Backstage Pass

by Gaby Triana

  —des

  Chapter Fourteen

  Since Liam told me about Marie two weeks ago, I haven’t said anything to anybody. First of all, since she went home, she’s not here to defend herself, and second, I’m not sure how I’m supposed to tell my parents that our very own right hand may be exposing us. But I guess I have to talk to my mom at some point. Time to test the waters…

  On the deck my mother sits on a lounge chair, facing the bay. I can see her cigarette smoke quickly blowing away in the breezy night air. The full moon lights up her face, making her tears sparkle. She didn’t hear me come outside. When she sees me, she swipes her cheeks, then nervously grinds out the stub of her cigarette.

  “Sweetie…I was…it’s only—”

  “A cigarette, Mom. Don’t worry. I won’t tell Dad.”

  A halfhearted smile appears, then she reaches for my hand, pulling me to join her brooding session. I settle alongside her, curling up like a little kid. It feels kind of weird. We haven’t sat like this in years. But almost immediately it feels familiar again.

  Mom doesn’t cry a whole lot, so when she does it’s a big deal. Either she’s pissed at Dad, or…she’s pissed at Dad. They never argue in front of me, so I can never know for sure. Unless she’s crying.

  “You guys at it?” I ask, tucking my hair into the back of my T-shirt to keep it out of my face.

  She stares at the water, swishing softly in the moonlight, and nods. Then she bites her lip, like she’s going to lose it.

  If this is about Faith, I swear I’ll rearrange her face. “Mom, what is it?”

  She shakes her head. “Nothing, honey. Just a fight. It happens.”

  Yeah, about a blond freak of nature, I bet. Why don’t they fire her already? “A fight about Faith?” I ask.

  Her eyes perk up. “Faith? Why would you say that?”

  Guess not. “Nothing. I just see the way she carries on with Dad and J. C. I thought maybe those short shorts of hers have pissed you off for the last time.”

  She lights up a new cigarette, hand trembling. “No, honey. It’s not Faith. Don’t worry, I’ll be fine.” Lips pressed together, she fights back a sob. Yes, I can see she’ll be just fine.

  Could it be about Marie? Does Mom know what Liam told me? Does Liam even have the right info? How do I ask her? C’mon, Desert, she’s your mom, just come right out with it. “Mom?”

  “Mmm?”

  “Is something going on I don’t know about?”

  She snorts, meaning I don’t know the half of it. “Desert, honey, lots of things go on you don’t know about.”

  No kidding. And I spend half my time trying to figure them out. “I heard something a couple weeks ago.”

  She looks down at her tissue, unfolding and refolding it. “If it was printed, then it’s not true.”

  “No, it wasn’t printed. A kid at school knows who took the pictures. Someone working for a local writer named Adriana. Portilla, or something.”

  I wait for her eyes to widen, the spark of surprise to appear on her face, but she just smiles softly. “I know.”

  Am I the only idiot this side of the Mississippi? I straighten up, sitting on the edge of the lounge chair. “You do? How?”

  She side glances me like I should know the obvious answer to that. “Marie got the scoop, hon.”

  “Oh.”

  I get it. Marie told her herself, so it wouldn’t look like she’s involved. Like she found out through a third party, then informed Mom, as any good little assistant would do. Tricky. Let’s see how much Marie actually told her. “But do you know who tipped them off that we’re living here?”

  “No, and I don’t care. It was going to happen sooner or later. Where’d you hear about the reporter, Des?”

  “From this guy at school—a kid named Liam.” I get up and walk to the railing, looking down at the surf breaking below. The wind swoops my hair right out of my shirt. “He’s her stepson.”

  “Really?”

  This much she didn’t know. I can see that. I face her and nod.

  “And you’re seeing him?” she asks, eyebrows drawn together.

  “Seeing?” I ask. “We like each other, we hang out a lot, but we’re not dating, if that’s what you mean. We’re just friends.” How did she change the subject like that? I’m here to fish for Marie info, not discuss boyfriend possibilities.

