So Lyrical

by Trish Cook

  I suddenly realized my “what the f—” brain wave had just made me lose the not-swearing battle, even if it was only in my head. Tough shit, I thought, I’m on a roll.

  I was wrapping my hair in a Turbie Twist when the phone rang. I dived for it before Bebe could pick up downstairs. “Hello?”

  “Hi, Trace.” It was Zander. Not that I wanted him to know I knew that, of course.

  “Who’s this?” I asked.

  “It’s Zander. Who did you think it was?”

  “Zander,” I admitted.

  “I’ve been doing a little research on your dad mystery.”

  “You have? How?”

  “Ever heard of a little thing called the Internet, Trace? It’s been around for quite a while now.”

  “Yeah, I know about it. I also know that every time I type into Ask Jeeves, ‘Is my father the guy who plays drums for Night Ranger?’ I don’t exactly get the answer I’m looking for. I’d be better off asking my Magic 8-ball.”

  “We can borrow my brother’s Ouija board if you like.”

  “It’d probably give me more information than the Internet has so far.”

  “Trace, maybe you’ve been going about it the wrong way,” Zander said. “I actually got lots of scoop just by Googling your mom’s name.”

  Now, why hadn’t I thought of that before? Probably because I assumed I already knew all there was to know about Bebe. With the exception of who impregnated her, of course.

  “So what did you find out?”

  “Number one, the Stone Pony in Asbury Park, New Jersey, is where she met the musician she models the leading men in her books after.”

  “Who’s that? Richard Marx?” He seemed to get the most consistent play in our house, and all the guys on the covers of Bebe’s books had dark, wavy hair like his.

  “Actually, the place is legendary, Trace. It’s where Springsteen got his start.”

  The hairs on the back of my neck stood up like a zillion tiny soldiers in the battle to find my dad. “No way,” I whispered.

  “Way,” said Zander. “And listen to this. Bebe said that she and whoever this guy was got into a lot of trouble together.”

  “Getting pregnant at eighteen is pretty big trouble. She didn’t name names, did she?” I was already deep into a daddy-daughter reunion fantasy: me, running up the gargantuan Rumson, New Jersey, lawn of Bruce and Patti Scialfa, who of course greeted me with open arms. Their four kids clambering at my feet, psyched to have the big sister they’d always dreamed of as part of their family . . .

  Zander’s voice popped my big ol’ bubble.

  “Nothing printable, at least. But maybe someone who still hangs around the joint knows who this guy was. Like an owner or a bouncer or a townie, maybe?”

  I opened my desk drawer and pulled out a pad of Post-its. Ticket stubs, pens, and an old bag of Cheetos tumbled out with it. Like locker, like drawer, I thought. I caught one of the pens before it hit the floor, and scribbled: (1) Check out the Stone Pony. “Got it,” I said.

  “OK, clue number two. Bebe was quoted as saying Billy Squier had a magic touch,” Zander told me. “Maybe she meant his guitar playing. And then again, maybe not.”

  I laid the pen down on my desk and spun it, watching it make circles before it rolled off to the floor. “He’s already on my list.”

  “Move him up a space or two, then,” Zander said, sounding all excited. “Hey, guess what? In a weird karmic kind of thing, Billy’s actually playing a benefit show here in a few weeks. I bought us three tickets.”

  “Three?”

  “Yeah. One for you, one for me, and one for Bebe. She’s gonna love me, don’t ya think?”

  “She will absolutely pee her pants.”

  “You both have that problem, huh?”

  “Shut up, Zander,” I said, trying to cover up my giggles by coughing. I didn’t want him knowing I actually thought the jokes he made at my expense were funny.

  “You OK?”

  “Yeah. Just swallowed the wrong way. Anything else?”

  “Wasn’t that enough?”

  “Absolutely. One good clue is better than what I had before, which was nothing.”

  “I just gave you two clues, you poor thing. Are you doing OK in math?”

