Backstage Pass

by Gaby Triana

  “Nothing. He thinks I’m unlikable.”

  “No!” Her hand flies up to her mouth. She’s also picked up the art of sarcasm from somewhere.

  “All right, just forget you all,” I say, starting into class. If this is how my friends are gonna treat me…

  “Desert, look, Liam had a bad night last night, okay? Did you even ask him about it?”

  No. Not really. The thought didn’t even cross my mind. Pausing at the door, I shake my head. “That doesn’t give him an excuse to—”

  Becca cuts me off. “You’re incredible, you know that? His dad started a drinking binge a few days ago that ended with him acting like king of the goddamn universe last night, cursing, screaming at everybody, breaking things. And you know Liam, he watched it all happen without a word. So he’s no doubt looking forward to seeing you, and all you give him is crap?”

  Who is she, all high-and-mighty Protector of the Brotherhood? What the hell? You know, who needs this garbage? But then, I remember.

  I do. I need this garbage.

  I need Liam, and I need Adriana, and I better go apologize. Not just because of the article, but hell, because Liam’s a great guy. Fine, I’ve been stupid.

  Ms. Smigla’s talking to a student, a quiet argument about a missing homework assignment. She could easily take all morning convincing the kid of the relevance of cinquains to our lives. I take advantage at Liam’s desk.

  “Hey, sorry,” I say stupidly.

  He jiggles his pen, the point making little dots in one spot on his paper. “It’s all right.” Without looking up.

  “Liam?” I wait for his eyes to meet mine. “I’m sorry. Seriously. I didn’t know you had a bad night. I’m sorry I didn’t even ask.”

  “You know, you didn’t even let me finish.”

  “Sorry!” How many times does he want me to say it?

  “What I was going to say out there was the fact that the words you wrote that day—pleading, crying, trying to connect, those—they struck me.”

  They struck him? Okay. “Why? They were just about fans at a concert.”

  His eyes scan my face. Those eyes with the ability to make my stomach leap. “Were they?”

  I think about this. For about two seconds. “Okay, Dr. Freud, whatever. Liam, don’t read into it. They were just words.” Yeah, okay. I don’t ever write just words. I always choose them carefully. Always.

  “If you say so. Regardless of what you think they meant, they made me feel something…for you. That power came to you easily.”

  “Power?” Has he been talking to J. C. and the New Age fairies who follow him around?

  “Yes, that was the whole point of the assignment, remember? To create a powerful message? You did it easily, and what’s more, you even did it so that we each took different meanings from it. That’s good writing. I liked that about you.”

  Oh. “Is that a good enough reason?”

  I guess so. I nod, smiling. “Thanks, Liam.”

  “And something else,” he says.

  “What?”

  “You have a sweet ass.”

  After school Liam and I kiss, deep and long. I’m really glad we didn’t get into a full-blown fight. When he finally leaves, he winks my way as his brother pulls out of the parking lot. Me, I really don’t feel like going home today. There’s some weird vibes going on over there with my dad, Mom, Marie, and everything. I don’t really want to be a part of it.

  So I hang out by the front of the school, near the bus stop. Underneath a big ficus tree I sit. People I don’t even know walk by saying hi to me, waving politely, hoping I’ll say hi, then trying to control their enthusiasm if I do. I feel famous, even though I’m not. I’m not! I haven’t done anything special, ever!

  Suddenly Jessie, the hoochie-mama, is next to me, taking the liberty to sit for a little chat, like she’s known me her whole life.

  “Desert, what’s up?”

  Definitely not that hair. Or those chains. “Hey, Jessie.” I almost called her Hooch for a second there.

  “Who you waiting for?” She smacks her gum.

  “Nobody in particular. Becca left already?”

  “What? Oh, Becca. Yeah, said she had to go home. Probably to play guitar. Weird, right?”

  “No. Why would that be weird?” Good, I’m glad I said it.

  “I dunno. All that guitar playing she does, like she’s gonna make it big or famous or something like that, right?”

  Again, no. Let’s cut to the chase. “Can I help you with something?”

