Less Than Nothing Page 9

  “Money, for one thing. Like, five hundred grand. But more importantly, a recording contract.”

  “Five hundred thousand dollars? That’s…insane.” I try to imagine five hundred thousand dollars worth of quarters stacked to the sky. It would be a really, really tall stack.

  “Yeah, and with a record deal, that could be just the start,” he says quietly.

  It all falls into place. He wants to be the next Elvis. Derek…Derek…I realize I have no idea what his last name is. I’ve spent the night with him, and I don’t even know who he is.

  “Wow. That’s a big step.” I don’t want to ask the obvious follow-up question, but my impulse control switch is broken in the off position. “What if you don’t make it?”

  His jaw muscles clench, but his gaze remains steady. “I will.”

  I believe him. He radiates enough determination and confidence to power a freight train. For a second I’m envious of that. I know I seem confident on the outside, but it’s a façade. With Derek…well, he’s the real thing.

  I nod. “You know what? If anyone can, you can. You’ve got an amazing voice and can play with the best. I’m stoked for you. That’s so exciting.” And I mean it. I try to keep the spark of pain I feel out of my eyes and voice. It makes no sense, but I feel…hurt, and disappointed, and I know I have no reason to. He’s got a goal, and he’s not satisfied with being a street musician playing for tips. Good for him.

  “Thanks. But I’m a long way from winning anything.”

  I wave my hand, trying to hide my reaction, keeping it light. “Details.” And then there’s another question I can’t hold back. “If you knew you were leaving, why did you pick my spot to fight over?”

  I’ve never seen Derek blush before, but I’m pretty sure that’s what he’s doing. He looks away and takes a sip of his soda. I try mine again. Flat. Blech.

  “The truth? I heard you singing from down the block. I had no intention of stopping there. But after a few songs, I was intrigued. I know you don’t always think so, but, Sage…you’re better than good.”

  He says this as though he’s telling me it’s raining outside or that the sun’s set. Like it’s fact. Not debatable. Now everyone’s blushing, and I feel hot. He smiles at my obvious discomfort.

  “You’re lousy at accepting compliments, huh?”

  “What was the giveaway?” I want him to continue. “So you heard me sing and decided to take my spot away?”

  He shakes his head. “No. I didn’t decide I wanted to play with you until I saw you. Hearing’s one thing, but after I saw that big voice was coming out of” – he seems to struggle for the right word – “such a small girl, I had to do something to get your attention.”

  I hold his stare. “So you had your proposition all lined up before we even had coffee? I knew it,” I say, but inside I feel…I don’t know. Not angry. But whatever it is keeps getting sucked into the mud of disappointment. All of this is fine, but he’s leaving, so it doesn’t matter. Nothing he says matters. It can all seem like magic, but then he gets on the first ride out of town, and it’s game over.

  “It’s not like that, Sage. I didn’t have some big plan. I just knew I felt something when I heard you, and then once I saw you, I felt it even more. I know that’s weird. I don’t completely understand it. But you asked.”

  My eyes narrow. “Did you look while I was taking my shower this morning?”

  He about spits out his drink and starts coughing. When he gets control of himself, he starts laughing. “What?”

  “You heard me. Did you look at me while I was taking a shower?”

  He looks me dead in the eye, not blinking. “Fair enough. I’ve answered your questions, and I’ll answer that one. But first, one of my own. Did you?”

  Bastard. That didn’t go the way I’d hoped. I do my best not to do the telltale eye dart that totally tells the world you’re a liar. I’m not sure I manage it.

  “Of course not.”

  He nods and smiles like I just told him a secret, and holds my gaze.

  “Same here.”

  I knew it. I frigging knew it. But I can’t call him on it because I’m just as guilty. Unless he’s actually telling the truth. Which is a distant possibility, I’ll admit, but if true, what does that say about me? Either answer sucks.

  We laugh at the same time, the tension breaking like a dam bursting. It feels good to laugh, to see the way the skin in the corners of his eyes crinkle when he does, the flash of white teeth and pink of his tongue…hypnotic. God, he’s gorgeous, I think, and then reality comes crashing in.

