Less Than Nothing Page 21

  Derek waves at the studio audience as the host takes a break and cuts to commercial, and then we’re being escorted from the studio by Sabrina, who’s apparently working fifteen-hour days while the show’s airing. We stop in the lobby, and she signs out with the security guard and then turns to me.

  “We’re on for tomorrow, right?” she asks, confirming our appearance in the morning for our second national TV appearance, this one on Good Morning USA.

  “Absolutely. But we’re going to need to take Wednesday off. Rest up for the show,” I say. I don’t tell her that Derek promised to take me to the zoo.

  “Perfect. Then tomorrow’s morning show, and an interview with that paper I told you about, and then you’re off. See you at six, right?”

  “Yup.”

  Whoever believes being an entertainer is easy has never actually tried it. We’re working longer and harder now than we did on the street, and there’s no end in sight. The media’s a monster that demands to be fed, and the only thing worse than being popular is being unpopular, when the calls stop coming and you’re yesterday’s news.

  We grab dinner at a restaurant on West 73rd and then ride the train north to the Bronx, through Harlem. Those last five stops before the end of the island are the diciest at night, and we stay in the first car, where the driver’s compartment is located – that’s the least likely area for killings and robberies, we’ve been told.

  The three-block walk from the station seems way longer at night than it did yesterday in the early evening, and I’m relieved when we bolt the door behind us. The apartment has bars on the windows and, most miraculous of all, an ancient AC unit that still works pretty well. It sputters on at the twist of a knob, and soon the little room’s bearable.

  I take a long shower, luxuriating in the knowledge that I can bathe two or three times a day if I want. When I step out of the bathroom, hair still wet, Derek’s reading the schedule that Sabrina gave us with a frown. I know what he’s thinking – we should be getting more money – but this week we’re clearing two grand in cash from our appearances, and even after rent, we’re rich by my standards. I’ve already told him I’m going to take my half of the loot and get some new clothes and a decent haircut. I haven’t asked him what he’ll do with his.

  My phone rings, and I answer it. Derek points to the bathroom, and I nod. I watch him cross the room with his hygiene bag as Melody’s voice greets me.

  “Yo, homegirl. Whassup?” she chirps.

  “Like I texted you, we’ve got a place! I’m super excited.”

  “How is it?”

  “After living in the tunnels, like the Taj Mahal.”

  “That sounded totally sketchy. You must be stoked.”

  “I am.”

  “How’s wonder boy?”

  “He’s good.” I don’t elaborate. Which only goads her on.

  “You bump uglies yet? Make the beast with two backs? Do the nasty?”

  “Nothing’s changed since yesterday.”

  “Have you tried rubbing oil all over yourself and doing the forbidden dance for him?”

  “The what?”

  “Never mind. I can tell I’m wasting my valuable advice.”

  “Pearls before swine,” I agree.

  “In case I didn’t tell you, I’ve built a little shrine to Sage and Derek in my bedroom, and I’ve recorded every appearance you’ve made. You’re hella cute on the tube, you know.”

  “They say the camera adds ten pounds.”

  “It did ’em in the right spots.”

  “How are you doing?”

  “Compared to you? Bored out of my mind. I realized last week that what I really need is a hottie to sing with and a national TV presence. Can you help out on that?”

  “I’ve heard you sing. Maybe juggling instead?”

  “Don’t be bitter. I can tell you’re jealous. It’s unattractive in one so young.”

  “Melody, I’m older than you.”

  She breezes right past that, as always. “Did you see the article in the Tattler?”

  The Celebrity Tattler is a tabloid that’s famous for its lurid covers, usually depicting aliens or starlets or both, and headlines like “I Married A Martian!” Not really my regular reading material. “No. What’s it about?”

  “Oh, my God! You’re famous! I’ll have to scan it and send it to you. Did you ever get an email account?”

  “Uh, no, Internet was kind of flaky at Lucifer’s. Rats chewed through the wires or something.” I spend almost zero time on the web. Which makes sense since I don’t own a computer, my phone’s a relic, and Internet cafés have been out of my budget until recently.

