Less Than Nothing (31 page)

I shake my head. “Out of the question.”

“Well, let’s hope for the best. It’s not positive you’re a street musician, though. That won’t be viewed by the court as particularly responsible.”

“I’m on national television every week, for crying out loud.”

“Which I’ll point out, but these judges probably don’t watch the show, so don’t expect them to be impressed.”

“I don’t care if they’re impressed. I just want them to let me sign.”

He nods. “Then that’s what we’ll do.” He clears his throat. “Now, there’s the matter of my fee…”

I swallow hard. “Yeah.”

“Jeremy explained your situation. In light of that, I’ll reduce it to two thousand dollars. I’ll file the motion today, but I’ll need half within a week. Can you do that, you think?”

I quickly calculate. Depends entirely on whether they keep having me do appearances. I’ll cross that bridge next. But if they don’t, I won’t need him to pursue it, so moot point. “Yes.”

My visit with Martin doesn’t go as well. He agrees to see me after I call Sabrina and briefly explain what happened. When I get to his offices, which are lavish beyond belief in a building that reeks of money, he keeps me waiting forty-five minutes. When I sit down in his office, Sabrina standing by the window with her arms folded and a dour expression on her face, I know it isn’t looking good.

I give them the rundown and make my pitch. “So, what I’m hoping is, since this happened through no fault of mine, you’ll let me continue on as a solo act.”

Martin throws his pencil onto the desktop and frowns. “It’s not that easy.”

“Why not?”

He exchanges a glance with Sabrina. “We have the other contestants to consider. We can’t do anything that would smack of an unfair advantage or favoritism.”

“But it’s not an advantage. If anything, it’ll be even harder to wow the audience…and the judges.”

Sabrina clears her throat. “I think the first question is whether you would have picked her if she was solo at the audition. If so, it makes it a little easier.”

Martin appears to think for a long time and then leans back in his executive chair. “What about Derek?”

“What about him?”

“Does he want to go on solo, too?”

“You’ll have to ask him. I haven’t talked to him since…it happened.”

Another pair of glances between them, and then Martin looks at his watch. “I’ll have Sabrina get back to you after I’ve had a chance to confer with the attorneys, our backers, and the network. There are enormous financial considerations at play here.” He fixes me with a cold stare. “This creates a real problem, Sage.”

I can feel tears pooling in my eyes. I stand and nod. “I know.”

When the call comes that night, I’m curled up on the couch eating Thai takeout with Jeremy, watching
Cabaret
. He’s trying to explain to me why Liza Minnelli is a goddess when my phone rings. I go into my new bedroom and take the call.

It’s Sabrina, who sounds worked.

“Well, Sage, you’ve been responsible for a lot of heavy lifting today.”

“I’m sorry. I really am.”

“Anyway, we’ve got a decision.”

My heart stops beating. I wait, the silence on the line deafening.

“You’ll both be allowed to proceed to the semifinals. Frankly, and this is off the record, Martin was leaning against it, but the network feels you’re a strong performer with a good shot at winning, and they feel it would cause ill will with the audience if you go to the media with your case. So you’re in, but we need to meet first thing in the morning to discuss how to spin this for the press. We can get a lot of attention with the right story, so you’ll be busy for the remainder of the week.” She pauses. “Do you feel comfortable doing this without Derek?”

I wait a few seconds before answering, and when I do, my voice sounds confident – and it’s genuine. “Absolutely.”

“Very well. Be at the office at eight. We’re flying by the seat of our pants on this one, Sage. I’m going to start lining up appearances. My gut says you don’t say anything. Give them a ‘no comment’ whenever you’re asked about why you and Derek aren’t a team anymore. But that could change by tomorrow. Now I’m going to get to work and figure a way out of this hole.”

“Sabrina, thank you. I know it’s way above and beyond–”

“Don’t mention it. And don’t be late.”

The rest of my week’s packed solid. Sabrina’s leaked a story that’s close enough to the truth to be believable, and the blogosphere and tabloids are buzzing with rumors of drunken brawls and broken dreams. The way it winds up playing is that America’s darlings are having a spat; why is up to speculation. I’ve become an expert at saying ‘no comment’ with a shy smile, and there are rapidly two identifiable camps – the pro-Derek, and the pro-Sage.

Either way it’s PR gold for the show, because nothing draws viewers like a train wreck, and this has all the makings of a fail of colossal proportions. Can they do it on their own? Do they have what it takes? What’s the real story? Is she impossible to work with? Is he a first-class asshole? The speculations are fast and furious, and by the time the first of the two semifinal rounds arrives, everyone’s got an opinion, which means that the expected viewing audience is larger than the producers could have ever dreamed.

The official explanation was that we’d be performing solo for the rest of the contest due to an injury. But one talk show wag opined that Derek had insisted on splitting because he felt that not being able to play would hamstring my chances; simultaneously a pundit on a different network said he’d heard there was another woman involved.

When the day of the show arrives, scalpers are getting a hundred and fifty bucks a ticket down the block, according to Jeremy, who bleached his hair polar white yesterday in preparation for the fourth show.

“I hear Derek’s been rehearsing with the house band all week,” Jeremy says as we sit in makeup, side by side.

“Whatever.”

“Aren’t you a little bit curious?”

“Not really,” I lie. “Furious, not curious.”

I saw Derek when he arrived today, and he’s been sticking to the other side of the large dressing room, looking sheepish. My heart ached when he looked at me, his gaze filled with pain and remorse, but you can’t put the toothpaste back into the tube. What’s done is done.

“Paul says he sounded pretty good.”

“That’s wonderful news. For him. I’m more worried about how I’m going to do.” My unspoken conclusion being that Jeremy should be, too.

