So Lyrical

by Trish Cook

  “You don’t?” Brina said, looking worried.

  “Nope. And the longer you wait, the more painful it’s gonna be,” I told her. “If you have to do it, do it quick. Like pulling off a Band-Aid.”

  “That’s the only way?”

  “Well, there is one other option you might consider.”

  “Anything would be better than your Band-Aid suggestion.”

  “How about giving the guy a chance?”

  “Trace, give it up already. I just don’t see him like that,” she said, tears really flowing now. “This whole trip has been nothing but a downer. I just want to go home.”

  I handed Brina a wilted tissue I found at the bottom of my backpack. “You’re just nervous about your interview,” I told her, patting her shoulder. “Give it your best shot. Then we’ll go home.”

  She blew her nose into it with a great honk. “No.”

  “You have to.”

  Sully and Brad came out of the coffee shop carrying four lattes and various accoutrements—spoons, sugar packets, and stirrers. “Friends?” Sully asked Brina as he passed her a grande latte.

  “Friends,” she said, drying her eyes. “Just friends.”

  We doctored up our drinks and got back in the car. “What was that drama all about?” Mrs. Maldonati asked.

  “Nothing,” Brina, Brad, and I said at the same time.

  “Gas,” Sully said simultaneously, and we all cracked up.

  “Don’t you dare get anything on that dress,” Mrs. Maldonati warned Brina. “It cost an arm and a leg.”

  “It’s so ugly it shouldn’t have cost more than a fingernail,” Brina said. Mrs. Maldonati ignored her and kept on driving.

  A few minutes later, we were tooling up the freeway. The caffeine must’ve kicked in on us kids, because we were all squirming and giggling and generally making a nuisance of ourselves. “Look, I made a tooth spoon xylophone,” I told everyone, dragging it across my teeth. It sounded really, really annoying. I liked it.

  “Guess who I am?” Brad asked, scraping his spoon on his teeth in rhythmic bursts. “Tooth spoon bass.”

  “I’ll be tooth spoon drums,” said Sully, and tapped two spoons in his mouth at once.

  “I think I’ll be—” Before Brina could join the band, Mrs. M. swerved onto the shoulder and stopped the car.

  “Give me those spoons this instant,” she screamed.

  We reluctantly broke up and handed our spoons to Mrs. Maldonati, who rolled down the window and chucked them out onto the freeway. “Good riddance,” she muttered. “My nerves are shot.”

  We rode in silence until I saw a sign for the Wilshire Boulevard exit—the place where Zander had told me to keep my eyes peeled. A second later, I sucked in my breath, unable to speak. I hit Brina and pointed out the window.

  “What?” she said.

  No words seemed to want to leave the comfort of my mouth, so I hit her and pointed again.

  “Holy shi—” Brina gasped.

  Mrs. M. turned around and smacked Brina on the head before she could finish the obscenity. “Sabrina Maria Maldonati!”

  I opened my window and stuck my head out like a dog, trying to get a better look at the billboard we were whizzing by. It was a bigger—actually, a humongous—version of the milk carton missing-persons ad. Bebe, Bruce, and the Boss-alike were smiling at one another and all of LA while the copy pleaded for information about my dad.

  I blinked my eyes and it was gone, lying behind us on the highway.

  “I cannot believe Zander did that for you,” Brina said, a huge smile on her face. “That was the nicest thing I’ve ever seen.”

  “I don’t know whether to hug him or beat him,” I said. “If Bebe gets wind of this, I am dead meat.”

  “Does she have a lot of friends out this way?” Brina asked.

  “Some,” I said.

  “Enough chatter, girls. Here’s the plan,” Mrs. Maldonati said. “Tracey, Sullivan, and Bradley, I’m going to let you off at UCLA’s main entrance. Boys, see that you meet the soccer coach at eleven o’clock like you’re supposed to. Tracey, I trust you can keep yourself amused. I’ll be back to pick you all up by three. Don’t be late—we have a plane to catch.”

  I looked over at Brina. “Sullivan?” I whispered. “Is she going to start calling me Tillingham next?”

