by R. E. Blake
“That would be great. I…I don’t have a driver’s license, so I can’t drive.”
The assistant laughs. “Well, fortunately I do. Ten o’clock. Your flight gets in tomorrow afternoon, and the apartment’s in Westwood Village, so there’s plenty of stuff within walking distance too, if you want to look around on your own first.”
“Apartment?”
“We lease one there from time to time. We have this one for the duration of your stay, so enjoy. Very ritzy.”
“That’s…thank you.”
“No problem. My name’s Ruby. Anything you need, call this number. Anything at all, okay?”
“Thanks, Ruby. I will.”
I hang up and tell Melody everything, and she’s beyond amazed. She looks up Westwood Village on her computer and nods approvingly.
“Very nice. You’re all that, Sage. This is it. You’ll be surrounded by hotties begging you for a little some a that. Derek’s got serious competition with the best Hollywood has to offer.”
I frown. “That’s nice to know.”
“I’ll be happy to come visit you before school starts. I’d do that for you.”
“Not for the Hollywood heartbreakers, right?”
“So suspicious. Not an attractive trait.”
“Hmm.”
My thoughts turn to Derek. I feel like I’m losing control of my life and wonder if it’s worth it to follow my dream. Which wasn’t even my dream in the first place – it was Derek’s. He’s the one with the Elvis tattoo. It was his suggestion to try out for the show. And then I waltzed off with the prize, leaving him crumbs.
How would I feel if our positions were reversed? More importantly, how does that make him feel? It’s got to be eating at him that he didn’t win, and I did.
Then I remember the circumstances – the drunken fight, his broken hand. It wasn’t like I saw an opportunity and went for it. I went to New York to win with Derek. He’s the one that screwed things up. He can’t resent me for that.
But things turned out okay for him. He’s got a record deal. That will be enough to turn his life around, I’m sure. I recognize I’ve been letting my inside voice mess with my head again, and force it back into the dark recesses of my mind, where it will lie in wait for the next moment of weakness.
New York’s three hours ahead of us, so it’s getting late there. I wonder where he is, what he’s doing, how he’s feeling, and in spite of my best efforts, feel another pang of guilt. Melody seems to sense my low mood and breaks out some mini Snickers bars. She knows that like a panda at feeding time, I’m easily distracted. Within minutes my doubts are forgotten in favor of delectable chewy chocolate treats.
Chapter 5
The night drags on forever. True to my worst fears, Melody’s mom’s friend runs back to her place for a guitar, and I wind up doing a half-dozen songs for the gang before packing it in. It’s kind of weird to be sitting in a living room with a bunch of adoring middle-aged fans oohing and ahing over your every note. I think until that moment it hadn’t completely dawned on me that I’m a big deal to some people.
When it’s finally over, I check my phone, which I left in the bedroom, and see I missed a call from New York. I hit redial and head to the bathroom, but the phone just rings. Probably a pay phone. I need to convince Derek to get a cell. I’ll gladly pay for it. Just the annoyance factor is more than worth the cost of the phone.
I sleep in fits and starts, and when I wake, it’s to a headache. I try the New York number again, but there’s still no answer, which does nothing to improve my mood. Melody’s got Excedrin in her medicine cabinet, and I dry swallow two before hopping into the shower.
When I emerge, Melody’s sitting up in bed, texting someone. She eyes my wet hair, black jeans, and Harley T-shirt, and shakes her head.
“We need to get you some star-quality threads. That street-guitarist look’s so over.”
“What’s wrong with jeans and a T-shirt?”
“You look like a roadie, not the main attraction.”
Melody favors hip-huggers and hoochie-mama tops, so I’m leery of what she thinks would be a step up, but I agree to do some shopping with her while we’re in the Haight, which has a ton of funky boutiques and second-hand stores. She rinses off while I try the number again, and when it rings endlessly, I command myself to stop dialing it every ten minutes and to wait for Derek’s call.