He takes the hint. When we return to the room, Derek is in the next group going to makeup. He brushes by me without looking, and it’s just as well. I can’t believe I trusted my future to him and he paid me back like this. It’s only because of luck and the network’s greed that we’re getting this chance, and I have no intention of blowing it.

But what nobody’s bargained for is the anger of a woman scorned.

I draw the last number. I’ll be closing the show.

I don’t want to watch the monitor. When Derek goes onstage, I go to the bathroom and hold my fingers in my ears, feeling childish and petty. I cry quietly in the stall, and when I come out, my eyes are puffy, but I could give two shits. This is real life, I think. That’s what you wanted to see, what you showed up for, tuned in for. To watch me bleed all over the stage. Fine. You’re about to get what you wanted. No tip required.

You can practically hear a pin drop when I walk onto the stage. For a magical second, there’s nothing, just a collective gasp from the crowd, and then applause washes over me like a wave, and people are screaming and yelling and jumping up and down. There are banners with Sage scrawled on them in paint, and one in the back that says ‘F Derek’ makes me giggle to myself. I give a peace sign to the rear of the house and stand in front of my stool until the audience has worn itself out, and then the announcer booms over the PA with my name and the song I’ll be performing – one I’ve never done in public with Derek.

It’s not that kind of song.

I start it and know that the network’s going to have to bleep out one of the phrases, but I don’t care. I’m singing Alanis Morissette’s breakthrough hit, “You Oughta Know.” It’s different from her version, just as raw, but filled with emotion that leaves me drained when I’m done, shaking as I sustain the last note and then bite it off like I’m just sick of everything.

When the applause comes, it’s beyond huge. It’s like the crowd went on three minutes of an unforgettable emotional ride with me, like we were all there together, living the words, their throats tightening when mine did. I stand and bow, tears running down my face, but I don’t try to wipe them away. I display them proudly, like medals. I earned the damned tears. I own them.

The judges don’t know what to make of it, I can see. The record mogul goes first, and he gives me a nine. The woman glares at him and swats him like he’s a buttmunch, and gives me a ten, and says it’s the most enthralling performance she’s ever seen, and that she’s shattered – that’s the word she uses – by it. Martin eyes me like a cat eyes cheese, and gives me an eight. The crowd boos him, but he waves them down and explains. He agrees it was a one-in-a-million performance. But it wasn’t one-in-a-million vocals. He’s right, of course. I could have milked some of the notes for more. When he finishes, I rethink his worth as a judge, because he nailed it.

“Sage, you’re an enormous talent. Nobody here could disagree after that. But I’m really hoping that when you come back next week, you sing us something that better shows us your instrument, that’s all. This was honest and incredible, and I’ll never forget it, but I want you to come back, and when you do, bring me something less…angry.”

The crowd boos him again.

“Can you do that, Sage?” he asks, a playful smile on his face. I know that this moment will be viewed on YouTube over and over. It’s pure theater. Drama you can cut with a knife.

I offer a playful smile of my own. “We’ll see.”

Which brings down the house. I may have gotten a less than perfect score, but I won that audience’s heart, and everyone knows it. And the finals, in two more shows, will be judged by the audience.

My numbers are still good enough. Apparently Derek did well too, because Jeremy says he’ll be going on to the next round. Jeremy got another perfect score, and he’s walking on air backstage.

It takes me two hours to get through all the interviews. Dozens. It seems like every station, every reporter, every paper in the country wants a bite of me. When Sabrina shoos the last one away, she actually smiles – a rarity.

“You certainly keep it interesting, I’ll give you that,” she says.

I return the smile. “No comment.”

We both laugh. It’s been tense, and I feel the anxiety fade away as we laugh like schoolgirls.

Jeremy’s waiting for me by the stage door when I’m finally ready to leave. “Man, talk about diva behavior,” he says.

“I’m sorry, Jeremy.”

“Not you. Me. I just got finished with
Vanity Fair
. The journalist so wants me. I got his number. Finally my superior artistic sensibilities are being recognized.”

I nod. “It’s the bleach.”

When we slip out the stage door, there are dozens of people still waiting. We sign autographs, and I’m turning to Jeremy after signing all I have the energy for, when I hear a voice from another lifetime.

“Hello, Sage.”

I turn slowly to face the speaker, my face white. He’s older now, and the years haven’t been kind. The last I saw him he was vital, alive. Now he looks broken, like a husk, lines etched into his face by hardship and the rough passage of time. Panic strangles me, and I grope for Jeremy’s arm. He moves to my side protectively as I find my voice.

“Been a while.” I’m tough as nails. No quarter offered or tendered.

Jeremy leans into me and whispers in my ear, “Who’s that?”

How to explain? How to describe the suffering, the hopelessness, the self-loathing and hatred and blame, the questions and recriminations and bitterness I feel when I see him? Words are inadequate, but they’re all I have.

When I speak, I make sure my voice is strong.

“My father.”

Eventually staring at each other gets old. I’ve used up all my resources and I’m running on fumes. Jeremy’s mouth is hanging open; for once, he’s speechless. My father’s studying me, his eyes roaming over my face, as though he can erase the pain and the years with his gaze.

He can’t. He abandoned me. He never once reached out. Not on birthdays, not on Christmas. Nothing.

And now I’m on TV, and he appears like a genie from a cast-off bottle.

If I wasn’t so beat, I’d punch him. I settle for a slap.

He doesn’t turn away, doesn’t flinch. I hate him for what he did. For who he is. That his blood, his genetic material, is running through me. I hate him for my weakness, my lack of confidence, my messed-up head. But most of all I blame him for Ralph, even though he’s not responsible for that.

But he should have known.

That’s what fathers are there for. They’re supposed to protect their daughters.