  “Well, go buy it. It’s almost all wrong, but it’s funny as shit. I think they basically just invented most of it – although they did say your mom’s in the hospital.”

  I close my eyes, but I’m not surprised. She’s been warned enough times. “What else does it say?”

  “That you and Derek have been an item for a year, that there was a pregnancy scare, and that he’s battled drug and alcohol issues but seems stable now. And that you’re discussing your wedding if you win the contest.”

  “Sounds like the only thing they left out was time travel.” We both laugh. “You could put my life on Disney right now. No weddings planned.”

  “Duh. I just thought it was hysterical.”

  We finish the call with a summary of her love life since I left, which could be a movie of the week, and she says that if we go to the finals, her mom agreed to fly her to New York for the show. The thought of Melody invading New York is almost too much to contemplate, and when I hang up, I miss my friend a lot.

  Derek’s done with the bathroom when my phone rings again – a New York number I don’t recognize.

  “Hello?” I answer.

  “Sage? It’s Paul. From the show.”

  “Oh. Paul. It’s kind of late, isn’t it?”

  “Sorry, but I need to check this off my list. I just got out of a meeting with the producers and our legal team, and there’s a concern the attorneys raised. They said we need your waiver notarized.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Your mom needs to take it to a notary public, who will verify her identity, and then stamp it and sign it. It’s a formality, but apparently an important one. Frankly, you’re the only minor on the show, so it hasn’t come up with anyone else. We’re all kind of learning.”

  Crap. I can’t tell him that she can’t get it notarized because she never signed it in the first place, so I punt. “She’s in the hospital. Don’t you read the paper?”

  “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. Nothing serious, I hope.”

  “It may be. We’re all hoping not, but…”

  “I’ll tell the producers. How about your father?”

  A vision of Ralph pops into my head, and I feel instantly sick. “He’s…I lost touch with him.”

  “Well, I’m sorry to burden you with this. Maybe we can have a notary go to the hospital.”

  “I’ll check to see how she’s doing and get back to you.”

  “Please do, Sage. Sorry to call so late. We can talk more at the show.”

  When I hang up, it feels like I’ve been punched in the stomach. I’m afraid I’m going to throw up. The room suddenly feels too hot, and the walls are closing in. When Derek comes out of the bathroom, I’m pacing in front of the air conditioner, which is wheezing like an asthmatic. His hair’s dripping, and he’s wearing a pair of oversized shorts and a black T-shirt. I can’t help but notice how sculpted his legs look, but that’s doing me no good, so I plop down on the bed.

  “What’s wrong?” he asks.

  I tell him about Paul. By the time I’m done, I feel a full-blown panic attack coming on. Derek sits on the sofa and studies me for a few moments, and then smiles.

  “I bet I can find someone to notarize it. It’s probably just a matter of money. And for once, we have some.”

  “I don’t know, Derek. We’re pretty high profil
e. Maybe if we weren’t on TV every day, but I can’t see anyone sticking their neck out for a few bucks. That would be fraud or something, right? I mean, they could go to jail.”

  “Probably not jail. But you might be right. Only one way to know for sure.”

  I shake my head. “I can’t take the chance that someone will blackmail me someday, Derek. People suck. My face is on TV and the papers…” Which reminds me. I tell him about the tabloid article, and he laughs.

  “That’s great! Maybe I’m sleeping with Elvis, too. That’s next week,” he says and turns serious. “You can always reach out to your mom.”

  “She’s dependent on Ralph for everything – her brain’s mush. She’ll ask him, he’ll say absolutely not, and I’m screwed. That’s not an option.”

  After a few more minutes of discussion, neither of us has any new ideas. I can probably stall a while longer with the sick mother excuse. Maybe a coma.