  “Yes,” I told him, lying. Actually, trig was still killing me on a daily basis. It was getting so hopeless, Mr. Flagstaff had called Bebe in for an emergency meeting next week. I was shitting a brick about that one. I needed to pass trig to get into college. “Zander?”

  “What, Trace?”

  “You rock. Thanks so much for your help.”

  “Anytime. Now send me that running schedule so I know when I’ll get to see those gorgeous eyes again.”

  “You got it,” I said, feeling warm all over. “Bye.”

  The phone rang the second after I put it down. “Hello?”

  “Trace?” It was Zander again.

  “Who is this?”

  “Didn’t we already play this game?”

  “Oh, yeah. That’s right,” I said, grinning like a fool.

  “I forgot to ask you something,” Zander said.

  “What’s that?”

  “Wanna be my date at the Country Day Cotillion?”

  “Sure I do,” I said. “What is it, anyway?”

  “A fancy dance,” he said. “I think Robb’s gonna ask Brina.”

  “Cool,” I said. “Any special instructions?”

  “You’ll do fine just as long as you don’t get behind a microphone.”

  “That I can handle.”

  “And Trace?”

  “What?”

  “Sorry about my lecherous father. He was very disappointed to find you gone when he got back to the hot tub.”

  “He’s nice,” I said. “But I think I’ll stick with you.”

  “You won’t regret it.”

  After we hung up, I heard a soft knock at the door. “Nobody’s home,” I said.

  Bebe popped her head into my room anyway. “Trace.”

  “Mother.”

  My sarcasm wasn’t lost on her. “Spare me. I know I went off on you back there, and I wanted to apologize. I was just scared you were lying on the side of the road somewhere, bleeding to death.”

  “Thanks for your concern,” I said, contempt oozing out of my every pore.

  “I also wanted to say I’m sorry for the mean things I implied about your new boyfriend—”

  “Friend with potential,” I interrupted.

  “OK, friend with potential. Of course he’s not just in it for the physical thing. You’re an amazing person.” Then she added, “And you don’t need any father to tell you that.”

  I jumped right into that opening. “Thanks. But I actually would like my dad to tell me that. So if you’re willing—”

  “It has nothing to do with my willingness,” she said, shaking her head. “And everything to do with his.”

  She looked so sad and pathetic I went over and hugged her. “Maybe I could change his mind,” I whispered, resting my head on her shoulder.

  “It’s not even remotely possible.”

  “Why? Is it because he’s too famous or something?”

  Bebe pulled back from our little lovefest and eyed me curiously. “Why would you say a thing like that?”

  Two could play at this Little Miss Innocent game. “Why wouldn’t I?”

  “Trust me,” she said. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  CHAPTER 4

  On Monday, I drove to school with Bebe riding shotgun. “Tell me one more time what’s going on in trig?” she said.

  “I’m trying my best. I just don’t get it,” I told her, neglecting to mention my lack of real effort until recently, when it had finally dawned on me that I was in serious trouble. “And I’m scared I never will. I need to pass this class to get into college.”

  “Don’t worry,” she told me. “I’ll handle Mr. Flagstaff if you can handle some serious tutoring.”

  “Fro
m you?” I asked her, not believing she could do any better with it than I could. Math was not Bebe’s strong suit, and I had definitely taken after her.

  “God, no,” she said. “I can barely balance the checkbook. I signed you up for classes at the Northshore Achievement Center Tuesday and Thursday mornings before school.”

  I panicked. “That’s really gonna cut into my sleep time, Bebe.”

  “Better than screwing up your life,” she said as we approached the main entrance to school. I had to admit, she had a point.

  We walked up the steps and I tugged on the heavy oak door. It opened with a jolt, and I let Bebe go first.

  “Are you sure you remember how to get to Mr. Flagstaff’s classroom?”

  “Piece of cake,” she said, looking around like she didn’t have the first idea where to go.

  “It’s that way,” I said, pointing down the hall.

  “Yeah, right,” she said. “Catch ya later.”

  “Be cool,” I called after her as she walked out of sight. “Don’t agree to anything too outrageous.” As if twice-a-week tutoring sessions at the local underachievers’ center wasn’t outrageous enough.

