So Lyrical

by Trish Cook

  “You shouldn’t have done that,” he said, racing to the fountain and sending a river that drenched my shirt. Then he tackled me in the sand and pinned my arms above my head. “Say ‘Zander is the man.’ ”

  “No way,” I said, shaking my head. “Never.”

  “Say ‘Zander rocks,’ then.”

  “Nuh-uh.”

  His hair was dripping down on me, adding a new layer of wetness. I glanced down at my chest. Headlight city. I looked like Jennifer Anis-ton in at least one scene of every Friends episode. “Say ‘I wish Zander would shut up and kiss me already.’ ”

  Now, that sounded good. “OK. I wish Zanmmmphhhh . . .”

  This was the kind of action I’d been looking for, but just as things were about to get a little too PG-13, we took a cold shower. Literally. A guy had taken a pail of lake water and thrown it at us.

  “Hey, you two. Get a room,” he said. “I’ve got my kids here!”

  “Sorry,” we mumbled, shaking sand from our hair and clothes and trying to look presentable.

  “Kids today. It’s always sex this and sex that,” the guy was muttering. “I was born twenty damn years too late.” Then he walked off down the beach, bending over every few steps to look at sea glass with his children.

  Zander took my hands in his and looked me straight in the eye. “Trace, just so you know. If we ever end up taking this any further, it won’t be on a beach or in the backseat of a car. It’ll be special. Just like you.” I tried to memorize what he’d just said, and repeated it over and over in my head so I wouldn’t ever forget his words the way I mangle lyrics.

  By the night of the concert, I was a major wreck. “Bebe, let’s say I’m sick and blow this thing off.”

  She put her arm around me. “Trace, I wouldn’t miss it for the world. I’ll be cool. No farting. No burping. No flashing Billy from the front of the stage like I used to.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Statements like that are what scare me.”

  “Just chill. Everything will be fine—you’ll see,” she said. “I even have a surprise for you guys after the concert. It’s so awesome, even I don’t believe it.” I could only imagine what kind of embarrassment awaited us.

  Bebe whistled quietly as we pulled into Zander’s driveway. “Holy crap, that’s a big house. What did you say his parents do?”

  “His dad is CEO of some kind of packaging company. And his mom is one of those typical tennis-playing, Lilly-wearing types.”

  Bebe took a deep breath, opened her door, and got out of the car. I stuck to my seat like I was superglued to it. Bebe made some rude gestures at me to get out. I still stayed put.

  “Now who’s having a problem being presentable?” she asked, collaring me like a mama cat and dragging me onto Zander’s front porch. Bebe rang the bell and Mrs. O’Brien appeared.

  “Hello, Tracey,” she greeted me. I wondered if that wineglass was permanently attached to her hand. “I thought Zander said your mom was taking the two of you out tonight.”

  “I am Tracey’s mother,” Bebe said, sticking out her hand. “Belinda Tillingham.”

  Mrs. O’Brien turned into one of those ridiculous bobble head thingies right in front of my eyes. “You’re Tracey’s mom?” she said, her head bouncing back and forth between Bebe and me. “Forgive me—it’s just that you . . . she . . .”

  “Don’t think twice about it,” Bebe said, waving away the uncomfortable moment. “I get that reaction all the time.”

  Sadly, it’s true. When Bebe and I go out together, people are forever asking if we’re sisters. I mean Bebe’s young, but get real. Not that young.

  Mrs. O’Brien took a big gulp of wine, draining the glass. “Excuse me,” she said, heading toward the kitchen. Just as I started wishing a freak tornado would suck us out of the mansion of horrors, Zander came walking down the stairs.

  “Mrs. Tillingham, it’s a pleasure to meet you,” he said in a charming but misguided attempt to endear himself to Bebe.

  “You’ve just succeeded in making me feel about a hundred years old,” Bebe said, her mouth forming a thin line that looked like a kid drew it with a supersharpened pencil. “Which I’m not. So ‘Bebe’ will do just fine.”

  “Sorry about that, Bebe,” Zander said, blushing.

  “It’s OK,” she said, still not smiling. “Just don’t do it again.”