  Derek’s sleeping on the couch, and I have the bed. He called the couch when he first saw the studio, and I didn’t protest. I don’t offer to have him sleep with me, even though my motives are as pure as my heart, which isn’t saying much when it comes to Derek, and he’s smart enough to avoid suggesting it. Neither of us wants to tempt fate, and in spite of our best intentions, I’m having a hard time sticking with the platonic thing with Derek only a few feet away.

  As I toss and turn for another difficult night, I remember Jeremy telling me he can resist anything but temptation, and for once I can totally relate.

  Chapter 31

  The third show arrives all too soon. We’re back in the now-familiar dressing room, which is a lot emptier with eighteen contestants than fifty. Jeremy’s hair is orange this week, and he looks like a pumpkin, which I take glee in telling him. He doesn’t care – his theory is that it’s all about giving the audience something to remember, and there’ve been a number of comments in the press about his ever-changing coloring, which has become a trademark.

  “Girl, you just have to give them something to identify you by. With me, even if they’re tone deaf, they’ll remember ‘He’s the guy with the weird hair.’ And that puts me closer to the winner’s circle than if I’m just another pretty face.” He eyes himself in the mirror and lifts a distressed bang from his brow before dropping it back into place and throwing a glance at Derek. “No offense to the pretty faces.”

  “I’m not just a piece of meat, you know,” Derek says good-naturedly. “I have thoughts and ideas and shit.”

  “Of course you do,” Jeremy says with a smile.

  “What’s this week going to be?” I ask him. We’ve been way too busy to get together since our last lunch.

  “Whitney, biatch. ‘Greatest Love of All.’ When I get done there won’t be a dry eye in the room.” He snaps his fingers.

  “That should be great with your voice,” I say, and it’s true.

  “I’m trying to give the judges an idea of my artistic range.”

  “Your what?” Derek asks with a smirk.

  “Oh, hush up,” Jeremy says with an eye roll. He turns to me. “Did you bring his toys to play with? He’s getting uppity.” A pause. “What are you two going to do for our amusement this fine summer evening?”

  “‘Thirty Days In The Hole,’” Derek says.

  An evil smile flits across Jeremy’s face. “Sounds like my dream date.”

  Paul enters and approaches me. I try not to look guilty as a poop-eating dog. He hands me a form and tells me I have a week to get it notarized, and then checks the time. “Half an hour, people.”

  We drew numbers earlier, and we’re number five, Jeremy number eleven. His superstition over number one’s evaporated, but he’s still convinced that being the last act of the night would doom him to failure.

  The mood backstage is lighter this week, and the show’s arranged for a few food platters, as well as buckets of soda, water, and beer. It’s a nice touch, and we all interpret it as a hopeful sign – the show’s a ratings hit, which guarantees we’re all getting maximum exposure. Besides Derek and me, two of the other favored contestants have been doing the media rounds, and Jeremy told me earlier that he’s been asked to do some appearances after this show, too. Provided, of course, that he makes it through.

  Derek cracks open a beer, and I cringe inwardly. There’s no reason for him not to have a beer – it’s practically a requirement for rock bands – and I try to ignore my inner dialogue, which is anything but Helen’s ideal of nonjudgmental acceptance. I busy myself with changing the strings on my guitar, and hold my tongue when he fishes a second bottle from the ice and opens it a few minutes later.

  Jeremy gets a call on his cell. When he hangs up, his face is ashen.

  “What’s wrong, Jeremy?” I ask.

  “That was my roommate. Or I should say, my former roommate. He’s moving out tonight.”

  “Nice timing. But you’ve seen that coming for a while,” I say.

  “Yeah, but it’s one thing to suspect, another to know. Oh well. I’ll deal with the fallout later. Right now, it’s on with the show.”

  He moves to the food tray and prepares himself a cracker with a slice of salami and Swiss cheese, and I commiserate with him – nothing in life is ever easy.

  Then the contest’s underway, and soon it’s our turn.

  If anyone ever says that you get used to having thousands of people screaming your name, it’s a total lie. At least I haven’t. I offer a wave and a smile as I take my stool, and Derek does a little two-step swagger before he sits, which has the females in the audience hooting and cheering. He’s a favorite, for sure, and I’m surprised that I get as big a hand as he does. I still feel like an impostor, but less than before, and my confidence is slowly building with all the appearances.

