More Than Anything (3 page)

Melody follows me out. “Wait up.”

I slow, realizing I’m almost running, and she joins me.

“Sorry you have to see this. It’s pretty ugly,” I say.

I’ve been apologizing to people for my mom for as long as I can remember; it’s one of the reasons I had no friends in school. It was easier to not have to explain why Mommy’s always sick than to risk anyone getting close and learning the truth. I can still remember several times before I started high school when I was foolish enough to bring an acquaintance by the house, only to find my mom passed out.

“Ralph’s worse than you ever said. I mean, he should have horns and a tail or something.”

“Yeah. I didn’t make the choice to bail lightly.”

“He’s scary.”

“Not to my dad he isn’t.”

We go downstairs and get coffee in the cafeteria. After fifteen minutes we return to the room, where my father is sitting by my mom’s side as she sleeps. When he looks up at us, his face looks haunted. Clearly mom hasn’t lost her ability to eat at him like a cancer.

“Come on, Dad. Let’s go back to the motel and take a nap,” I say. I look at Melody. “That’s pretty much all there is to do around here besides ride around in pickups and woohoo.”

“Sounds fascinating,” she agrees, and my father rises slowly. My heart lurches, and I wonder how he can still care for someone who’s deliberately destroying herself.

“Fair enough. We can come back tomorrow before we head out. She seems stable, doesn’t she?” he asks, as though my reassurance is important.

“Sure. There’s nothing we can do for her. She looks like she’s in good hands,” I say, which is what he wants to hear. What I really think is she’s got one foot in the grave, but I don’t say so.

The mood in the car is subdued, and Melody only brightens when I suggest there’s still enough light out to justify a couple of hours at the pool. I know she’s packed a bikini, and Melody’s never one to miss an opportunity to flaunt her charms.

We spend the rest of the afternoon by the sad little motel pool, talking to a couple of guys on leave from Afghanistan, both of whom look like they’re ready to buy Melody a new car for a chance to spend some quality time with her. I watch the proceedings with amusement – they’re taking turns hitting on me and Melody, who does nothing but encourage them even as I try to tune them out.

The sky transitions from blue to pink as the sun begins its descent behind the hills, and I beg off, using the excuse of a shower. Melody announces she’ll be in shortly, and I’m positive she’ll be sneaking out tonight to rendezvous with her new friends unless I can talk some sense into her.

When I get back to the room, my cell phone’s blinking, and I check the messages – there’s a voice mail from Saul Princeton, the head of my record label, who wants me to call tomorrow morning. He’s in Los Angeles, and he’ll be waiting for the call at nine. It’s not a request, and I make a point of remembering not to be late – he’s a bigwig in the business, and I don’t want to piss him off.

No calls from Derek. I wonder whether Jeremy’s seen him yet and given him my number, and then I remember Derek doesn’t have a phone. He’ll have to get one and buy air time, which takes time and money he might not have right now.

I take my shower, standing beneath the needle spray of hot water. My thoughts naturally turn to Derek and the vision of him toweling off, his muscles rigid beneath his skin, his body that of an athlete or a Greek god. I try to erase the memory of my covert glimpse, but like thinking about a white bear, the second anyone says, ‘Don’t think about a white bear,’ that’s all you can think about.

When I step out of the shower, I have a feeling of melancholy in my core so strong it’s like a blow, and I find myself counting the hours until I’m back on a plane in a few days, winging my way back to New York…and Derek.

My future.

The next morning I’m up early, much to Melody’s annoyance. She was out late with ‘the boys,’ enjoying their hospitality, which I’m glad I didn’t get sucked into – one of us has an important call this morning, whereas all the other has to worry about is what color lip gloss to wear.

We meet my dad at eight and walk to the restaurant, where I repeat my new favorite food after coaxing Melody to try some. My dad has an omelet, and I tell him about my call.

