Be Good Be Real Be Crazy (18 page)

ONCE THERE WAS A BOY
who grew up on the edge of a no-hope town (almost) smack-dab in the middle of America.

This boy had been told by many, many adults (including his own Pop and his chain-smoking Grams) that he wouldn't amount to anything. That he was, and always would be, Nobody.

Nobody was terrible at the things that typically guaranteed a way out of his no-hope town (or, at the very least, a prom date). He was rotten at football, basketball, baseball—anything, really, involving a ball. Academics weren't his strength either. He was hopeless with cars and horrible with computers.

The only time Nobody felt happy and right was on Sunday mornings between eight and ten, when he sang in the choir at the Holy Goodness of Heavenly Light Church.

When Nobody was eight, Ms. Concordia, the young, pretty choir director, gave him his first solo.

When Nobody turned ten, Ms. Concordia married the Reverend and became Mrs. Gould and offered to give him singing lessons before service on Sundays and after Bible study on Wednesdays.

When Nobody was thirteen, Pop left for the final time and Nobody decided that someday he was going to leave his no-hope town, become famous, buy his mom all the nice things she ever wanted, and never feel like Nobody again.

Nobody barely graduated from high school. College wasn't an option—not even the voc-tech would take him after he flubbed his application. But that stuff didn't matter. Not when you wanted out-for-good out, and Nobody was nothing if not patient. Sunday church performances, lessons with Mrs. Gould, and downloaded episodes of
50 States of Talent
made his job at the Dollar + Dime and living with his mom in their too-small trailer bearable.

For over a year, Nobody's life was the same pathetic routine: wake up, go to work, come home, practice, watch TV, go to sleep, and repeat.

But then
50 States of Talent
announced open tryouts in Topeka. Nobody made the three-hour drive on his own. He didn't tell his mom or Mrs. Gould what he was doing. If he failed, Nobody wanted it to be his disappointment alone.

The crazy thing was, he made it to the top ten. Then the top five. Then he was the only one left. Nobody was told to go home and pack some things, because he was flying out to
California to compete against nine other contestants on live TV.

The lady dressed in all black said ITC Entertainment would only pay for two plane tickets. Mrs. Gould said she understood. Nobody needed to take his mom. Mrs. Gould promised that the entire congregation of the Holy Goodness of Heavenly Light would send prayers for his safety and success as high as the sky could carry them.

Those prayers must have gone right up to the celestial penthouse, because, week after week, Nobody kept beating the other competitors, kept moving on to the next round.

“Your @#$%^ range is @#$% amazing! Where the #$%^ have you been #$%^& hiding?” said the music producer, who, as the “Mean Judge,” was far better known for his epic on-camera tantrums and sarcasm than he was for saying anything positive—ever.

“Young man, bless. I know your mama's here, but I just have to say that you're hotter than a tin roof in the Texas sun,” said the “Nice Judge,” whose country-singing career was enjoying an upswing due to her low-cut dresses and her high-profile divorce.

“Pleased to be doing business with you,” said the ITC Entertainment CEO, Just Call Me Jim, when he shook Nobody's hand the night he was named “America's Best Talent.”

“You'll have to move to Nashville.”

“The sooner the better.”

“Your mom can come with you, of course.”

“She's a real light packer.”

“We'll set you up with an apartment. New clothes. A roomful of guitars. Whatever you need.”

“Sounds great.”

“You're going to have stadiums of fans screaming your name. I'll make sure you have own cologne, action figure, and men's casual clothing line. You won't be able to sneeze without the paparazzi getting a picture of the snot shooting out your nose. Beautiful, talented women will want to date you and the whole #$%^ world will want to be you.”

“Don't threaten me with a good time.”

Just Call Me Jim made good on his promises—and then some.

Somewhere in between moving from the (almost) middle of America to the center of the country's music metropolis and his first album going platinum, Nobody stopped being Nobody.

He'd become Somebody instead.

APOLLO ACES, INTERNATIONAL POP
star
and the media's favorite crooning bad boy, was a man of his word. When Homer looked outside Einstein's window two and a half hours later, Apollo was leaning against the giant SUV, a baseball cap hiding his face. He was typing on his phone.