  The judges are smiling in anticipation, which is a good sign. It’s like they’re pulling for us. But I don’t kid myself. Everyone has favorites, but they’re going to be equally hard on each contestant, especially Martin, who seems to revel in his acerbic personality and cynical one-liners.

  We start the song, and I’m amazed at the reaction. On the street, we’d be lucky to get a dollar per song. Here, it’s like we can do no wrong, and when I hit a particularly impressive harmony riff, the crowd goes nuts.

  I’m beaming when we finish – it feels like we hit a home run. The judges’ expressions confirm my take. We get a perfect score again, with the only negative comment by Martin, who says he’d like to see something that really pushes us more on the next round – whatever that means.

  Jeremy’s waiting when we get offstage. He’s enthusiastic we’re doing so well, but is visibly nervous about his performance, which I know by now is one of his neurotic tics. He’ll snap out of it a few minutes before he goes on, and by the time he’s in the spotlight, he’ll be a hundred percent confident. He reminds me of myself in that uncertainty, that doubt about his abilities. It’s one of his most endearing qualities.

  His performance winds up being the only other perfect score of the night, and he’s glowing when he comes offstage and hugs me. Derek gives him a high five and toasts him with his beer – his fourth, not that I’m counting. Much.

  We do our obligatory exit interviews with the gushing hosts, who by now have the easy familiarity that comes with doing this with us every week. When we leave the theater, I’m shocked by the throng at the backstage door – at least thirty people, most of them girls my age or a little older, waiting for our autographs. I just assume they’re there for Derek, but to my surprise they seem to be mostly interested in mine, and I realize they’re identifying with me – the girl from the street who’s beating the odds.

  One of them has a copy of the Tattler for me to sign, and when it’s her turn, she smiles shyly and covers her mouth automatically to hide her braces.

  “Make it to Vickie, please,” she says. “So when’s the date?”

  For a moment I don’t know what she’s talking about, and then I remember Melody’s synopsis of the article.r />
  “Don’t believe everything you read,” I say. She seems crestfallen, and I wish I’d thought of something nicer to say. She had no way of knowing she was touching a nerve.

  We finally get clear of the fans, and Derek flags down a taxi – walking down the sidewalk, guitars in hand, doesn’t seem like a very professional way to leave. When we’re in the car, Derek names one of the Italian restaurants in Little Italy, and the driver pulls away, engrossed in a ball game on the radio. He makes a sharp right turn, and I slide against Derek, who catches me. We both laugh, and then we’re staring at each other, and…before I know what’s happening, he’s leaning into me and his lips are pressed against mine.

  Time seems to slow and compress. My entire awareness becomes that connection, our mouths joined, his tongue gently probing mine, our heavy breathing. I marvel at how good it feels to have him like this, to feel his need, his emotion, his tenderness as he caresses the side of my neck with his hand. I make a small sound in my throat and shudder. The touch of his tongue, his full, soft lips, and the dusting of stubble on his jaw stroking across my skin send a thrill of anticipation through me, and all I can think of is my memory of him in the shower.

  He pulls me closer, and I groan. The feel of his arms, his chest, everything about him is as perfect as I’d imagined. No, better – I couldn’t have dreamed how his touch would create such a powerful urgency, a hunger I never thought could exist. I wish more than anything that we weren’t in this taxi, because right now my body’s taking over and my mind seems to just be along for the ride.

  The cab hits a bump, and we part, and then Derek’s gazing at me from only a few inches away, as if studying every detail of my face. I raise my lips to his again, but he pulls away and shakes his head. His exhalation is so loud it startles me.

  “What’s wrong, Derek?”

  “This…we weren’t…this is wrong, Sage. We agreed.” His voice is tight.

  “If it’s so wrong, why does it feel so good?” I ask and lean closer.

  He shakes his head again and says my name softly. “Sage. No.”