  So far, so bad. And with Bebe’s potentially frightening surprise later, I guessed the only way things could go from here was down.

  I was wrong. The ride to the city was actually kind of fun. Zander had burned a new mix just for the occasion, putting on it his current favorite bands like Trapt and Puddle of Mudd, some original Vipers tunes, and at least one song each from the groups our suspects played in. Bebe didn’t seem the least bit suspicious, though I can’t imagine why. She couldn’t possibly think Zander would normally listen to her stuff, could she?

  Apparently she could. “Nice to hear some retro songs in your mix, Zander,” Bebe said. “Trace wouldn’t dream of admitting she likes eighties music, even though I know she must.”

  “Not,” I muttered under my breath.

  “I listen to it all the time,” Zander lied.

  “Not,” I said again, less quietly this time.

  Bebe punched me in the shoulder. “This guy’s got good taste, Trace. You should hang on to him.” And to think, just a few short weeks ago she was convinced all Zander wanted was a little play from me. It was amazing what a trio of Billy Squier tickets could do.

  We spotted a parking space just down the street from the Five Star Fajita Bar and screeched into it before anyone else could. Zander opened my door and helped me out, running around to the driver’s-side door to do the same for Bebe. Then he linked his arms through ours and we half walked, half skipped into the restaurant, belting out “Can’t Sing to Save Her Life.” I got the words right, for once.

  A spunky blond waitress came over to take our drink order immediately. “Dos Equis for me,” Bebe said.

  “Me, too,” I added, flipping out my never-fail fake ID before the waitress even had a chance to ask for it.

  “Uhhhh . . . Coke for me,” Zander conceded, undoubtedly knowing he’d be carded and shot down if he tried to get served. “I don’t have an ID,” he mumbled when Miss Energizer Bunny was out of earshot.

  “We’ll just have to do something about that, won’t we?” Bebe said, ruffling Zander’s hair like he was two years old. I gave her a menacing look. She ignored me.

  “You’d help me get one?” Zander asked, brightening.

  “Nope, not even close. Come to think of it, I don’t even approve of Trace’s,” Bebe said, shooting him down without a second thought. “But I will order you a great virgin drink.”

  Bebe motioned to the waitress, who ran right over, her ponytail gleaming under the bar lights. “Can you get a nonalcoholic Sex on the Beach for this underage hottie?”

  Zander examined his fingernails and tried to change the subject. “Know what, Bebe? We seem to have a lot in common.” Oh, come on. Did he use that same tired line every time he met a girl?

  “Well, we certainly like a lot of the same music,” Bebe said. God, she was so dense.

  “And we’re both writers,” Zander said, drowning out all the shrieking in my mind. “I’m a reporter for my school paper.”

  This was news to me. “You are?” I asked, wondering why he’d never mentioned it before.

  “Uh-huh,” he said, nodding his head. When Bebe turned around a second later to pay the waitress for our round, he shook it and mouthed, “No way.”

  After Bebe was done settling the tab, Zander got right back into character. “I was wondering if I could interview you for the Country Day Reporter. It would be quite a coup for me.”

  Bebe dug into the guacamole with an extra large chip and took a slug of beer. “Sure, why not? Fire away.”

  As if by magic, Zander produced a notebook and pen from his pocket. He even looked like the real deal. “How did you get star
ted as a writer?” With a boring, pedestrian interview question like that, Bebe would definitely figure out Zander was a fraud.

  Wrong. “I was actually more of a frustrated musician looking for a creative outlet,” Bebe said. “I had tried taking up guitar a million times, only to quit a few weeks later when I got disgusted with my bleeding, blistered fingers that couldn’t pick out anything vaguely rockin’.” She was giving Zander more information than she’d ever offered me, her only child, before. I chalked it up to beginner’s luck.

  “And then . . . ?” Zander asked, trying to lead her even farther down the path.

  “When it became clear I was never going to be a rock star, I decided the next best thing would be to meet some and write about them instead.”

  “Easier said than done, isn’t it?” Zander prodded further.

  “Not when you’ve got a friend with connections and totally unsuspecting parents,” she said. “Every time I went to a concert, I made it sound like an educational experience.”