  “Just be careful please, Desert.”

  Here we go.

  “He might be using you to get to me,” she says. “To us.”

  And I thought she was launching into the “Be careful you don’t get pregnant” speech. Lovely. “Mom, don’t start with all that—”

  Her palm flies up to stop me. “Honey, think. If he’s related to her, then he may not”—she pauses for the right way of putting it—“care about you.”

  “Not care about me?”

  “You know what I mean, Desert. Yes, believe it or not, there are people who want to get close to us who don’t care about us.”

  They say sarcasm runs in the family.

  I’ve never thought for one second that Liam may not care about me. Okay, maybe half of a second. “Mom, listen to me, all right? I can’t keep going around not trusting people all the time! I have to make some friends!”

  “Yes, I know, but you still have to be careful.”

  “I am careful! What do you want me to do, get a full background check on everyone I meet?”

  “Desert,” she says in a tone that means keep my sass to a minimum. “You can’t trust anyone you just met in school, okay? Especially someone related to a tabloid reporter!”

  “Really?” I can’t believe this lecture. “I don’t think you should be telling me who I should and shouldn’t trust, Mom!”

  She squints at me and tilts her head. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Oops. I guess she really doesn’t know anything about Marie and the photos. Plus there’s still the chance that Marie hasn’t done anything wrong. Brush it off, Des. “Nothing, forget it.”

  She folds her tissue until it’s a tiny, white block. “Look…honey, the only people you can fully trust are your dad and me.”

  “That’s not good enough!” Why am I shouting? “I need friends, Mom. Real friends! You guys won’t be around forever!”

  Her face hardens, as if she never realized I thought about things like that, then looks away, fist at her mouth. “Sweetie, all I meant was watch your back, okay?”

  “I do, Mother! I try, but I can’t watch my back to the point where I’m freakin’ paranoid!” I can’t believe she’s asking me to be careful when Marie might be stabbing us in the back! “Don’t you think I’m capable of choosing my friends?”

  Her tears are building up again. “Of course I do!” she cries, flinging one away with her thumb. “Desert, don’t be so naïve, for God’s sake! Our situation is different, not normal, as much as you’d like it to be! Would you just think for a minute?”

  “I am thinking!” My voice just shot up about fifty decibels more. “Don’t you think I think about things? Don’t you think I’m tired of dealing with all this? I wish my life was like anybody else’s! I wish I could watch TRL without seeing my dad come onto the set!” I push myself off the railing and head back to the house.

  God, I hate her! She can be so damn infuriating! Sorry, God, sorry. I don’t hate her.

  “Sweetie,” she implores, grabbing my arm as I rush past her, “this has been a horrific week, with the sessions and all. The last person I need to argue with now is you.”

  Yeah, well then, why bother? But of course, I don’t say it.

  “I’m sorry,” she says. “I do trust your judgment.”

  “Whatever. Just forget it.” That conversation went well. I pull out of her grip and start up the path.

  Funny, even with my mom, who I trust more than anyone, warning me about Liam…it’s him I feel like running to now. Even if she’s right. Even if he is using me.

  On Friday nights, the Grove is crazy p
acked, but if you know the hideouts, like Liam does, there are some nice places to hang out. At first I thought this was a park like any other. Hard to tell with the dim streetlights. But now I see it’s a cemetery. As goth as it may sound, the iron gates, gazillion trees, and crickets chirping actually make it very beautiful. Especially with the full moon out.

  Liam sits cross-legged on an old bench, an arm draped over the back. Next to him, I listen to the soft drone of his voice, sliding my scrunchie on and off my wrist.

  “He swears he’s happy with Adri, but then, why the drinking, you know?”

  “It just started?” I ask.

  “Nah, he’s been doing it for years, but never when he was with my mom.”

  “Maybe that’s why they split. Maybe he got sloshed in private, and you just didn’t know anything.”