  Yeah, he is, and he’s going to New York to be a star while you sing for table scraps.

  “What time is it?” I ask. I’m enjoying myself, but I need time to think.

  “Doesn’t your phone have a clock on it?”

  Duh. I pull it out of my pocket and turn it on. Only nine. And there’s a message from Mel.

  Mom’s out of town for the night. Big meeting in Santa Cruz. Wanna eat ice cream and chocolate and watch crap on TV all night? Blair’s coming over.

  I eye Derek. I remember the feeling of his arm around me, the closeness as he slept beside me, and I shiver.

  “You okay?”

  I nod. “I might be coming down with something.”

  “Oh.”

  I really want to spend more time with him, but I also want to process everything he’s said. Maybe Melody’s invitation is the perfect distraction for me while I figure this out.

  There’s nothing to figure out, Sage. He’s leaving. Pretty simple. Whatever could have been is already over. Just deal with it and move on.

  My eyes sweep around the little restaurant, taking in the faces of the other diners, many of them obviously tired, beaten down by life, plodding toward a conclusion as inevitable as sunset. Derek’s gaze settles on me, and I nod, my decision made. I need some me time. I text back:

  Be there in half hour. Don’t start without me.

  Chapter 12

  Melody swings her front door open and squeals when she sees me, greeting me like her long-lost sister. I set Yam down and move into the living room, where her friend Blair is on the couch, wearing flannel PJ bottoms and oversized fuzzy slippers, an orange football jersey completing her outfit. Her ebony skin gleams in the halogen ceiling lights, and she waves a beer at me as I set my backpack down by the breakfast bar.

  I’ve met Blair before, and she’s laid-back and cool. Melody once told me that nothing ever fazes her, and I believe it. She’s six months younger than me but seems like she’s in her twenties, with a self-possession well beyond her years.

  “Hey, Blair,” I say, looking at the bag of Reese’s on the table next to a bulging sack of M&Ms. There are three empty Miller bottles sitting near the edge – Melody’s mom doesn’t mind her drinking as long as she doesn’t get behind the wheel.

  “Sage, how’s it going?”

  “All good.”

  Melody explodes into the room behind me, her energy preceding her like a sonic shockwave. “She’s only like with the hottest guy on the planet.”

  I’m blushing again. “Mel likes to exaggerate,” I say, and Blair nods.

  “Bullshit. He’s smoking. I’ve been saving it until you get here, but I took some pictures with my phone today.” She holds her cell over her head and waves it like a prize. “Who wants to see Sage’s hottie?”

  Blair gets into the spirit. “I do, I do!”

  Melody pages through her photos and then does a fake swoon. “Just look at that. I mean, for real. Just look at him.” She hands the phone to Blair.

  Blair takes a long appraising look, swipes to the next photo, and then the next, and then peers over the edge of it at me, a tone of respect coloring her voice. “Damn, girl. I mean, damn.”

  I walk over to the sofa and plop down next to her. “I want to see.”

  She hands me the phone. Melody’s caught Derek mid-strum as he’s smiling at something, perfect teeth shining in the sun, hair hanging partially
in his face, and he does look good. Damn good. I peer at the others. She got one when he’s standing, his jeans accentuating his long legs and slender waist, hands halfway in his front pockets, looking off to the side.

  It could be a poster for his concert tour. He’s a natural.

  Even in a picture he takes my breath away. He’s obviously producing the same reaction in Blair, who’s staring over my shoulder at the shot.

  Melody goes to the fridge and holds up a beer. “You want one?” she offers. I shake my head. I’m not much of a drinker. Too many bad memories to thank Mom for. Some people say a bad example’s a negative, but I’d argue it’s one of the most powerful things in life. My commitment to ensuring I never turn out like my mother far exceeds any drive a good example could have produced.

