman is getting on my nerves. Since when does writing songs entail beaded bikinis and tanning oil? I swear you’d think that when we bought this house, Faith Adams came with it.

  “Desert, honey, could you bring me a bottle of water, please? It’s ridiculous hot out here!” Ridiculous hot. She can’t even speak properly. She fans herself with her hand, like that’ll help. Half an inch more and she’d be slapping herself in the face. Maybe if I just shoved her elbow…

  “I was looking for my dad.” Not coming to take your order. “Have you seen him?”

  “He’s in the studio, pup.”

  Pup? What the hell is that? I know this doesn’t require a response. My die-Faith-die look should be enough. I walk past her and kick the pool water, pretending to be testing it. Some of it splashes on her pretty little feet.

  She retracts her legs against her surgically enhanced body. “Hey! Careful there!”

  “Woops, sorry.”

  No, I’m not. I rule!

  “Desert,” she calls out, “don’t forget my water, please!”

  Me Desert. Me no have water. You melt out here, Miss Silicon. “Be right back,” I answer. I’ve got no intention of returning whatsoever.

  Can someone please explain why this is necessary? Why is it that whenever someone is working closely with my dad on a project, it’s imperative they move in, forcing me to act all nice, like it’s a pleasure having them around the whole time? Shouldn’t they be the ones kissing my dad’s butt, not the other way around?

  It’s only been two weeks since school started, and already, we have a day off. It’s a Teachers’ Planning Day. Or maybe it’s Rosh Hashanah. Whatever. Marie and Mom went out for lunch, leaving me home with this tart. I didn’t even know they were going anywhere. Otherwise I would’ve begged them to let me come along. Now I’m stuck.

  “Hey, Dad. What’s up?” I prop open the studio door and watch the spectacle inside. Dad’s mad at paper. He’s kicking sheets around, the rubber sole of his sneakers creasing and grinding them into the floor.

  “Nothing,” he mumbles.

  “Yes, I can see that. Absolutely nothing is going on in here.”

  “Is your mother gone?”

  “Yep. Lunch with Marie.”

  “Did she say where she was going?”

  “Nope. But Faith is here!”

  “Is she working on it?”

  On what, her tan? Yeah, she’s working on it all right. “Um…not sure what you’re talking about, Dad. She’s outside on the deck. Are you gonna be working for a while?”

  “I’m not going anywhere until we get at least one good tune. J. C.’s on his way.” Ah, yes. J. C.’s coming over. This means they’ll be working until 6 A.M. without any sleep. He’ll be in the zone for a while, and that means…The Jag awaits.

  “Becca?” I switch my cell to the other ear, the wind whipping my ponytail in my face.

  “Hey, Desert! What’s up? I hardly slept last night. Couldn’t stop thinking about your dad!”

  “Right, whatever. Hey, wanna go to the Grove?”

  “What do you mean? We live in the Grove.”

  “No, I mean, do you want to cruise around? I’ve got the car! Woo hoo!”

  “The what? Car?”

  “I’ll be
there in two minutes.” Beep.

  Becca’s standing outside her house, looking like a mess. She waves at me like a goofball as I pull to a stop. I toss a scrunchie her way. Certainly one cannot cruise without one’s proper cruising attire.

  “You are too cool!” she cries, jumping in, and we take off flying, until the next speed bump anyway.

  “Where do you want to go? I’ll take you anywhere, baby!” She’s staring at me like I’m the best thing ever.

  “Like I care! This weekend’s changed everything. We could go to Kmart, and that’d be fine. Just drive!”

  What are we doing? I don’t really know. Yes, I’m completely aware of the fact I have only a restricted license, a California one at that, and my dad has no idea I’ve hijacked his wheels. Let’s just say Becca and I have this overwhelming need to get away today.

  We drive to Miami Beach on this gorgeous Monday afternoon, checking out the cruise ships along the way. As we fly on McArthur Causeway to Watson Island, I catch Becca smiling blissfully, and I’m all too aware she’s living out some kind of dream right here.

  After an hour of sightseeing South Beach bodies, Art Deco buildings, and door after door of restaurants and clubs, we see a car leaving, so we snag its parking space. Trudging through the sand to find a nice spot on the beach, Becca unleashes the personal questions.

  “So, what’s it like? Being the daughter of the most famous rock god on the face of the earth?”

  Oh, brother, here we go. “First of all, he’s not the most famous rock god on the face of the earth. Second, he’s not a god at all…. This is a good spot.” We plop down.

  “That’s debatable.” She laughs.

  “Becca, take it from me. I admire my dad, but he’s no god.” Did I just say I admire my dad? “Anyway, to answer your question, it’s mostly okay. Sometimes, though, I’m dying to know how other people live. Just normal, everyday people.”

  Becca does her little sniff-laugh, drawing a happy face in the sand, minus the smile. “Why? There’s nothing interesting about the way other people live. They don’t write E! True Hollywood Stories about people like me. You’re the one with the cool life.”

  Sheesh, she doesn’t get it. “It’s not always cool. Take touring. It has its good and bad parts, but basically, I’m on the road half my life! I don’t get to make friends the way you do. My friends are the people I see a few months at a time at school who do whatever they can to get backstage passes. See what I mean?”