  “Probably,” Brina said, twirling a finger around her head. “She’s nuts.”

  “Good luck,” I said to Brina as I got out of the car. “Knock St. Ass Breath’s socks off.”

  “I’ll try,” she said, looking a little pale. “Have fun.”

  “See ya, Trace,” Sully waved as the boys took off for the sports complex. “We’ll meet you back here this afternoon.”

  I walked around aimlessly for a while, just taking in the palm trees, beautiful architecture, and stunningly gorgeous student body. The only problem was, I felt like Bebe in Winnetka. Pale, brunet, and petite didn’t quite seem to fit in here at tan, blond, leggy land. I rubbed my neck and felt a hunch coming on.

  I decided a tour might help me get a broader perspective on the campus, so I made my way to the admissions building. Inside, there was a crowd of people milling about. I tacked myself on to the end of it. “Follow me,” a willowy, golden-maned girl said with all the enthusiasm of a funeral director.

  I tapped the kid next to me on the shoulder. “She’s really making this exciting, isn’t she?” I whispered.

  “Shhh! I’m trying to listen.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Sorry.”

  I detached myself from the group in search of my own personal guide—someone along the lines of Caitlin and Pat at Fairfield—so I could experience the real UCLA. The one where I’d blend. But after a few attempts at being friendly, I gave up hope. Everyone seemed too busy or just plain uninterested in getting me psyched about coming to their school. Don’t get me wrong—people were polite, almost to a fault. They’d listen and nod, then say, “I’d love to, but I’ve gotta run, maybe some other time,” and take off. Maybe if my people called their people, I could have found someone willing to take me under their wing.

  Dejected, I walked into an Internet café. I found an empty seat, ordered a Coke, and pulled up my e-mail. I deleted all the usual junk until I came to a message that made my heart jump up into my throat.

  Subject line: Mac Donohue

  I think I may be able to help you find the person you’re looking for. If I

  can reach him, what should I say it was that Bruce lost that summer?

  All the best,

  Shamus

  I picked up my Coke and spilled half of it on my pants—my hands were shaking so badly. I thought for a moment and then typed back:

  Shamus,

  I wouldn’t want to spoil the surprise via e-mail. Trust me, it’s pretty cool.

  So if you can hook me up directly with Mac, I’d greatly appreciate it.

  Trace

  I hit SEND as a guy with a carefully crafted goatee and unwrinkled khakis sat down next to me. “What year are you in?” he asked me.

  “Senior,” I said, not really lying. After all, I was a senior in high school.

  “Oh, great, you’re of age,” he said, shoving his business card into my hand. “Listen, I’m recruiting girls to dance at bachelor parties. Nothing illegal, just some good clean girl-on-girl fun and great money. What do you say?”

  “I say, get away from me, loser.”

  “Actresses,” he muttered, moving on to another live one. “You all think you’re too good for the gig.”

  Three o’clock can’t get here fast enough, I thought. I spent the next few hours daydreaming about meeting my dad. I also spent quite a bit of time mulling over what I was going to say to Bebe if she found out about the milk cartons and the billboard.

  I rehearsed different scenarios in my head. The one where I came in and she was crying went like this: “Bebe, I am so sorry. I didn’t mean for you to get hurt. I had no idea Zander would go this far.” If she was angry,
I thought I might say, “Bebe, if you had just been honest with me from the beginning, I wouldn’t have been forced to go to this extent to find my dad. Now why don’t you just come clean and we’ll be done with it?” The one where she had committed suicide over the whole thing was the worst. In that case, I figured I’d simply have to throw myself over her dead body and beg for her and God’s forgiveness.

  Finally, my day at UCLA was over. I spotted Mrs. Maldonati’s rental car and hopped in. The boys joined us a minute later.

  “How’d it all go, gang?” Mrs. Maldonati wanted to know.

  “It was awesome,” Brad said, all excited. “Chicks, chicks, and more hot chicks.”

  “Bradley, that’s not what I meant and you know it.”

  Brad laughed. “The soccer program was pretty good, too.”