  Same for drugs. I just never developed a taste for them. Not that I experimented much. A few puffs on the occasional joint was my limit, and once I discovered the simple power of saying no, I exercised it early and often. Which made me a total buzzkill at the parties the local heart-throbs dragged me to, but that also worked to my benefit. I knew more than a few girls who regretted what they’d done after a night of dope and booze.

  Not that I was self-righteous or judgmental. I know most drinkers don’t turn into my mom, just like most people that smoke a joint don’t develop heroin habits. But I’ve seen enough go down that road to feel happy with my choices. At least, those choices.

  Melody brings Blair and herself beers and squishes onto the cushions next to me. “As you can see, our homegirl here has a stud muffin she’s keeping to herself. I tried to get him interested in sharing, but he wasn’t interested.”

  “How do you know?” I counter, curious.

  “Believe me. I can tell within the first two seconds. Isn’t that right?” Melody clinks her bottle against Blair’s and takes a long pull.

  “Well, I need to enjoy it while it lasts, because he’s gone on Monday,” I say, and both of them freeze, bottles halfway from their mouths.

  “What?” Melody blurts.

  “You heard me. He’s hitting the road. Ciao, baby.”

  “Why?” Blair asks.

  I tell them about the contest, the Elvis tattoo and its significance, Derek’s dream of making it. When I’m done, I grab a fistful of M&Ms and pop a few in my mouth. The heat rose in my face as I told the story, and only one thing can soothe my damaged nerves: chocolate, the more the better.

  Melody is serious now, as is Blair. She looks at me for several moments before speaking. “All teasing aside, how much do you like this guy?”

  Maybe I should have had one of those beers after all. “You know. He’s cute, and we sound good together. You said so,” I start, but Melody’s already shaking her head.

  “That’s not an answer. How much? Scale of one to ten?”

  I roll my eyes. “Not the scale. Anything but the scale.”

  “Seriously.”

  I think hard. It’s really the question that’s been plaguing me since I woke up with his arm around me. And the shower peek didn’t help clarify it. If anything, it confused the issue.

  “Melody, you may not believe this, but lust isn’t the same thing as…liking someone.”

  Blair and Melody exchange a glance, and both shrug. Melody giggles. “Always worked for me.”

  I try to frame my thought. “I think I like him, but I’m not sure I like him, you know? I mean, he looks awesome, but there’s more to it than that.”

  Melody twitches her hips. “Oh, yeah, baby, now you’re talking my language.”

  “Not that. I mean his whole vibe. His personality. He’s…he’s complicated.”

  “It’s not complicated once the lights are off,” Melody offers and sips her beer. “You just need to roll him in the hay for a while. Ride that bronco.”

  I’ve heard this advice too often to let it bug me. Melody’s got one solution to everything. Maybe she’s right, and I shouldn’t be expecting more. What’s it gotten me? What do I have to show for it?

  “So is that a six? A seven?” Blair asks quietly.

  “I don’t want to put a number to it.”

  “Oh my god. That means it’s an eleven,” Melody says in awe.

  “I’m pretty sure a scale of one to ten doesn’t have an eleven,” I correct.

  “You know what I mean.” She reaches out and unwraps a Reese’s and pops it in her mouth. “There’s only one thing you can do, Sage. And I’m totally serious about this.”

  Both Blair and I watch her, waiting for her pronouncement.

  Melody’s always had a flair for the dramatic. She finishes chewing, swallows, and washes the candy down with a mouthful of beer. Blair cringes. I don’t. I know Melody too well.

  When she speaks, it’s with the authority of a diplomat.

  “If it’s a ten, you need to go with him to New York. That’s the only option.”

  Chapter 13

  “What!” I blurt, wondering if Melody’s got anything stronger than beer.

  “You heard me. It’s obvious. You need to go with him and stand by your man.”

  “He’s not my man.”

  “And he never will be if you don’t go,” Melody says.

  “That’s…you’re out of your mind.”

  “Maybe, but I know when you meet the dude that rocks your world, you need to hang on for dear life. Those are too rare.” Melody sets her finished beer down on the table, and Blair nods her agreement.

  “Mel’s right.”