  She smiles, then slides her tongue across her lower lip. Gross. “Oye…”

  And you thought I was stereotyping.

  “Listen, is there any way possible, you know, that maybe some of my friends and me, we could, I dunno, meet your dad in person?”

  Isn’t this lovely.

  “Why?” I ask.

  Her eyebrows shoot up. “Why?”

  “Yes, why? It’s a legitimate question, no?”

  Her face suggests I’m in need of some serious adjustments. “Because your dad’s Flesh, right?”

  Oh, my God! She’s right! I should have known that!

  “Look. Jessie. I don’t really bring people home to meet my dad. He doesn’t like it. He’s actually very…shy.”

  “Really?” Her head tilts, totally not what she was expecting.

  “Yeah. People think he’s all cool, you know rock ’n’ roll and beat the system man, all that crap, but he’s really into bubble baths.”

  “’Scuse me?” Any sexual attraction she had for the guy is now busted. Good, one less person he needs yearning for him.

  “I know. It’s shocking.”

  She stares at me, through me. Anyone home?

  “And cats,” I add.

  “Cats?”

  “I know. Please don’t tell anyone, okay? It would be so humiliating if everyone found out.”

  Please tell everyone. Everyone you meet, so they’ll leave me the hell alone.

  I wander the Grove for a while before going home. Finally, around four, I slip the key into the door, amble to our great room, and find my dad—my workaholic dad who stops at nothing, sitting on the couch, fighting tears.

  Chapter Nineteen

  I’ve never seen him on the verge like this. On the verge of being pissed, yes. On the verge of losing patience, sure. But not on the verge of tears.

  “Dad? What happened?”

  Silence. Biting of his lip, squeezing a couch pillow. He shakes his head like he wants to tell me, like he needs someone to listen, but he can’t. He just can’t. I’m not the right person.

  But I want him to talk to me. I mean, I know I’m not Ryan or Marie, but he can, if he’ll just give me a chance. This isn’t like him, and honestly, it’s freaking me out. My dad is the rock in this family. The stable one. If he loses it, who do I have to hold on to?

  “Want a Coke?” I ask. If he agrees to one, then maybe he wants me around.

  He nods. Good.

  I walk into the kitchen and notice a glass in the sink. Broken. And next to it on the counter, a plate. Smashed. My stomach rolls. Something happened. Did Marie tell them something? Did she give up and come clean? At this point, it’s either that or the band folded.

  “Careful in the kitchen,” Dad says, his voice weak and tired. He hadn’t spoken yet. Until now, to warn me. Funny, no matter what’s going on, my dad finds his sanity long enough to make sure I stay out of danger. “Don’t cut yourself.”

  I open the fridge and pull out two cans of soda. One with lemon, for Dad. I return to the great room, noticing the cobwebs in the vaulted corner of the ceiling. And a box, still unopened from the move, next to the entertainment center. Maybe it’s time we hired help around here. It’s been two months already. I hand Dad the can, then sit on the couch.

  He doesn’t ask me to leave. Instead he pulls in his feet to sit cross-legged on the couch. He shoves a cushion into the open space and leans into it. Then he reaches over and sets the soda can, still u
nopened, down on the coffee table. His fingers begin pulling lint off the cushion.

  “Girly,” he says, clearing his throat.

  “Yeah, Dad?”

  “I don’t know if you realize”—he pauses, gathering his words—“but things have been a little tense around here.”

  “Tense?” I fake innocence, tilting my head like a puppy hearing a high-pitched whistle.

  He sighs. Maybe I should be trying to make this easier, not harder on him.

  “Okay,” I say. “I’ve noticed a little. Are you all right? Is it the recording? How’s that coming along?”

  “It’s not working, Desert. Well, maybe I shouldn’t say that. Some things are working, but some aren’t. We made a mistake by bringing in new personnel.” His thumb and forefinger massage the muscles beneath his eyebrows, the surefire sign of my dad under stress.

  New personnel. Faith, he means.

  “Bad business move,” he goes on. “But it’s not just that. That’s fixable.”