  “Did you wow them?” I asked Brina.

  “Oh, Trace, I just loved it,” she said, positively glowing. For once, Mrs. Maldonati was beaming with pride at her. “And I think I aced the interview.”

  “That’s great,” I said. “I knew you could do it.”

  “You seem kind of freaked-out,” Brina said. “Are you still worried about that foot-in-the-mouth thing with Zander?”

  “No, I just got an unexpected e-mail,” I told her. “Plus, UCLA just wasn’t what I expected.”

  “It was all I expected and more,” said Sully. “Beautiful campus, awesome sports program, and did we mention the chicks yet?”

  “Poor Brenda,” said Brina. “She’s about to lose you to a California girl, isn’t she?”

  Sully shrugged. “We’re kind of not seeing each other anymore.”

  “Oh, really?” Brina said.

  “Really. So, do you think your boyfriend is gonna love the idea of you going to an all-girls Catholic school?” Sully asked, tossing the ball back in her court.

  “Even though it sounds like every guy’s fantasy, it wasn’t anything like what you’re thinking,” she said, laughing. “Anyway, I don’t have a boyfriend right now.”

  Sully eyed her. “What happened to your secret-love-note man?”

  Brina made a big show of yawning. “I’m over him,” she said. “He’s a lot of yabba dabba and not a lot of do.” I guessed this was where the letting-Sully-down-semieasy part was going to come into play.

  I snapped back into reality. “What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked her.

  “It means I’m over slp. He’s all talk and no action. Besides,” she said, nudging me in the ribs, “there was too much of an age difference between us.”

  Sully stared at Brina for a second, and then closed his eyes and pretended to sleep. Brina snuggled into my shoulder and did the same. And I felt about as alone as I ever have in my whole entire life.

  That all-alone-in-the-world feeling lasted just until we pulled onto my street. Camera crews littered the lawn. Spotlights were strategically pointed at the front door. And all my neighbors were lined up on the sidewalk, curious to find out who died or won the lottery or whatever.

  “Just what is going on here?” said Mrs. M., almost to herself.

  “I think Zander’s plan is working,” Brina said, pointing out the window.

  “Working?” I said. I couldn’t figure out how Brina thought this scene was anything but bad. “All this means is I won’t be able to go out again until I’m thirty.”

  “No, what it means is that your dad won’t be able to stay a mystery much longer,” she shot back. “Not with all these reporters hot on his trail.”

  Brina had a point. But at that moment, all I could concentrate on was getting into my house without the wolves tearing at my throat. I’d had enough national TV exposure for one lifetime already.

  “Would you like me to walk you inside, Tracey?” Mrs. Maldonati asked as she pulled into a neighbor’s driveway. Ours was full, with the Beetle, Mr. Steve’s Mini Cooper, and a few television vans.

  “Want me to act as a decoy?” Brina asked almost at the same time. I could see she still hadn’t gotten over her TRL appearance just yet. Now she was looking for a permanent spot as an evening entertainment news reporter.

  “I’ll take it from here,” I said, shaking my head. “Thanks, though.”

  I grabbed my gear, hopped over the neighbor’s fence, and sneaked into the backyard unnoticed. My key slid into the lock silently, and I pushed the door open and tiptoed in. Somehow, I thought I could put off the inevitable—a showdown with Bebe—if I just stayed out of her way for the next year or so. I closed the door behind me until I heard the lock click.

  “Don’t move a muscle, bucko!” Bebe screamed as she flicked on the lights. “I’m armed and dangerous!”

  I had to laugh. The only thing she was carrying was a bag of potato chips. What was she planning to do, salt some poor guy to death?

  “Nice weapon,” I said, nodding at the munchies. “Sorry I scared you.”

  “You and your boyfriend have a lot more than that to be sorry for,” she said, ignoring my joke. “Like ruining my life.”

  I tried to soften her up. “You’re way too tough to have a little man-hunt spoil your entire existence.”

  “Good try, Trace,” Bebe said, gesturing toward the front lawn. “Did you see all those vultures out there?”