“I’ll probably need you to sign some more stuff for me, Dad. Like the contract and a bunch of other BS,” I say in between munching chocolate chip pancake.

“No problem. I expect my ten percent consulting fee deposited monthly,” he says with a straight face, and we both crack up.

I cut another huge chunk. “I’m pretty sure I’m going to have to sell well for the record company to pay me anything. Most of the money goes into recording and videos. I don’t see anything until all that’s paid back.” Jeremy explained the basics of a recording contract to me one night, and it sounded like one step above slavery.

“Don’t worry. I read online that most artists are making their money from merchandising and touring these days. As long as you’re out there on the road, you’ll be rolling in dough,” Melody says. “Which is where my valuable role as guidance counselor and chaperone will come in.”

“Chaperone?” I ask incredulously.

Melody gives me a sweet smile. “Sometimes the best example’s a bad one,” she says, and everyone laughs.

Back in the room I glance at my phone. It’s two minutes before nine. I tell Melody I’m headed out to the pool, which is fortunately deserted at this hour, and walk to the water’s edge before placing the call. A receptionist answers and asks me to hold, and in twenty seconds I’m on the line with Saul, who I’ve talked to twice before, once so he could congratulate me on winning, and the second time to tell me that he was a huge fan and was pulling out all the stops to make me the next Beyoncé – only bigger.

I’ve quickly gotten the hang of show business exaggeration, which is a lot like lying, only everyone seems to mean it.

“Sage, sweetheart. Have I got news for you!” Saul bellows, no greeting, no how are you, no small talk. Everything about him is bigger than life, including his reputation as a star maker.

“Great,” I say, because I can’t think of anything else.

“I was racking my brain, trying to figure out who the perfect producer would be for you, and after going round and round with some of the top names in the biz, I landed the biggest dog in town.”

“Really? Who?” I ask.

“Sebastian Stalt.”

I gasp. Even I have heard of Sebastian Stalt. He’s a musical legend who’s produced literally everyone who matters over the last five years. They don’t get any more prominent – or expensive, I’m sure. But it shows that Saul wasn’t kidding when he said he was going all out.

“Oh, my God. That’s awesome! He’s a total genius,” I say.

“That he is. And he’s got you scheduled to start preproduction in three days.”

“Three days? That’s…I mean, that’s great, but it’s so soon…” I’m not sure what I was expecting. There are millions in the balance, and every day I’m not on TV is another day for the world to forget me. In my last call with Saul, he promised he’d fast-track everything, and I realize that it’s probably best – it leaves me no time to think. Sometimes I’m my own worst enemy; left with too much downtime I’ll mess my head up to the point I won’t be able to get anything done. “I’ll get back to New York tomorrow.”

Saul pauses. “That’s not necessary. You’re in San Francisco, right? Sebastian’s studio is in Los Angeles. He’s expecting you Thursday.”

“L.A.? But I have to be in New York…” Derek’s in New York. Waiting for me to get back.

“Not anymore. Sebastian can usually turn an album by a solo artist in six to eight weeks, start to finish, if you follow his lead. So you’re going to be in Los Angeles for a little while. I’ll have my assistant rent you a place. We’ll take care of everything. Book your tickets, have a car meet you at the airport, the whole nine yards.”

Saul doesn’t sound interested in what I want. Of course, Sebastian Stalt is a one-in-a-million chance for any musician, and if he’s doing my record, it’s almost a guarantee it’ll be a smash.

And it’s only six weeks.

“I…I don’t know what to say.” Which is the truth.

“Say ‘Thank you, Uncle Saul, you’re the absolute best.’ And promise me you’ll have dinner with me and my staff when you hit town. Everyone’s crazy to meet you. We’ve got Chazz and Barber at our table for an awards thing on Friday. You should come. Tell my girl if you want to, and she’ll make sure there’s a limo to bring you.”

When I swallow, it feels like I’ve got a golf ball in my throat.