  Fixable. Okay, so what’s not fixable? I say nothing, knowing my dad needs no prompting. If he wants to speak, he will.

  His head drops into his hands. His body shudders. This is bad. Whatever it is. And you know what? I don’t care what’s going on. Whatever it is, we’ll do something about it. We can get through this. All I know is this is killing him—and me.

  Just please, God, don’t let it be cancer or death or something. Oh, God, I just thought of that. No, please! My hands start shaking.

  I set my drink on the coffee table, leap over to him, and wrap my arms around his neck. My head on his shoulder. Immediately I feel his body leaning into me, needing me, drawing strength. I’ve never seen him like this. He seems so…frail.

  I can’t take this. My face swells, and suddenly I’m crying too, realizing how amazing human beings are, that empathy can manifest itself physically. Like a pregnant woman’s husband, feeling pains and discomfort on her behalf. I can feel my dad’s pain.

  “Girly,” he says again, sobbing.

  Suddenly I’m all too aware that he was alone in the house when I came home. No Faith prancing around. No Marie on the phone. No Mom. “Dad?” A cruel image of an ambulance, a car smashed, a stretcher, and spattered blood flashes through my head, and I find myself sweating. “Where’s Mom?”

  He sobs some more.

  “Dad? Stop it, you’re scaring me!” I shout.

  At this he stops and looks up, expression mixed of guilt and surprise. “Oh, honey, I’m so sorry. She’s fine. She’s fine. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  Jesus! Thank you!

  “She’s just gone.” He waves his palm, like he’s lost control of the situation.

  “Where?” I ask, feeling my stomach contract.

  “I don’t know. She left, didn’t say where she was going. She’s upset.”

  “Upset at what?” It was Marie! Marie admitted the truth. But why would she? So early in the game? The band’s not even split yet. Or are they?

  “At me,” he says into the cushion, then looks directly into my eyes. “At me.”

  At him? But I don’t get it. “Dad?” I question, searching his face, because he’s managed to create a wide range of emotions within me, without telling me what the hell’s happening.

  “Girly, your mother’s mad because I haven’t exactly been telling her the truth. I’ve been keeping something from her, something that’s been eating away at me. Something”—he pauses—“I did.”

  “And that would be?” I ask, accusing. This is not sounding good. Not good at all.

  “Jesus,” he blurts, forcing a weak smile at me. “I didn’t think of how the second woman I love more than anything would take this.” He exhales deeply, shaking his head again.

  “Take what, Dad? How should I even know how I’m supposed to take something, if you won’t even tell me what it is?”

  Eyes down, he says, “I’ve cheated on your mother, Des.”

  “What?”

  Cheated on your mother. Cheated. Great. This is just super. Suddenly the voices of hundreds of people over the years—interviewers, disc jockeys, schoolmates, friends, enemies—talking about my father, his image, the rock star, the glamour, the women, the sex, the private rooms, the abundance of it all, whoosh into my mind. I never wanted to believe it. Any of it. I just didn’t see it. He’s always been so strong, so resilient, so perfect. So perfect.

  “But you love Mom!” I yell. “Don’t you? This doesn’t make sense! With who, Dad?”

  Why is he doing this? My stomach squeezes tighter.

  “Doesn’t matter. It’s between me and your mom. I only wanted you to know, so you wouldn’t be left in the dark. Especially now that she’s gone.”

  My mother can’t be gone. She wouldn’t leave me! Why does he keep saying that?

  “I can’t believe this. How could you do this? Why? Why, Dad?”

  Stupid question. Why? Because his life has been half-spent surrounded by beautiful women, young women, girls only slightly older than me, women eager and willing to do anything he wants, no strings attached. Every man’s fantasy. A bevy of Venusian angels falling at his feet. And he’s a man, right? No man could resist that…right?

  I don’t know. My dad’s not just any man.

  “Desert, it was a mistake. It hasn’t been going on for a long time. Whatever anybody out there may tell you, whatever you may hear. I do love your mom, Des. I’ve always loved her.” He pauses, taking my hands, kneading. “This doesn’t change that. I know that sounds absurd. We don’t want to hurt the ones we love, but sometimes it just happens.”