“He's here.” Homer looked at Einstein and Sid. They'd been sitting side by side on the bed since the nurse had given Homer Einstein's discharge papers. Both of them were dressed head to toe in Apollo Aces apparel. Homer looked down at his own outfit. He'd decided his jeans didn't reek too badly, but he knew the combination of Apollo Aces socks, boxers, T-shirt, and sweatshirt was still over the top.

“What now?” Einstein asked as he swung his legs impatiently.

Homer glanced at his phone. “Now we go to Grace Mountains.”

“So,” Apollo said after they'd turned out of the hospital drive. “Where you guys from?”

“Florida,” Einstein said. He kept sliding back on the overstuffed backseat, no matter how much he tried to scramble forward. “Sid's from Delaware. He's homeschooled.”

Apollo laughed. “I'm sorry, man. I hated high school, but still, home school sounds kinda boring.”

Sid looked up from examining the countless buttons on the back of the center console. “It is.”

“You drove all the way up from Florida for a conference?”

“Not exactly,” Einstein replied. Homer glanced back at his brother. He looked like a satisfied king sitting on a throne. “We really drove up for a girl. The conference was my condition for accompanying Homes.”

“A girl?” Apollo swiped the baseball cap off his head and tossed it on the dashboard. “She must be something.”

Sid's face appeared between the front seats. “Her name's Mia.”

“Sid, man. Put your seat belt back on,” Homer said, watching Sid until he saw him click his seat belt.

“Fine, but as soon as we hit New Hampshire, I am not legally bound to wear a seat belt.”

“Sure.” Apollo glanced in the rearview mirror. “But if you don't want to walk, I suggest you keep it on.” He turned his eyes back to the road. “So, where's Mia now?”

Homer scratched his head. “It's a long story.”

“And we've got over four hours of drive time, so start at the beginning.”

Homer leaned forward. Dropped his head to his chest. Inhaled. Exhaled. And began talking. “After the first time I met her, before I knew her name, in my head I called her the Anywhere Girl. . . .”

And for the second time in fewer than twenty-four hours, Homer found himself spilling his story to an understanding stranger.

It would have been easy to miss Grace Mountains completely. The last two hours of the drive were all twisting two-lane roads dotted with potholes that felt large enough and deep enough to swallow a whole car—never mind one or two tires.

By the time Apollo crept by a green road sign that read “Grace Mountains: Two Miles,” it was impossible to see anything that wasn't directly lit by the SUV's headlights. Between Sid's snack stops and Einstein's bathroom breaks and traffic once they got on the Kancamagus Highway, the trip had taken twice as long as it should have.

The clouds covered the moon like a piece of clothing carelessly thrown over a lamp, causing buildings to look like boulders and street signs to be unreadable. The glaring whiteness of the snow on the ground made the black of the night that much darker. And every hotel, motel, bed-and-breakfast, or inn they passed had a “No Vacancy” sign up.

“Einstein,” Homer said with a yawn. “How many people come to this conference?”

“Lots,” Einstein replied, his voice heavy with sleepiness. “Lots and lots.”

They had to drive two towns away to find a motel with free rooms.

“Sorry,” Homer said once he and Apollo had collected their keys from the apathetic woman at the front desk. “This is probably not what you're used to.”

“Nah, don't be.” Apollo tossed his key up and caught it. “Fancy places all blur together. This one's”—Apollo looked at the flickering neon “Open” sign over the entrance for registration—“memorable. Reminds me of the place I grew up. Actually, this whole drive, I've been thinking about how long it's been since I've been in that town.” He laughed. “Crazy, right? I spent most of my life figuring a way out and now I feel like I owe it to myself to go back.”

“Believe me,” Homer said, his footsteps falling into the same rhythm as Apollo's as they crossed the frosted parking lot to the SUV where Sid and Einstein were asleep in the backseat, “there are wackier reasons people end up where they do.”

On December twentieth, Homer, Einstein, and Sid discovered firsthand how difficult it could be to wake up a pop star who was used to sleeping past noon. The sun was already high in the sky before they got back to Grace Mountains.

“This place is a circus, man,” Apollo said as they crept along Main Street that afternoon. “Reminds me of the scene before one of my concerts.”