Melody takes three times longer to get ready than I do. When she announces she’s done, she’s exuding a cloud of floral perfume and wearing a hot pink tube top and low-rise jeans so tight I can make out the mole on her butt. She inspects herself in the mirror with satisfaction and turns to me. “Are you going to dry your hair?”
“Nah. It’ll dry by itself once we’re in the sun.”
“Tell me you at least brushed it.”
“Yes, Mom.”
“I suppose that’s a step in the right direction.” She goes to her closet and fishes out an Oakland Raiders baseball cap and tosses it to me. “There’s your disguise.”
“What, my knit cap’s not fashionable enough?”
“I’m going to burn it. It’s gross.”
“No, it’s not. I wash it.”
“Everyone on the street knows that cap, so it’s not much help if you want to go incognito.”
“I seriously doubt I’m going to get mobbed.”
She considers me like I’m from another world. “You really have no idea how big you are, do you?”
I shrug. “Apparently not big enough to get any respect from you.”
“I’m an exception. You don’t want an entourage of suck-ups. More like real friends who’ll arrange for the oil-rubbed shirtless boy toys to follow you around like puppies.”
“I think you’re confusing me with eighties Madonna or maybe Lady Gaga.”
“Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it.”
Melody’s mom has already gone to work, so we have the apartment to ourselves. We agree to do my usual routine for old times’ sake – bagel shop, Peaches & Cream for coffee, and then some shopping.
It’s weird how different it all feels now I have some cash in my pocket. I’m wearing new sunglasses I picked up from a street peddler in New York for twelve bucks and Melody’s hat, and I might as well be invisible next to her. She’s like some kind of queen bee who’s backlit by nature’s spotlight, whereas I’m about as high profile as an economy sedan. I’m okay with that, and in fact, it’s a relief that nobody seems to know or care who I am.
Until I see Todd coming out of his doorway, toting his mountain bike, as usual. He does a double take and waits for me, a big stoned smile on his face, his dreadlocks longer than ever.
“Yo, I never thought I’d see you around here again,” he greets me.
“Why not? Best coffee in town,” I say.
“You back for good or passing through?”
“Here for the day. I have to go to L.A.”
“Nice. You got a private jet yet?”
I give him a sidelong glance. “What are you smoking? I won a TV singing contest, not the presidency.”
“Seriously, though. What’s it like? Being all famous?”
“I don’t know. Better than living on the street. But other than that, same ol’.” Which isn’t entirely true. I’ve got a few thousand in my pocket, a car’s picking me up at the airport, and I’m going to be sitting with some of music’s biggest celebs tomorrow night. Whenever I think of it, I get a skitter of nervousness, so my solution is to not think about it.
“It was hella cool to see you representing up there. Nobody else came close. You were the bomb.”
I think about Derek and Jeremy, and how close the contest probably actually was, and smile shyly. Strange as it sounds, I’m almost embarrassed that I won. It doesn’t make any sense. Just like nothing in my life does at the moment.
“Off to work?” I ask, anxious to change the subject.
“Yeah. The packages never stop, you know? Gotta earn my keep.”
> “Well, hey. Once I get done recording my stuff, I’ll be back. They say it should only take a couple months. Save me some coffee, would you?” I say, but it sounds kind of fake to me. Will I really be hanging around in the Haight? Or will I be in New York with Derek?
It doesn’t take a crystal ball to know the answer.
“Sure thing, Sage. It’s really good to see you, you know? Glad to hear about someone from the hood making it.” He looks off and then grins as his gaze returns to me. “Can’t be late. Time is money and all that.”
“Bye, Todd,” I say as he swings his leg over the seat and pushes off the sidewalk into a gap between two cars, and then shoots like a hairy cannonball into traffic, seemingly unaware of the near miss with oncoming vehicles that’s his signature move.
We enter Peaches & Cream and order two drip coffees, but this time is different than the last time we were here – two women waiting for their drinks spot me and whisper to each other, and then one starts texting on her phone while the other approaches me.