  “Your parents bought that?” Zander asked. He looked like he couldn’t believe anyone would be that gullible. But he didn’t know my grandparents. Those two wouldn’t have thought in their wildest dreams that anything illicit could possibly go on backstage. This is how out of it my grandparents were—and still are—about anything remotely related to pop culture: Once, Bebe told Grandma and Grandpa she was going to see Molly Hatchet and Lynyrd Skynyrd—both Southern rock bands from back in the day—and they automatically assumed she was referring to the kids who were recently crowned homecoming king and queen. Bebe didn’t even try to correct them.

  “Bought it? They thought it was great I was exposing myself to the arts.”

  I leaned over and whispered to Zander, “She exposed herself, all right.”

  He kicked me under the table. “So who’d you end up meeting?” Zander asked her.

  “Only some of the greatest bands ever. Loverboy, Night Ranger, Corey Hart, Billy Squier . . .” Bebe looked flushed as she conjured up her glory days. Maybe it was just the beer. Or maybe it was remembering how she used to swing from the ceiling with all those guys. “. . . Even Bruce and the E Streeters. Now, that was one of the biggest thrills of my life.”

  Regular thrilling, I wondered, or the orgasmic kind? I jumped into the interview uninvited. “How did you do it?” I asked, wondering if she could give me some pointers on how to get backstage at the next Strokes show.

  “Like I said, my friend had connections,” she answered, sighing. “That was one crazy summer.”

  Zander went in for the kill with his next question. “So why did you quit . . . uhhh . . . groupie-ing?”

  “I was always just a music lover. Nothing more,” Bebe answered, unfazed.

  “OK, let me rephrase that last question,” Zander said, not so easily deterred. “When did you quit being a music lover?”

  “Never have, never will.” Jeez, talk about banging your head against a brick wall.

  Still, Zander wasn’t quite ready to quit yet. “Then why did you stop following your favorite bands?”

  “My friend and I had a falling-out. It just didn’t seem fun after that,” she said, finally giving him an inch. “I guess being very obviously pregnant had something to do with it, too.”

  “How did that one go over with your gullible parents?” Zander asked.

  “They were pretty confused, to say the least, but they supported my decision. And then they shipped me off to Great-aunt Betty’s, here in Illinois,” Bebe said. “Where I waited for the light of my life to come along.”

  That sounded promising. Like she was waiting for my dad—the light of her life—to come after her and say he wanted us to be family after all. “And who was that?” I asked Bebe, kicking Zander under the table.

  “You, of course, Trace. Who did you think I was gonna say, David Lee Roth? I mean, he’s lots of fun, but hardly in the light-of-my-life category.” Bebe was still laughing when she got up and excused herself to go to the ladies’ room a minute later.

  That left me and Zander, who was just sitting there with a shit-eating grin on his face. “Why are you so happy?” I asked him. “We haven’t even gotten a decent lead yet.”

  “I just can’t believe your mom knows the guys from Van Halen.”

  “She doesn’t,” I said, watching his bubble burst. “I hate to tell you this, but she met David after he went solo.”

  Bebe got back just as the waitress plunked our burritos down on the table. She held up her beer and made a toast. “Here’s to a great night and a great concert!”

  Zander and I raised our drinks and we all clinked glasses. His pink, girlie concoction slopped all over the place.

  CHAPTER 5

  Even I had to admit, Billy put on a pretty good show. He opened with “The Stroke”—the same song we’d played Name That Tune with when I was making Zander guess about all the Dad suspects. I leaned over and said, “Recognize it now?”

  He shook his head. “Nope. This is his most famous song?”

  “Yup.”

  “Then what’s he going to play for an encore?”

  “Good question.” I glanced over at Bebe, who had her head thrown back and was singing every word to every song loud enough that people five rows ahead of us could hear her. I slumped down in my seat and pretended I’d never seen her before in my life.

  After a couple more riff-laden rock songs, Billy sat down on a stool in the middle of the stage and picked up an acoustic guitar. Bebe grabbed her purse and started rummaging around in it frantically. She looked like she was about to cry.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked her.

