Less Than Nothing (29 page)

The mood backstage is lighter this week, and the show’s arranged for a few food platters, as well as buckets of soda, water, and beer. It’s a nice touch, and we all interpret it as a hopeful sign – the show’s a ratings hit, which guarantees we’re all getting maximum exposure. Besides Derek and me, two of the other favored contestants have been doing the media rounds, and Jeremy told me earlier that he’s been asked to do some appearances after this show, too. Provided, of course, that he makes it through.

Derek cracks open a beer, and I cringe inwardly. There’s no reason for him not to have a beer – it’s practically a requirement for rock bands – and I try to ignore my inner dialogue, which is anything but Helen’s ideal of nonjudgmental acceptance. I busy myself with changing the strings on my guitar, and hold my tongue when he fishes a second bottle from the ice and opens it a few minutes later.

Jeremy gets a call on his cell. When he hangs up, his face is ashen.

“What’s wrong, Jeremy?” I ask.

“That was my roommate. Or I should say, my former roommate. He’s moving out tonight.”

“Nice timing. But you’ve seen that coming for a while,” I say.

“Yeah, but it’s one thing to suspect, another to know. Oh well. I’ll deal with the fallout later. Right now, it’s on with the show.”

He moves to the food tray and prepares himself a cracker with a slice of salami and Swiss cheese, and I commiserate with him – nothing in life is ever easy.

Then the contest’s underway, and soon it’s our turn.

If anyone ever says that you get used to having thousands of people screaming your name, it’s a total lie. At least I haven’t. I offer a wave and a smile as I take my stool, and Derek does a little two-step swagger before he sits, which has the females in the audience hooting and cheering. He’s a favorite, for sure, and I’m surprised that I get as big a hand as he does. I still feel like an impostor, but less than before, and my confidence is slowly building with all the appearances.

The judges are smiling in anticipation, which is a good sign. It’s like they’re pulling for us. But I don’t kid myself. Everyone has favorites, but they’re going to be equally hard on each contestant, especially Martin, who seems to revel in his acerbic personality and cynical one-liners.

We start the song, and I’m amazed at the reaction. On the street, we’d be lucky to get a dollar per song. Here, it’s like we can do no wrong, and when I hit a particularly impressive harmony riff, the crowd goes nuts.

I’m beaming when we finish – it feels like we hit a home run. The judges’ expressions confirm my take. We get a perfect score again, with the only negative comment by Martin, who says he’d like to see something that really pushes us more on the next round – whatever that means.

Jeremy’s waiting when we get offstage. He’s enthusiastic we’re doing so well, but is visibly nervous about his performance, which I know by now is one of his neurotic tics. He’ll snap out of it a few minutes before he goes on, and by the time he’s in the spotlight, he’ll be a hundred percent confident. He reminds me of myself in that uncertainty, that doubt about his abilities. It’s one of his most endearing qualities.

His performance winds up being the only other perfect score of the night, and he’s glowing when he comes offstage and hugs me. Derek gives him a high five and toasts him with his beer – his fourth, not that I’m counting. Much.

We do our obligatory exit interviews with the gushing hosts, who by now have the easy familiarity that comes with doing this with us every week. When we leave the theater, I’m shocked by the throng at the backstage door – at least thirty people, most of them girls my age or a little older, waiting for our autographs. I just assume they’re there for Derek, but to my surprise they seem to be mostly interested in mine, and I realize they’re identifying with me – the girl from the street who’s beating the odds.

One of them has a copy of the
Tattler
for me to sign, and when it’s her turn, she smiles shyly and covers her mouth automatically to hide her braces.

“Make it to Vickie, please,” she says. “So when’s the date?”

For a moment I don’t know what she’s talking about, and then I remember Melody’s synopsis of the article.

“Don’t believe everything you read,” I say. She seems crestfallen, and I wish I’d thought of something nicer to say. She had no way of knowing she was touching a nerve.