“Aren’t you…you’re that girl from the show! Sage! It’s you, isn’t it?” she says, overly loudly, and I feel the blood rush to my face.
I look to Melody, but I can see she’s going to be no help at all. I turn to the woman and give her a small smile.
“Yeah. Nice to meet you,” I say, hoping to shut her up, but it’s too late. Now the baristas have stopped what they’re doing and are murmuring to each other, and the other people in line are whispering, some doing their best to ignore me, others gawking like I have two heads.
“I swear I cried that final show. I felt like I was right there with you when you sang that last song. I recorded it and everything.”
“That’s great,” I say. I’ve always been terrible at accepting compliments, so this part of the deal is like Chinese water torture for me. I look at the barista behind the register, like, “Where’s my coffee?” He snaps out of his funk and goes to the machine, and only once he’s halfway through pouring mine does he realize the pot’s empty. So now I’m committed to standing here for at least three more minutes, every second an ordeal.
“I heard you were from around here, but I never thought in a million years I’d meet you,” the woman says, not picking up on my silent signals that I’m hoping the floor will open up and swallow me whole.
“Well, life’s strange that way. Again, nice to meet you,” I say and return my stare to Melody, who’s having a hard time keeping from busting up, judging by the look on her face.
“Can I trouble you for an autograph?” the woman asks. Right now I’d give her all the money in my pocket to just go away.
“Sure.”
She picks up a biodegradable, recycled napkin and roots around in her Coach purse for a pen, and then hands it to me.
“Just write, ‘To my biggest fan Jenny,’ would you?” she asks. “Jenny. That’s short for Jennifer.”
I hastily scratch out her request and return the napkin and pen, relieved to be done.
“Thanks so much.” She holds the napkin over her head and turns to the rest of the line. “Hey, everyone. I got Sage’s autograph! How cool is that?”
The next ten minutes are more of the same – a never-ending line of fans piling into the shop. Melody checks her phone and leans over to whisper in my ear. “Jenny’s friend tweeted you were here.”
“Is there a back way out?” I ask.
“I’ll ask the manager.”
Fortunately there is, and moments later we find ourselves in a narrow service alley that reeks of garbage. We run to the mouth and peer around and then explode into giggles.
“This is something like a movie,” Melody says.
“A horror movie, that is.”
“Come on. They’ll figure out you bailed pretty quickly, and then it’ll be open season on Sage in the Haight.”
“So much for shopping, huh?”
“Don’t worry. We can take side streets until we’re at the other end from P&C. That’s where all the cool shops are anyway.”
“This is so weird. Nothing like this ever happened to me before.”
“That’s because you were in New York. New Yorkers wouldn’t stop if you were dancing naked with a snake.”
“Where do you get these ideas?”
“My mind’s a cesspool. I blame it on daytime soaps.”
“They have nude snake dancing on soaps? I had no idea what I was missing.”
“Come on.”
She takes my hand, and we bolt across the street and hang a right, then slow to a jog as we round the corner onto Waller Street and make our way east to Buena Vista Park. There are no throngs with pitchforks and torches – or cell phone cameras – so I relax, and soon we’re in a shop that hasn’t turned its inventory since the sixties.
Melody convinces me to buy a too-tight top that says ‘Girl Power’ in bold letters ringed by an orange starburst, and a pair of hip-hugger bell bottoms I know I’ll never wear. She rewards herself for her advice with a tank top that features Bruce Lee’s shirtless torso, which oddly enough looks great on her. Then again, everything looks good on Melody.
She tries to convince me to get a haircut at a trendy shop on the corner, but I’m not feeling that adventurous.
“I don’t want to be trapped in a chair with wet hair if anyone else recognizes me,” I say, and she pouts.
“I can’t believe you. If I was you, I’d be waving my hands, screaming my name over and over.”
“Just one of the many mysterious differences between us,” I agree, which settles things.