  “No, you don’t know my dad. He never would’ve drank in private. They didn’t even argue in private. Michael, Carrie, and I had the pleasure of hearing every word. You know how hard it is to watch the Cartoon Network with your dad calling your mom a bitch in the next room?”

  Sister? “Wait…how many brothers and sisters do you have?” I ask. This is getting confusing. Maybe couples should only be allowed one child, like I heard they do in China.

  “Well, there’s me, Michael, and my sister, Carrie, from my mom and dad’s marriage. Carrie’s nineteen. She goes to UM…lives in the dorm. Then there’re our little half sisters, Carolina and Lilian, who are still in elementary school.”

  “Wow.”

  “I know, the true meaning of ‘extended family.’ So yeah, my dad’s always been like that. But he’s still a good person, though.” Liam looks off somewhere.

  “That sucks,” I offer. I’m trying to imagine Liam as a little kid, listening to his parents fight over who contributes more to the marriage or who’s more underappreciated.

  “You get used to it after a while. No big deal.”

  He’s lying. It was a big deal. I can see it all over his face. In sympathy, I punch his sneaker playfully.

  “Whatever.” He sighs. “Everybody’s got a vice, right? Some people beat their kids. Some people can’t tell the truth to save their lives. My dad’s is alcohol.”

  “I guess that’s true,” I say. I had never thought of that before. What’s my vice? Leaving my mom behind when she most needs someone to talk to?

  “So, that’s my story. Nice, huh?”

  “Listen, everybody’s got screwed-up people in their family.” Oops. “Not that your dad is screwed up; what I mean is nobody’s perfect.” Nice save, Des.

  There’s that grin of his. My stomach quivers. If I had a camera, I’d take a shot of him just like that, with his hand over his knee in those jeans. “Yeah, nobody’s perfect,” he says, “but some people come closer than others.”

  Like you, Liam Blanco. You’re pretty damn close to perfect. “Well, that’s a given,” I say instead, but I almost lost myself thinking of what it would be like to hold that sweet face and taste those lips…

  “What about you?” he asks, scratching off spray paint from the bench’s ironwork. My mental image fades to black. “Everything okay with the Crossfire family?”

  Actually, everybody in the band can be pretty messed up sometimes, but I guess I don’t have too much crap to report on my folks. They argue like anybody else’s parents. Big deal.

  “They go through phases,” I say. “Sometimes things are incredible, usually when a set is released, and the reviews are good. Everybody celebrates. It’s a great time. But the recording months aren’t always smooth. The band used to work well together, but lately, some people, whose names I won’t mention”—Max and Phil—“don’t work as hard as my parents do. And that makes everybody tense, know what I mean?”

  He nods. “Yep. Not doing their part, and the rest pick up their slack?”

  “Right. Don’t get me wrong, I love them, everybody. Crossfire really is a family, but they split apart at times. And now they think they need an outsider to help them develop an updated sound, so I can’t help but figure things’ll end soon.”

  Maybe I’m telling him too much. Yes, too much, Desert, slow down. I can just see my mother shaking her disappointed head a mile from here.

  “Wow. Crossfire breaking up?” he asks, inspecting a piece of peeled paint. “They’ve been around forever.”

  “I know, right?”

  “How long? Like fifteen years?”

  “Seventeen.”

  “Damn.”

  “Yeah, and if that happens, I might finally get to call one place home,” I tell him.

  And then, somewhere in my brain, I hear a ding.

  Why didn’t I think of this before? If Faith’s lyrical input contributes to a Crossfire breakup, then maybe having her around isn’t such a bad thing. Dad’s already stressed from not getting a decent tune out of her. Mom’s crying over God knows what. Marie might be sabotaging us, although that’s still unconfirmed. Put it all together, and I may just get my normal life after all! And here I was seeing everything all back-asswards!

  And you know what? I might know another way to get this disbanding thing going a little faster. “Liam?”

  “Desert?”

  Too funny. “Liam?”

  “Desert?”

  Good Lord. “You know what?”