  “Okay, this isn’t helping. First of all, he’s not…we haven’t done anything. We haven’t even kissed. So he’s not even close to being my man. Second of all, I don’t know anything about New York. I don’t have any friends there or anything. All I know is it snows and people are mean.”

  “Total stereotype,” Blair says. Melody nods.

  “I don’t have any money.”

  “So what?” Melody asks.

  “So what? You need money to survive.”

  “But you’re living here with no money. What difference does it make where you’re broke?” Blair asks. That’s not the kind of help I was hoping for.

  “You’re both assuming he’d even let me come along.”

  “Let you? Girl, you need to be all, ‘Try stopping me!’ This is up to you, not him,” Blair says.

  “And what if nothing happens and it doesn’t work out?”

  “The talent show?”

  “No. Between us.”

  “Why wouldn’t it work out?” Melody asks. I feel like they’re tag-teaming me now. Blair does the swing kick, and Melody’s on the ropes, waiting to do the body slam.

  “Just because. Sometimes things don’t work out.”

  Blair’s eyes narrow. “Sounds like maybe you don’t want them to work out.”

  That stops me dead. Maybe she’s right.

  Melody pats my knee. “Or maybe she’s afraid it won’t and figures it’s safer to blow the whole thing off than take the risk?”

  “I’m right here, you know,” I say, getting angry. This is way more personal than I wanted to go tonight.

  Melody takes my hands in hers, doing her mom thing now. “Sage, you’re a big girl now. You need to take charge of your life. Decide what you want, and then do whatever it takes to get it.”

  I pull my hands away. “Now you sound like him.”

  Melody looks at Blair. “Swoon.”

  Blair clears her throat. “Mel’s right. If you don’t really care about this guy, hey, no biggie. But if you think he might be the one, you need to fight for what’s yours, baby girl.”

  “I don’t believe there’s any such thing as ‘the one.’ That’s a myth,” I say.

  Blair regards me quizzically. “Really? How do you know?”

  “I just know.”

  She nods, as if agreeing. “What if you’re wrong?”

  “I’m not.”

  “Right. Because you’re never wrong about anything. But let’s just pretend you might be,” she says, and I remember
she’s a 4.0 student.

  “Blair, for me, there’s no such thing. I just know that in my gut.” I don’t tell her about my parents, my dad disappearing when I was almost eleven, leaving us with no prospects, or about Ralph’s toxic behavior. I know she’s Melody’s friend, but some things are nobody’s business but mine.

  Blair smiles sadly. “My dad says something all the time: ‘If you believe you can, you’re right. If you believe you can’t, you’re also right.’”

  “Okay, Dr. Freud. Whatever,” I toss off. But I’m thinking about what she said. And about Elvis. About Derek’s conviction that he’ll do well regardless of the odds.

  “Or you can just take your clothes off, grab a bottle of something strong, and figure out how much you really like each other,” Melody chimes in with a wink and pushes herself to her feet. “Last beers?”

  When she returns from the refrigerator, Blair switches the TV volume back on, and we watch a special on Animal Planet about dogs that won’t behave. Thankfully they’ve gotten tired of the topic of Derek, Derek, Derek, but as I pretend interest in the Chihuahua that bites when his owner tries to take his food away, my brain’s working furiously on…Derek.

  I can’t just go to New York. The bus ride from my little house in Clear Lake seemed like a trip to the other side of the world. Hitchhiking cross-country is crazy talk. It’s fine for them to throw it out there like I can just snap my fingers and bam, there I am in New York, but reality isn’t like that.

  Besides, he hasn’t asked me to go anywhere. He’s just told me what he’s going to do. In response to a direct question, after trying to dodge it.

  And finally, there’s the niggling fact that I’ve only known him for three days.

  People don’t cross the U.S. to be with someone they just met.

  Do they?

  The truth is that I’m more affected by Blair’s observation about creating your own reality than I am by Derek at the moment. What if that’s true, and I’m creating one without someone to be close to? What if the reality I’m building every day is punishment for sins I never committed? Punishment for not being good enough for my mom to stay sober?