We stop at an organic restaurant and peck at super-expensive rabbit food for half an hour, and then my phone rings. When I hear Derek’s voice, I feel a surge of joy in my chest.
“Derek! Thank God.”
“What’s up? You sound…frazzled.”
I tell him about my morning.
“But you escaped, right?”
“I did. But it was close. I almost had to chew a paw off.”
“They taste kinda like chicken.” He hesitates. “How’s your mom?”
I consider several possible responses, then opt for blunt. “She’s dying. If not this time, soon.”
That stops any discussion in its tracks. He clears his throat. “When are you coming back?”
“I…the label wants me to record in Los Angeles. I tried saying no, but they didn’t give me a choice.” I tell him about Sebastian.
“You got Sebastian Stalt to do your record?”
“Yeah. Pretty cool, huh?”
“I’ll say. They’re still–”
The line goes dead with a beep, and my phone blinks at me. The battery’s dead. I’m such a loser. I forgot to charge it last night.
My face must look like someone kicked me in the gut, because Melody puts her fork down and tilts her head. “What happened?”
“Phone died. Battery.”
“D’oh.”
I shake my head. “My plane will probably crash, too, at this rate.”
“Or you’ll get seated next to another super fan for the flight.”
“Maybe I should buy one of those glue-on mustaches.”
“Yeah. That would look great with your new top.”
By the time we make it back to Melody’s, I’ve only got fifteen minutes before I have to leave. She calls a taxi, and I plug my phone in, but it’s too little time.
She hugs me tight at the front stoop and then cocks the Raiders hat at an angle as the cab rolls to a stop. “You look fly, girl. Nobody will ever recognize you.”
“Tell that to Jenny.”
“Just chill and enjoy it, Sage. You’re going to be holed up in the studio for the next month, sounds like. Have some fun while you can. You’re a frigging rock star, for crying out loud. Live large.”
I look down at my Chucks and smile.
“You bet. Large living, coming right up.”
Chapter 6
All I can think about the entire ride to the airport is Derek. It’s not the same on t
he phone. He sounds different. Distant. I know I shouldn’t read too much into it, but that’s not my way. I analyze everything to death, and now I’m wondering why he didn’t call sooner, what he’s doing to pass the time while I’m gone, whether he’s out partying at night…
I tell myself to stop it, but now I’m in a vicious loop, replaying every word of our brief conversation, looking for clues as to how he’s really doing, what he’s really thinking.
Which of course does me absolutely no good at all. My psychic powers are notoriously bad when it comes to him, but that doesn’t even slow me down. By the time I’m at the departure terminal, I’ve played a dozen scenarios in my head, some of which involve me blowing off the record company and flying back to New York instead of to Los Angeles, others have Derek on the next flight out…
I get my pass and make it through security with no problems, and see that I’m in row two – business class. It’s only a short flight, but still, I’m happy I won’t be sitting next to the toilet.
Which is one of my newly discovered phobias. I don’t want to use the toilet on the plane. I held my water all the way from New York, out of an irrational fear that something terrible would happen while I was in the bathroom. I’m reminded of it again as I sit in the departure lounge, and make a point of using the restroom before I board. I have no idea what I think will happen if I have to go on the plane, but I don’t want to find out. Visions of me trapped in the compartment as firemen cut me out battle with horrific fantasies of the plane plunging out of the sky as I scream all the way down.
The man in the seat next to me is fifty and reading a spreadsheet, and thankfully seems as interested in me as I am in helping him interpret the long columns of numbers. Takeoff goes without a hitch, and I close my eyes and pull Melody’s hat down, lost in thoughts of Derek, whose grinning face dominates my imagination as we hurtle south at five hundred miles per hour, winging me to a town I’ve only heard about – Hollywood, land of beautiful people and megabucks. The only exposure I’ve had to L.A. is from the few times I saw a Kardashian on Melody’s TV and from the occasional movie before I left home.