Best Of Everything (27 page)

I look at the prices and shake my head. “I was thinking more like Walmart…”

“See? Excuses. Time to step up. I can’t let you be seen like this anymore. The embarrassment’s too much.”

We go in and let a snooty young man show us the backpack options. He’s almost sneering as he answers my questions, and I just about gag when he tells me the price of the one I like most – a Tumi with a lifetime guarantee.

Melody shames me into buying it, although even with a discount it’s shockingly expensive.

“You’re going to be using it for years, Sage. Stop being so damned cheap.”

“Frugal. I prefer frugal.”

“Well, okay, Miss Frugal, let’s go take public transportation so you can play to a sold-out crowd in Concord tonight, where you’ll probably make what most people do in a year just off merchandise.”

“I think you’ve got the wrong idea about how much I’m making.”

“Really? How much
are
you making?”

That stops me. I realize I have no idea of the specifics. They just haven’t been important, especially on the road, where everything’s kind of on automatic pilot and covered out of the per diem Amber doles out once a week – in my case, $500 for food, which seems like silly money given the places I eat.

“I don’t really know. But I’ll spend it once it’s in the bank, not before. I’ve seen too many stories about celebrities who blew everything and are broke.”

Melody gives me a sidelong glance. “You do understand the difference between buying a five-hundred-dollar backpack and buying his-and-hers Bentleys to take you to your private jet, right? I mean, you get that there’s somewhere between McD’s and the Ritz?”

“I know. I just feel really defensive right now. It’s all happening so fast…”

She takes my arm and we exit the store. “Then enjoy the ride, baby. Don’t sweat it. I got your back.”

I find it amusing to ride BART, my hat and shades in place, and nobody knows who I am. Melody draws all the admiration. I prefer to be invisible, as always, although now I’m totally self-conscious about the backpack, wondering if anyone will recognize it as expensive and think I’m a snob or something.

Nobody seems to care.

The motel is about a mile from the venue, a typical two-story dump that’s charging a hundred bucks a night for a room that’s worth twenty, tops. It’s only slightly better than the place in Daly City, and Melody isn’t warming up to the realities of being on tour.

“What, did you piss off your record company or something? Why are they putting you in these hellholes?”

“Builds character?” I guess. There are two beds, a bathroom, and a postage-stamp-sized TV, but it beats my choices six months ago. I glance at the time. “Sound check’s at 6:00. That gives us half an hour to get there.”

“First we have to burn your old backpack.”

“I want to keep it as a souvenir.”

“No, you don’t. I know you. You’ll keep using it, thinking your new one’s too nice to get all dirty or whatever. So we have to give the old one a proper burial. It’s going into the dumpster, one way or another.”

“When did you get so hard?”

“Tough love, baby. Someone’s gotta school you.”

My old backpack gets dumped into the garbage after I transfer its contents into the new one, and I do my best to view it as a metaphor for change rather than the loss of a trusted old friend. Fortunately there’s no time to dwell on it, because Amber is already knocking on the door to announce that the van’s here to take us to the show.

Melody changes tops three times before deciding on a hot pink twin of the one she’s wearing. After a fluffing of her hair, she’s good to go, her necessities in the clutch purse suspended from her flawless caramel shoulder by a thin strap.

The band talks animatedly on the ride to the stadium. They did their busking in downtown Concord and got rousted by the cops, which was a new experience. I don’t tell them that the fun, edgy sense of excitement of the borderline-outlaw behavior is the daily fear of someone underage living on the street.

Melody seems disappointed there’s no Ashton hovering backstage during sound check. He mentioned at the end of the night that he’d be heading back to L.A. today, and reminded me twice I had his number. He’s a very cute and a sweet guy, but I’m never going to call, which I think he finally figured out. I consider giving the number to Melody, but why ruin her perfect maybe-or-maybe-not relationship with Sebastian by putting impossible choices in her path?

We have a teriyaki chicken salad dinner in the dressing room, which is surprisingly good by tour food standards, and then it’s time for the show. Melody accompanies me to the stage and stands just out of view of the audience, her backstage pass glinting between her boobs like a CSI cop badge. Before I know it, we’ve done an encore and are offstage, toweling perspiration from our faces as the road crew rolls our gear away.