  “I can’t find my lighter!”

  “Since when do you smoke?”

  “Since never,” she said. “Oh, here it is. Thank God.” She pulled a yellow Bic from her bag, lit it, and started waving her arm back and forth to the music. This would have been completely mortifying if every other thirty- and forty-something woman in the audience hadn’t been doing the same thing.

  Bebe closed her eyes—amazing, since she hadn’t taken them off Billy since he took the stage—and belted out the words to this song even louder than the ones that came before it. The final dramatic line was something about Billy trying to find his way, and if he did, he would stay with whomever the song was about forever.

  “I wish he’d stayed with me,” Bebe whispered in my ear during an instrumental. “Too bad. I’m sure it would have been incredible.” Then she went back to her flame-waving, ballad-warbling rapture.

  OK, I thought hysterically, was she trying to tell me something? Was this her way of saying Billy was really my dad? I kicked Zander, who had fallen asleep. His eyes flew open. “What?” he said, rubbing his ankle.

  “Billy Squier,” I hyperventilated, pointing at the stage.

  “I know. I bought the tickets, remember? Now let me get some rest.”

  “No,” I said. “I think he’s the one.” Bebe’s last comment spilled out of my mouth like it was one very long word: “I wishhedstayedwithmetoobadimsureitwouldhavebeenincredible.”

  “How are we going to find out?” Zander asked, wide-awake now.

  “I don’t know!” I said, totally freaking out.

  “Breathe,” Zander said, grabbing me by the shoulders. “You can do it. Bebe’s already halfway down memory lane. You just have to make her go all the way.”

  “That’s what got her into this mess,” I said, patting myself on the back for the quick comeback. Then I realized the mess I was referring to was me. Oh, well. Maybe Zander hadn’t picked up on it.

  “You’re not a mess,” he said, kissing my cheek. “You’re awesome.” OK, so he had picked up on it. But the kiss and the compliment were worth tripping over my tongue for.

  “Thanks,” I told him.

  Billy closed the show with “In the Dark.” We were all on our feet and dancing by this point, even Zander. As the last note faded, the entire stage went pitch-black. Even if it was a little overblown, I went wild, scre
aming and whistling for Billy like he was actually one of my guys, not Bebe’s. Bebe started digging around in her purse again, and refused to believe the show was over until the lights came on and middle-aged faces started streaming up the aisles.

  “No encore, huh? I guess I won’t be needing this after all,” Bebe said, tossing the lighter back in her bag. “Follow me, guys.”

  She led us down the aisle in the opposite direction of everybody else. We fought our way against traffic until we came to a door marked EMPLOYEES ONLY. Bebe knocked on it three times. She paused, then knocked three times more. Nothing happened.

  “Spike! Open this door right now, you asshole!” Bebe finally yelled.

  A big, tattooed dude peered out the door, nearly doubled over with laughter. “Just like the old days, huh, Bliss?”

  Bliss? Did he have Bebe confused with someone else? “Who’s Bliss?” I asked her.

  “Just a stupid nickname,” she said, waving away my question with the flick of her wrist. “Spike used to work security for Survivor. Liked to give me a hard time back then, too.”

  Bebe turned her attention back to Spike. “Got me again,” she said, punching him in his jiggly Santa Claus belly. Spike gathered Bebe in his massive arms and twirled her around the room. Zander and I stood pinned in the corner behind them, not sure what to do.

  I cleared my throat. “Aren’t you going to introduce us to your friends, Bebe?”

  “I just did,” she said.

  “What about Billy and the band?”

  “I . . . I . . . can’t.” Bebe stared at the floor and shifted her weight from foot to foot.

  “Why not?” Zander asked.

  “I’m too scared,” she finally admitted.

  “You don’t have to be afraid,” Zander said, draping his arm over her shoulder. “I’m sure he’ll be happy to see you and Trace again.”

  “What?” Bebe asked, looking at Zander like he had two heads. “Who will be happy to see us again?”

  “You don’t have to put up a front with us anymore, Bebe,” Zander told her. “It’s OK. We know the truth.”