We finally get clear of the fans, and Derek flags down a taxi – walking down the sidewalk, guitars in hand, doesn’t seem like a very professional way to leave. When we’re in the car, Derek names one of the Italian restaurants in Little Italy, and the driver pulls away, engrossed in a ball game on the radio. He makes a sharp right turn, and I slide against Derek, who catches me. We both laugh, and then we’re staring at each other, and…before I know what’s happening, he’s leaning into me and his lips are pressed against mine.

Time seems to slow and compress. My entire awareness becomes that connection, our mouths joined, his tongue gently probing mine, our heavy breathing. I marvel at how good it feels to have him like this, to feel his need, his emotion, his tenderness as he caresses the side of my neck with his hand. I make a small sound in my throat and shudder. The touch of his tongue, his full, soft lips, and the dusting of stubble on his jaw stroking across my skin send a thrill of anticipation through me, and all I can think of is my memory of him in the shower.

He pulls me closer, and I groan. The feel of his arms, his chest, everything about him is as perfect as I’d imagined. No, better – I couldn’t have dreamed how his touch would create such a powerful urgency, a hunger I never thought could exist. I wish more than anything that we weren’t in this taxi, because right now my body’s taking over and my mind seems to just be along for the ride.

The cab hits a bump, and we part, and then Derek’s gazing at me from only a few inches away, as if studying every detail of my face. I raise my lips to his again, but he pulls away and shakes his head. His exhalation is so loud it startles me.

“What’s wrong, Derek?”

“This…we weren’t…this is wrong, Sage. We agreed.” His voice is tight.

“If it’s so wrong, why does it feel so good?” I ask and lean closer.

He shakes his head again and says my name softly. “Sage. No.”

I sigh and sit back, the moment gone. He takes my hand, but I’m still lost in the warm sea of our kiss, and all I can think is that I want him, I want him, I want him now. When he speaks again, he’s so quiet it doesn’t sound like his voice. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.”

I look at him with rebellious eyes. “I’m not sorry at all. You say it’s wrong, and maybe you’re right, but I don’t care. I’m glad…and I want you to do it again. And again.”

He nods but looks away. “That makes two of us. But we have to wait, Sage. Three more weeks. That’s all. It’ll be over in no time.”

“No, it won’t. It’ll take forever. Like every minute’s an hour.” I stop, catching my breath, willing the roaring in my ears to quiet. “How can you be so sure this is wrong? Nothing’s ever felt righter.”

“God, Sage. Don’t you see? That’s the whole problem. I don’t know whether it’s wrong or not. But if we’re wrong and things change, we lose. Do you really want to risk everything we’ve accomplished now that we’re so close? Our entire future over a lousy three weeks?”

I can’t think. I can’t do anything but feel the tingling in my body and the warm throbbing in my core Derek’s stirred. I touch my lips with my fingers and then drop my hand.

“Maybe you’re right, Derek. But right now it doesn’t feel that way. Can we just not talk about it anymore? If we’re not going to…if we have to last another three weeks, let’s do our best to make it easy on both of us, okay? Don’t kiss me anymore. Don’t hug me, don’t look at me like you’re doing right now…just keep it platonic.” I struggle to keep the tremor out of my voice. “Because I can’t keep doing this, and I can’t promise anything if you kiss me again. You may have the willpower of a saint, but I don’t. I’ll admit it. I’m weak.”

He smiles and nods. “Deal. Again. I’m sorry. I have weak moments, too. It’s not only you.”

I stare off at the New York streets blurring by, and when I speak, it’s almost a whisper. “But Derek, when you’re weak, it crushes my heart. And I can’t take it anymore.” I close my eyes, suddenly exhausted. “I want this to be over so we can get on with our lives. This completely sucks.”

He pats my leg gently. “We agree on something. I’ll be counting the seconds till the finals. Guaranteed.”

I nod, my throat aching. “Me too.”