I take a deep breath. “There’s a problem, Saul. I was counting on doing the record in New York. I…I made plans to be there. I don’t think Los Angeles will work.”

Saul’s voice gets quiet, and when he speaks again, it’s like he’s explaining to a child why she can’t have a cookie until after dinner.

“Sage, I have tremendous respect for your talent. That’s no bullshit. You’re incredible. But you don’t have a choice in this. Sebastian only works in his studio – he’s got special gear that’s taken years to accumulate, and he knows every inch of the room like the back of his hand. So while I’d love to put you into any of the ten top studios in New York, I’m afraid that’s not possible. The recording has to take place in L.A., and you should be thanking God that Sebastian agreed to do it, not telling me you don’t think it’ll work. It’s your job to make it work. Figure it out.”

I seem to have lost my voice. I consider putting my foot down, but remember that I was sleeping in doorways only a couple of weeks earlier. Maybe it’s not such a smart idea to tell a man who can end my career before it starts that he can pound sand.

“I’ll find a way, then,” I manage, sounding to my ear like I just got spanked, which I kind of did.

“That’s the spirit. Trust me on this, you’re in for the ride of your life. I’m already talking to some huge names about collaborating on a couple of tunes to knock it out of the park on the first singles. Everyone’s excited.”

The rest of Saul’s blah blah blah roars in my ears, and then he transfers me to his secretary, who takes my preference for flights, makes affirmative sounds when I mention the awards show, and promises to call me back with confirmations on everything. When I hang up, I have to sit down – it feels like the ground’s tilted beneath my feet and I’m falling off the edge of the world.

It’s all too much to process in so few hours. Just a couple of days ago I was nobody; now I’m having flights and limos booked and will be hanging out with the A-list of music celebrities. I keep waiting to wake up somewhere in the park, but no luck.

Part of me is breathless at how awesome this all is – but another can only think of Derek, somewhere in New York, and me, in Clear Lake, the ass end of the world, having been told by one of music’s most powerful figures that I won’t be within twenty-five hundred miles of New York for at least a month and a half.

I sit staring at the pool, and startle as a crow lands nearby and stares at me with one beady eye, evaluating whether I have any food or am a threat. For just an instant, sitting under a warming sun, high wisps of white clouds streaked across the blue of the sky, just me and this bird for a companion, everything strikes me as funny and ironic and pointless, and I laugh, scaring the poor bird into the air with a flap of wings.

I’m still laughing ten seconds later when I realize tears are streaming down my face. I don’t know if I’m crying them for myself, or my mom, or just the silliness of random events that keep conspiring to keep Derek and me apart, always just a little more time before we can finally be alone together.

In the end I suppose it doesn’t matter.

I have a hospital visit to do, and then a long drive back to San Francisco, and then after a day visiting my old haunts and checking in with my crew, it’s off to Los Angeles so some guy named Saul can make me a star.

I stand and shake my head to clear it. When I return to the room, Melody looks cranky, which is her usual state after a late night of partying.

She looks up at me and begins to smile, but it freezes on her face when she sees my expression. “Sage, what’s wrong?”

I sigh and shake my head. “Nothing. Everything. It’s complicated.”

I tell her about the call. When I’m done, I feel a bit better, but I have no idea what I’m going to do about Derek. Melody’s no help.

“Dude, you’re going to be rubbing shoulders with megastars and working with the bomb producer while they limo your skinny ass all over town. Focus on that. Sure, it blows that Derek’s in New York, but it’s only six weeks, and an opportunity like this comes along once in a lifetime.”

“I know. I just…it just sucks that I can’t see him.”

“Maybe you can fly back after you finish your part of the recording?”

I brighten. “Maybe. Even if it’s only for a few days…”

“Or he can fly to L.A. You can buy a ticket. Crap, you can buy a plane if you want.”

“I think you’ve got the wrong idea about how much money I have,” I correct, but I’m smiling at the thought.

One way or another, we’ll find a way to be together.

One way or another.