  I glanced at my watch. Still half an hour to kill before first period. I walked into the cafeteria and bought a large Pepsi, hoping the caffeine jolt would help me get through some last-minute homework. I opened my trig book and triangles swam in front of my face.

  A second later, they disappeared as everything went pitch-black. That’s because someone’s freezing hands were covering my eyes. “Guess who?” Brina said from behind me.

  “Why are you here so early?” I asked, turning around to look at her.

  “Another meeting with that dreamy Mr. Perry,” she said. “I actually ran into Bebe on the way out. She needed directions.”

  “She must have gotten lost on her way to meet with Mr. Flagstaff,” I said. “And there are a thousand other guys at Northshore, Brina. Pick on someone your own age.”

  “Got your period again? That’s the third time this month,” she said, totally cracking herself up. “Oh, well, maybe this will brighten your day. It sure did mine.” She handed me a piece of paper folded into a smallish square. I unfolded it and smoothed the note on the table in front of me.

  Brina,

  I like to imagine us together

  Always envision our lives entwined

  But I can’t seem to wrap you up in mine

  Maybe you could get tied up in me

  slp

  I screamed. The entire cafeteria turned what looked like one giant head my way to see what all the commotion was about.

  “What’s wrong?” Brina asked, her eyes bigger than UFOs.

  I let a totally exaggerated shiver go down my spine and pretended I could barely hold on to the note—my hands were shaking so much. “This one’s even scarier than the last!”

  “Don’t be silly,” she said, grabbing it from me and tucking it back into her neat-as-a-frickin’-pin notebook. “It’s totally sweet.”

  I shook my head. I just never knew how Brina was going to react. “I can’t believe Sam’s still at it.”

  “How many times do I have to tell you, Trace? Sam is not slp.”

  “Sanford, then.”

  Brina gave me a menacing look, like she wanted to slug me or something. “It’s not him, either.”

  “Think what you like. But until you find the real guy, I’ve got bets on both of them.”

  “Trace, it says right here he wants to tie me up,” Brina said, pointing to the fourth line. “Sanford hasn’t even had his first kiss yet, no less moved on to kinkier pastures.”

  “You never know,” I said, though I silently agreed with her assessment. “Don’t judge a book by its cover and all that.”

  “Not buying it, Trace.”

  “Well, then, Sam seems like he might be sexually adventurous,” I said, trying to remember who his last girlfriend was. Unfortunately, all I could see in my mind was Mr. Flagstaff’s nose hair breathing down on me as he tried, unsuccessfully as ever, to get me to understand the most basic trigonometric concept.

  “Sam was too scared to answer me when I asked his middle name,” Brina said, interrupting my math-phobic thoughts. “I can’t see him all of a sudden turning into a take-charge kind of a guy in a relationship.”

  “Still,” I told her, “it’s not a deal breaker. I’m leaving Sam on the list along with Sanford, that booger-picking fool.”

  “If you say so, Trace. But it’s not either one of them. I guarantee you that.”

  I didn’t get to torture Brina any more during school, so the rest of the day was stupendously boring. When the clock finally hit three, I sprinted home. Ridiculous, ’cause I was running home to go for a run, but I just couldn’t help myself.

  I tossed my jeans, T-shirt, and boots into the corner of my room and pulled on a sports bra, tank top, thong—just in case Zander and I ended up in the hot tub again—and running shorts. Then I practically skipped the two miles to Zander’s house.

  He was waiting out front, and wrapped me into a huge hug when I got close enough. I’m only five-three. Zander is six-two. My face smushed right into his chest.

  “Hey, I missed you,” he said. From anyone else, I would have thought this was pussy-whipped drivel. From Zander, though, it seemed just about right. He was so cool, I didn’t get turned off like I usually do when guys actually treat me well.

  “You did?” I said, gasping for air. My voice was totally muffled in his shirt.

  “Most definitely,” he said, hugging me even tighter, if that was possible. Then he pulled back to look at me. “Hey, how fast did you run here? Your pulse is totally racing.”