The next two days are tense. We’re looking for ways to avoid each other, which is easier said than done in a three-hundred-square-foot studio apartment. After lunch, I spend my afternoon shopping with Jeremy, who’s stressing pretty badly over his roommate’s departure. He’s making windfall money from his few appearances, but it’s still not a good situation. I sympathize with him over sushi, and then buy two new pairs of pants, a pair of skate shoes, and three new tops – and a lot of underwear, none of it suitable for daytime TV.
Color me optimistic
, I think as I pay the cashier, who doesn’t seem to notice how uncomfortable I am.

We have a day off after the show, and the next night we’re booked on a late talk show with a British host with a wicked sense of humor. We play a song and then banter with him for the usual two minutes, and bam, it’s over. I almost feel guilty we’re getting paid so much for a total of five minutes of time, but only almost.

The security guard at the stage door holds it open for us, and there’s a small group of autograph seekers waiting. We start signing, and as we’re finishing, I feel Derek stiffen next to me. I look up, but only see a few stragglers waiting their turn.

“What’s wrong?” I murmur, smiling for the fans. He doesn’t answer and instead sets his gig bag down and rushes to hug a man who’s grinning ear to ear. The guy looks kind of familiar in a vague way, but I can’t place him. I sign another autograph, and Derek turns to me, smiling.

“Sage, I want you to meet someone special. This is my brother Mike.”

I see now in the gloom he’s wearing a uniform. Sergeant’s stripes. Mike’s heavier set than Derek, more like a weight lifter, but the same square jaw. I squint to see his eye color but can’t make it out.

“Nice to meet you, Mike,” I say as we shake hands.

“My pleasure. Wow. You’re smaller than you look on TV.”

I take that as a compliment. “Yeah, the camera adds a few inches here and there.” So much for small talk, which I’m terrible at.

Derek slaps him on the back. “What’re you doing in New York?”

“I took a few days I’ve been hoarding and decided it’s time to see my rich and famous brother.”

Mike smirks, and I see Derek in him. Alike, but different. Derek’s way better-looking, I think, but then again, I’m biased.

“Dude. That’s awesome! Where are you staying?”

“Some dive hotel that’s charging a fortune for a shoebox near Union Square.” Mike studies me for several seconds. “What are you guys doing now?”

I shrug, and Derek takes over. “We’re done here. We were just going to go grab a late bite and head home. You want to come?”

“I flew all the way from North Carolina to see you. Of course I want to come.” Mike looks to me. “Do you mind?”

I smile sweetly at Derek. “Not at all. One more friend’s always welcome.”

Mike eyes Derek with a slight frown, but Derek ignores me, which is probably smart. He puts his arm around his brother and pulls him close. “Come on, hoss. First round’s on me.”

We go to the restaurant where we had dinner with Jeremy, and the waiter recognizes us. He seats us at a corner table, and we order pasta and a carafe of the house wine. My mind darts back to the last time we were here, which was followed by our first kiss, and I feel wistful and a little angry. That seems so long ago, yet it was only three weeks. And here we are again, with no progress made on the Derek front.

I excuse myself to use the bathroom, and when I come back, half the carafe is already gone. Apparently both Derek and his brother can really put it away. Then I see their faces – Derek’s is tense, and Mike looks like he’s in shock. Mike rubs a shaking hand over his face, and I get a sick feeling.

“When?” he asks, his voice hoarse, and he looks like he’s going to cry.

“It’ll be a year in October. October seventh,” Derek says, his eyes moist.

“God damn it,” Mike spits, and I figure it out. Derek told me he hadn’t talked to his brother since he enlisted.

Which means he didn’t know about his younger brother overdosing.

My heart feels like it’s tearing in two, but there’s nothing I can do, and I realize I’m an intruder in a conversation that shouldn’t include me. I mutter something about having to make a call and retreat to the bathroom, where I text Melody.

Hey. How goes it?

Melody:
Just watching the recording again. Damn, your man’s hot.

Me:
Not my man yet.

Melody:
U better close the deal before I come to New York to visit.

Me:
Are U for real coming?

Melody:
If U make it 2 the finals. Looks like a lock.