Melody and I make our way back to the dressing room. We’re almost at the door when a voice I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to forget calls out from my right.

“Sage!”

It’s Ralph. I have no idea how he got past the guards. I look around for security but nobody’s nearby, and Melody’s just catching on to the idea that something’s wrong when he reaches me.

“Nice of you to invite me to your show when you’re in town.”

Wheels turn in my head with an audible click, and I realize what’s been nagging at me about the radio caller: it was Ralph, trying to disguise his voice. I’m sure of it, but my face stays frozen in place.

“How did you get back here?”

“I explained to the nice people that I’m your stepfather.” He grins, and it reminds me of vultures circling roadkill. “I must say, you’ve got everyone fooled.”

“Melody? Go find Amber, would you? Or anyone.”

Melody seems to get two inches taller. “Last time we met, you were trying to take a swing at her. What are you doing here?”

“I don’t answer to cheap whores.”

“Probably because you’re a broke-ass loser,” Melody fires back.

Ralph visibly stiffens and takes a step forward. “You think you’re such hot shit, don’t you?”

I don’t back down. “That was you on the radio, wasn’t it? You know they track the numbers, right?”

“Moron,” Melody adds helpfully.

I see a flicker of doubt in his eyes, and then he’s all anger and menace. “You little bitch–”

I wave over a two-hundred-pound roadie, one of Bruno’s crew, and he sees the expression on my face as he approaches. He pulls his long black anodized aluminum flashlight from his belt, and I step back so I won’t get splattered with blood if it gets uglier.

“What’s up, Sage?”

“Hey, Tom. This clown managed to get backstage. Would you introduce him to security and make sure I never see him again?” I say, my voice a few notes higher than normal. “He’s threatening me.”

Tom, whose bulk resembles an industrial freezer, grabs Ralph’s arm. “Time to say nighty-night, punkass.”

Ralph tries to shrug off his grip, but that’s like trying to brush off an avalanche. His expression goes dark and he snarls at me. “You have no idea who you’re dealing with.”

“Yeah, but I’m not drunk and desperate, so to me you’re just some pathetic trailer trash who snuck backstage. Tom? Toss him. And ask security how this lowlife managed to get backstage in the first place.”

Tom jerks Ralph roughly by the arm, and I can see his face flush at being manhandled. Tom could break Ralph in two without missing a beat, so it’s no contest. A uniformed security guard finally notices the altercation and rushes over, and then Ralph’s being hauled away, leaving me shaking.

“Dude, what is up with psycho there?” Melody asks, unfazed.

“He just frigging hates me. And today? The caller? That was him. I knew there was something familiar about the way he talked. Probably had a towel over the phone or something to muffle his voice.”

“How did your mom ever put up with such a douche?”

“She was drunk all the time,” I say. Simple.

“I’ve never been that wasted. Ew.”

“I know.” I watch Ralph being half-dragged to the exit, a sick feeling in my stomach. Memories of my mom’s diary spring to mind, where she tries to defend his behavior with elaborate rationalizations. Melody nailed it, no deep thinking required. The man’s a douche bag who views every success I have as a slap in the face. Which makes me want to continue doing well for years to come so the acid in his stomach eats him alive – the best revenge I can imagine.

“Well, out with that garbage,” Melody says, eyeing her phone. She’s been taking photos of herself with everyone and anyone, and barraging social media with the images. “Oh. Crap.”

“What?”

“There’s a bunch of photos of us at the club up on Facebook. Check it out.” She hands me the phone, and there we are. I look like I’m practically sitting in Ashton’s lap. My heart sinks as I imagine how Derek’s going to feel when he sees them, which I know he will.

I hand her back the phone and we return to the dressing room, where I call Derek. No answer. Of course not. It’s his first show – he was on three hours ago, so now he’s doing the backstage post-show thing, which can go all night. I leave a message, but feel like a dork while I do.

“Hey. Hope you got the flowers. I’m sure you blew everyone away. I’ve been thinking about you all day.” I consider saying something about the photos, but decide not to. Anything will sound hollow and defensive. “Call me. My phone’s on.”