“There's a woman in a tutu and . . . alien ears?” Sid pressed a finger against the SUV window. “Three people dressed as robots. Everyone else looks like Einstein in ten years.” Sid slumped down in his seat.

“Ha. Ha. Very funny.” Einstein didn't look up from his phone. “Okay, Apollo. You want to take this right turn once all the people are out of the way.”

“Aye, aye.” Apollo saluted and then gunned the SUV through the first break in the stream of conference attendees.

The road Einstein directed them down became dirt just a few yards after the turn. After the second bend, it led to a weathered barn that guarded a sprawling farmhouse twenty or so feet behind it.

Einstein saw her first. Then Sid. And, finally, Homer turned his head to see what they were gasping about.

And there she was.

This time, there was no pausing.

This time, the universe spun like it hung at the end of a twisted rope.

“Ah, Apollo, you can drop us off here. This is it.” Homer pointed to a wooden sign, half hidden by the branches of a winter-naked bush: “Welcome to I-9 Institute for the Study of Probable Doom, Existential Risks, and Apocalyptic Possibilities.”

The barn couldn't have been higher than three stories, but its shadow seemed to stretch all the way from the building's sunken base to the beginning of a dirt parking lot where Mia stood, her arms crossed and her fruit-punch hair made even brighter by the bareness of the trees behind her.

Apollo shifted the car into park. “Is that her?” He pointed outside Homer's window.

“Yup.” Homer undid his seat belt and hopped out of the car. Sid and Einstein were already standing side by side looking at their feet in the dirt. Homer turned to say good-bye to Apollo, but the driver's seat was empty.

“Hug it out, man.” Apollo strode around the front of the car, flipped his cap backward, and pulled Homer into a hug. “Stay good. All right? World needs good guys.”

“Yeah,” Homer said, stunned. “You, too.”

Apollo hugged Einstein. “Stay real, genius. Keep saving other guys' moms.”

Then Sid. “Hey, man, you keep crazy. Okay? Gotta let that enthusiasm flow. It's a beautiful thing.”

Finally, he turned and crossed the dirt to where Mia was leaning against the Banana's trunk. He shook Mia's hand and said something to her, but the only words Homer could make out were “Be kind.”

As Apollo jogged back to the SUV, he shouted, “It's been real, but I gotta split. You have my number. That means you keep in touch. You guys ever want concert tickets . . . whatever.
You got it.” Then he hopped in the car, honked the horn, and disappeared down the dirt drive.

“Was that who I think it was?” Mia asked softly as she walked toward them.

“Long story,” Einstein said.

“Awesome story,” Sid added.

“Sid and I are going to look around,” Einstein said, pointing toward the barn.

“We are?”

“Yup.” Einstein punched Homer lightly on the arm with one hand and clapped Sid on the back with the other. Then he and Sid crunched over the frozen grass and Homer was alone with Mia.

“I brought back the Banana.”

“I see.”

Mia shuffled her feet and wrapped her arms around her chest. Looked up. Looked down. “I came back for you. The grumpy guy at the parking lot said he didn't know anything. The lady at the diner said she hadn't worked the night shift. Then I went back to Trisha's just in case you'd gone there, and to the beach. But—”

“How'd you know to come here?”

“Einstein's been talking about this conference for months.”

“Oh.”

“Homer, I—” Mia swept her foot back and forth across the ground.

“It's fine, Mia.” Homer saw Einstein and Sid appear around the corner. “I think I get it now.”

Then the side door to the barn at the end of a brick walkway opened and a man in a white lab coat stuck his head out. “You kids know we aren't doing tours today, right? You should have seen that in the conference packet.” His voice was high, almost to the point of being squeaky.

“But we drove all the way from Florida,” Einstein said, stopping next to Sid a few feet from the door. “And I have a broken wrist.”

The man looked Einstein up and down, then sighed. “Oh, come on in. I'll see if we can make an exception. No use freezing your molecules off out here.”

“Ha. Get it? Molecules off.” Sid was the first one through the door, followed closely by Einstein. Homer didn't turn around to see if Mia was coming, but he heard one more set of footsteps follow him in.