  It just happens. Yeah, sure, okay. I jerk my hands out of his.

  “No, you know what? It doesn’t just happen!” I bark, mostly because I can’t think of anything else. This is a shock, to say the freakin’ least. He may be a man, but I think he’s also completely capable of a little self-control. He’s not a sheep or a monkey, for Christ’s sake. I don’t care who he is! “You hurt Mom,” I shout, finger pointing then turning it right around, “you hurt me!” I take off toward the stairs. There’s really nothing left to say.

  “Desert,” he calls pitifully. No doubt he feels like shit. Not sure if that’s a good thing. I mean, I do love him.

  A thought crosses my mind, standing there, hand clutching the railing. I turn around and ask, “What’s gonna happen? Are you and Mom gonna split up? ’Cause you know what? That’d be just great! Then my life really would be just like everyone else’s! Another child of divorced parents. Hey, I’d be in the majority!”

  “I don’t know what’s going to happen,” he says, lowering his head again. “First I need her to come home, so we can talk about it.”

  This is just fantastic. All I need. Here I thought the only real thing going for me was the fact that my parents were still together, still going strong, while all around me everyone else’s parents were going separate ways. Here I’ve been, all these years, defending him against the skeptics, those who just love to rub it in my face that my dad was fallible, that he had to be, because of his very profession. And I’d defended him. I’d defended him!

  I guess Becca was right. He was godlike. Even in my eyes.

  I guess we were wrong.

  Chapter Twenty

  Chasms widen, mountains quake

  Rumbling stones upturn

  Boulders crash to the valley below

  Waters churn, fires burn

  Comets gaining steadily

  On a fatal path

  To blast this rock straight into hell

  We suffer unending wrath

  From: saharagobi@crossfire.com

  To: “Brianna Roman”

  Subject: you suck

  i have no freakin’ clue why I’m still writing to u. did u see marie when she went to visit? did she tell you anything interesting? do u even know what’s going on over here? do you care? are you even alive? forget u

  D

  Chapter Twenty-One

  I called Liam last night after the won
derful news about my father’s infidelity. He listened, for a good three hours, to my theories about men. “Sex. That’s what it’s ultimately about, isn’t it?” I had asked.

  “Not necessarily,” he had replied. “Don’t simplify us like that.”

  But when I enter Liam’s weekend room, the one at his dad’s house, there’s artwork highlighting the female form everywhere. Nothing tasteless. Not to me, anyway. Just shapes, silhouettes, copies of work, created in oil, pastels, mosaic tiles, pencil, computer-generated drawings, photos. Everything framed and matted.

  “Yes, I can see how you didn’t want me simplifying your existence here on earth,” I say, eyeing a charcoal drawing of a woman’s bare back, hair swept up, the nape of her neck, beautiful.

  “Well, you said it like men are dogs, like, all they care about is sex. And that’s not always true. I’m sure some guys are like that, but not all of them.”

  He must be joking.

  “Liam, puh-leez. This isn’t news to the world. It may be hard for you to hear, because it sounds so inhuman, but it’s the truth, and nothing could be more human. It’s always about sex. Why deny it? Don’t worry, I understand.”

  But Liam looks wounded. “You insult me, Desert. You insult me.” Palm at his chest, mock shock.

  But I got him. I know I did. He’s just doing the politically correct guy thing to do. Denying it.

  “Wanna hear why I’m right?” I ask. I love this.

  “Please enlighten me, O Informed One,” he says, rolling his eyes.

  I shoot him a hard stare. “Okay, it’s basic biology. Tell me, when are men fertile?”

  “What?” Liam retracts, looking like he’d rather be anywhere than here at this point.

  “Just answer me.”

  “I don’t know! Whenever?”

  “Exactly. Whenever. Men are biologically designed to be fertile at any point at any given time. Day or night. Rain or shine. That’s why they’re always horny.”

  “Damn!” Liam says, looking anywhere but at me.