I hang up and can feel myself deflate even as I turn to Melody. “Derek didn’t pick up. I hope his first show went well.”

“I’m sure it did. He’s incredible.” But she sounds uninterested. I can only hope that the rest of the world’s reaction to Derek’s debut is more excited than Melody’s.

“You’ve got Internet on your phone. See if you can find his video,” I ask.

Two minutes later we’re watching him standing on a cliff, waves crashing below, his hair blown back as he sings his single. Melody looks hard at me.

“Rowr. And you’ve got a piece of that?”

“What did you think?”

“He could be doing an in-flight instruction video and I’d want a copy for home use.”

“I mean of the song.”

“Oh. Well, it’s a hit, of course. I mean look at him. Seriously. How is that not going to be huge?”

My heart swells. I hope she’s right. Derek deserves it. I can’t imagine a better future than the two of us together on equal footing.

“He does look amazing.”

“Beyond amazing,” Melody confirms. “I can see why you aren’t interested in Ashton. I mean, he’s a ten, but Derek’s like a whole ’nother level.”

I swallow the lump in my throat and nod. “Yes, he is.”

Melody elbows me. “And look at you with your bad self. He’s all yours.”

I consider my misgivings from the prior night and nod again, wishing Derek had answered his phone, or at least would call me back.

Chapter 34

The show finishes late. Bruno takes three encores, and Melody refuses to leave until we’ve chilled with him for an hour after the show, which he seems totally cool with. Part of me is seriously glad that she’s only going to be with me through Sacramento – much as I love her, hanging out with Melody is more exhausting than my public appearance schedule.

The part where I’m all starstruck and have the urge to party till dawn has never hit me, but I can see it burning like a fever in Melody’s eyes. I completely get why it’s so exciting for her – she hasn’t had to do all the work to get here or seen the uglies behind the curtain, so it’s all magical and party time for her. But for me it’s running a mental inventory of what I need to do tomorrow, which in this case is the two-hour drive to Sacramento, an appearance at a mall, sound check, then the show.

And of course…the bus. I told the band earlier, and they were completely blown away. They’ve been on buses before, of course, but they had no expectation of moving up to that level so early in the tour.

I call Derek again, but it goes to voice mail and I don’t leave a message. I decide to text instead and just send him two words:
Miss you
.

I know it’s completely sappy, but for some reason tonight’s harder than most. I’d do anything to have him here beside me as I sit sipping soda while Melody knocks back champagne backstage, Bruno’s band and a bevy of girls lingering in the massive dressing room until all the booze is gone.

“You going to hang with us again tonight?” Bruno asks halfheartedly, and Melody gives me a hopeful look.

I shake my head. “No, thanks, Bruno. Looks like you’ve got your hands full,” I say, eyeing the girls.

Melody leans into me. “Come on, Sage. We’re on tour.”

I sigh. “No, Melody. I’m beat from last night. I want to hit it. If you want, you can stick around, but I’m outta here.”

She does her best pout but stands. “No, I’ll go with you. I’m here to hang with you, even if that means staring at the motel ceiling.”

“You’re a true friend.”

“Remember that when you’re hiring property managers for your Malibu beach house.”

My band is still in our dressing room, and Melody and I poke our heads in and say good night before heading for the exit. Amber’s talking to Bruno’s road manager near the stage door, and I tell her we’re calling it a night and ask her to see if our driver will give us a lift in the van back to the motel. She disappears for a few minutes, and when she returns, tells us the van will be by the exit in five minutes.

Fortunately we’re not swarmed as we leave. There are barricades set up to contain the crowd and a line of burly security guards standing with arms crossed to keep anyone thinking about trying to get past the barrier from doing so. When the van arrives we slip into the back, and it grinds its way through the guard gate and onto the rear access road.

“So what do you think? Day two of your tour?” I ask Melody.

She stares through the window for a few seconds. “I kinda miss Sebastian.”

“Welcome to my world.”

I completely sympathize with what Melody’s going through. The long-distance thing sucks big time, even if both people are completely committed to making it work. With Sebastian, where there’s an obvious question mark, even more so.