  “That’s from you, not the running,” I admitted. My heart went bananas whenever I got the slightest bit close to him.

  “If that’s the case, maybe we should go straight to the hot tub,” he said.

  “Don’t tempt me,” I said, feeling very tempted. “I need to stick to the training schedule.”

  “Have it your way, Tracey Buzzkill. I can be patient.”

  We started our nine miles at a good clip, with at least me thinking about what was to come later. No pun intended. A few blocks down the road, Zander asked me, “So did you do any sleuthing since we last talked?”

  “Yep.” I’d actually been hard at work, banging my head against a big brick wall. And I had bumps and bruises all over my ego to prove it. Let’s just say that eighties rock icons, along with some lesser idols, don’t exactly jump at the chance at being interviewed for a “school paper.” Maybe part of being a rock star, or ex-star, is knowing how to smell an ulterior motive half a continent away.

  “So talk.”

  “I couldn’t find anyone at the Stone Pony who’s older than dirt and was around when Bebe hung out there,” I said, ticking off my feeble attempts to discover something, anything, about my dad. “The place has been totally revamped since the eighties.”

  “Moving right along.”

  “Next, for some reason, Steve Van Zandt, Nils Lofgren, Max Weinberg, Clarence Clemons, and Soozie Tyrell seem to have no interest in being featured in the Northshore Courier. Neither does Billy Squier, Loverboy dude, Night Ranger stick man, or Corey Hart’s keyboard guy, for that matter. The silence in response to my e-mails was completely deafening.”

  “No shit,” Zander said, smiling and winking at me. “Can you believe the nerve of those people?”

  “Yes, I can.” It was actually pretty funny when I thought about it—some random high school girl having the balls to ask veritable superstars (along with has-been sorta stars) for an interview. As if they were actually going to be like, “Why, certainly. I thought you’d never ask!”

  Mercifully, Zander directed the subject away from my pitiful detective work. “Did you tell Bebe about the Billy Squier show yet?”

  “Yup. She freaked out and went shopping.”

  “For a new outfit to impress him with?”

  “I guess so. She came home with
an armful of bags.”

  Zander wiped the sweat from his brow with the end of his shirt. When his face reappeared, he said, “I’m glad the concert’s on a Thursday, ’cause we have to start practicing.”

  “For what?”

  “For college. I hear Thursday is the biggest night out all week.”

  “At Stanford or everywhere?” I asked him.

  “Everywhere,” he said. “So when I’m at Stanford, where will you be?”

  “USC, UCLA, Santa Clara, or Fairfield.” One of these things is not like the others. Here’s a hint: California, California, California . . . Connecticut.

  Zander squinted at me, sizing me up. “You’re clearly a misplaced USC or UCLA girl. Forget Fairfield—wherever that is. I’ve never even heard of it.”

  “I’m only applying to make my grandfather happy. He went there about a million years ago,” I explained. My whole life, Grandpa has regaled me with squeaky-clean stories of his days at this little Catholic college. From the looks of the deluge of communications they’ve been sending me, things haven’t changed much. Everyone there still looks a hundred percent scrubbed and clean-cut—no piercings, no tats, no dangerous-looking future rock stars. Not exactly what I envisioned for my wild and crazy college years.

  After our fifth mile, running was getting totally monotonous. I tried to whip up some excitement by slapping Zander’s butt. “Ooohhhh, that thing is rock hard, baby,” I said, shaking my hand like it hurt.

  “You better believe it,” he said, grinning.

  Spotting something that looked like even more fun, I said, “Turn in here.” We ran down the steps of one of the public beaches and Zander let me go first at the water fountain. Unlike the public bathrooms, it was still in operation. Figures. Without water, I’d only get dehydrated. Without a public bathroom . . . well, we already knew the humiliating end to that story.

  I sucked in as much water as possible and then turned around and sprayed Zander in the face. He looked shocked for a second, then wiped his eyes and moved quickly on to retaliation.