  “Chicken butt.”

  “Excuse me?”

  He laughs. “You never saw that episode on SNL where the guy asks, ‘What?’ and every time he does, the other guy would say, ‘Chicken butt’?”

  I’ll let my face do the talking on this one.

  “Okay, forget it. What were you gonna say?” he asks.

  “What I was gonna say is, your stepmom is looking for crap for her article, right?”

  “Not crap, exactly.”

  “Your words, Liam.”

  “Evidence, I meant.”

  Evidence. And evidence paired with a psychologist’s analysis about my need for stability equals my mom finally understanding she’s been wrong, that it’s time to raise the kid in a permanent home environment. So that just leaves one thing.

  “Give her what she wants then,” I say.

  “What?”

  “You heard me. Tell her I’m completely unstable.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous!”

  “Pardonnez-moi?”

  “I said don’t be ridiculous, not that you are, Des. Why would you want people to think that? You’re a totally cool person. Amazing. Not unstable.”

  “Thanks, Liam.” Tell me how you really feel! “But my mom won’t care. She won’t! She’s used to stuff like this being printed. She ignores it for the most part but is definitely used to it. ‘Ignore criticism’ has always been her attitude.”

  “Then why do this?” he asks, and I can see the worry all over his face.

  “Because! Let’s see, where do I even begin? Do you have any idea what it’s like to call a bus your home? To not have one place to grow up? To not have the same friends year after year? To always have to follow a plan, an itinerary? There’s no room for being spontaneous, to just say, ‘Hey Mom, can we go to the movies today?’ It’s little things like that I want more than anything. An article about my mother would just be one more straw on the camel’s back!”

  “One more what?”

  “You never heard that saying? The whole thing about the camel’s back? God, I spend too much time around old farts. That’s another problem. Just do it. Tell Adriana what she wants to hear. Tell her I’m a real freak.”

  “But you’re not!”

  “Liam, I know what I’m doing.”

  I can tell he doesn’t like the idea. “Fine. I’ll think of something, not because I want to. It won’t be easy. ’Cause you’re not, you know,” he says, leaning in and taking my hands again in his. “You’re not.”

  Let me just say, these strong hands have kept my mind awake every night this week. I can’t even tell you the places I’ve imagined them. All I know is, he’s got me crazy, like when w
e’re on the phone together. And from the way he’s eyeing my mouth, I think I’m getting something else to keep my thoughts busy for another week.

  “I’m not?” I ask, almost forgetting the last thing he said.

  “No. You’re beautiful.” He pushes a strand of hair away from my face. “And sweet as hell,” he adds, tucking it behind my ear. Holding my chin, he caresses my lip with his thumb, bringing his mouth in slowly. “And I’ll do anything you ask me, Desert McGraw.”

  Gulp.

  “If you’ll just let me kiss you.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  The memory of our kiss has been distracting me for two days. But now Marie’s back. And as soon as she walks into the house, I kidnap her and make her drive us to CocoWalk.

  “Is it true?” I ask, slurping down what’s left of my cookies ’n’ cream shake. She better say no.

  “Is what true, Desi?” Marie asks, eyelid twitching. She finishes off the last of her curly fries without as much as a glance my way. Something is up.

  Once I saw this movie about a shrink who wanted his client to confess something, so he stayed real quiet and stared the whole time, trying to make the guy nervous enough to spill the info. But Marie’s not buying it.

  “Is what true?” she asks again.

  “I heard something about you.”

  She glances around the room, looking for the waiter. “And what did you hear, my dear?”

  Don’t “my dear” me. “Marie, I’ve been waiting almost three weeks to ask you something, something I’m dying to tell my mom, but you have to give me an extremely good reason why I shouldn’t, because if I do, you’re a goner.”

  She shifts nervously in her seat, eyes searching for our missing server. “Where the hell is this guy?”

  Hell? Marie using the word hell? “Hello?” My mouth hangs open, and I shove my face into her line of view. “Did you hear me?”