  “At least your agent must be happy,” I said, trying to make lemonade out of the rather lemony situation. “It’s good publicity, right?”

  “It’s a juicy story, and people can’t get enough of it,” Bebe said, flopping down into the overstuffed chair in the living room. “Unfortunately, it makes me look like a complete idiot, not to mention a total fraud. Who ever heard of a romance novelist who can’t even figure out her own love life?”

  “Your love life isn’t a mess,” I said. “Mr. Steve’s here, isn’t he?”

  “Yeah, but the reporters don’t know that,” she said. “All they want to know about is Bliss and the Boss-alike.”

  “I wasn’t trying to humiliate you,” I told her. “Just trying to find him.”

  “Yeah, and now everyone else is, too,” she said. Bebe clicked on TiVo and replayed Entertainment Tonight. Pat O’Brien appeared on-screen, saying:Now, here’s a new twist to an age-old story. Boy meets girl,

  boy gets girl pregnant, boy takes off—and eighteen years

  later their daughter launches a multimedia campaign to

  find boy. This is the situation Belinda Tillingham, author

  of more than ten best-selling rock-and-roll romance novels,

  finds herself in these days. Belinda and her mystery beau

  split up before daughter, Tracey Rosalita, was born. Now

  Tracey is mounting her own search to find Daddy dearest.

  Neither Mom nor daughter was available for comment, but

  here’s a look at Tracey’s efforts so far.

  ET went into a little montage then, showing first the milk carton, then my shout-out on TRL, then the billboard on the freeway, and finally a shot from our front lawn. “If you know anything about Mac the mystery man, you’re being asked to call this number.” Pat reeled off Zander’s toll-free one.

  Bebe pressed STOP and looked at me. “Ready to give up yet?”

  I shrugged and looked at my feet. “Not really.”

  “You might as well,” Bebe said, flicking off the light. “If all these reporters can’t find your dad, no one can.” She walked out of the room, leaving me in total darkness.

  Bebe and I spent the next few days playing dodge-the-TV-crews. We screened all our calls, because nearly every one was a request for an interview, a psychic claiming to know where my dad was, or a private detective looking to take on the case.

  The whole situation had gotten so out of control, Bebe almost started to think it was funny. “Pretty soon they’re going to ask me to be center square.”

  “They already did,” I told her.

  “Yeah, right.”

  I motioned toward the phone. “Check the answering machine if you don’t believe me.”

  Bebe w
alked over and pressed PLAY. Sure enough, her agent was running down a long list of potential media opportunities—everything from a guest appearance on Howard Stern to Conan to any number of game shows, including Hollywood Squares.

  “He’s got to be kidding,” Bebe said. “I thought that went off the air years ago.”

  “I think you should go for it, Bebe,” I said. “Why not enjoy your notoriety? Play it up huge and get that next book out there as fast as you can. It’s sure to take the charts by storm.”

  “Why should I take career advice from you?” Bebe asked, hands on her hips. “I shouldn’t even be talking to you after what you’ve done to my life.”

  I walked across the room and hugged her. “You should take my advice because I love you, and I only want the best for you.” In my head, I added, “And because maybe the Boss-alike will see you on Howard or Hollywood Squares and realize we’re looking for him.”

  Hey, my motives could only be so pure at this point. I mean, I just wasn’t ready to hang it up yet. Honestly, I didn’t know if I ever would be.

  CHAPTER 15

  Just like that very first day slp wrote his way into Brina’s life, I looked up from my locker to see her careening down the hall toward me, clutching a piece of paper.

  “Trace, he finally outed himself,” she said breathlessly. “It’s Steven after all.”

  How could that be? “What?”

  “Just read it,” Brina said, shoving the note into my hands. It said:Brina:

  I like to sketch you in my mind’s eye

  Always see you as pure art

  But neither pen nor ink can capture you

  Maybe you could draw yourself closer to me

  slp

  “The only thing this proves,” I said, “is that maybe he knows we hit a tattoo joint last weekend.”

  “Wrong. It means he’s finally ready for us to be together,” Brina told me.