Less Than Nothing (5 page)

“Well, I’m thinking a little more practically than that.” I don’t tell her about the shirtless fantasy. She’s staring at me with the X-ray eyes, and I don’t need to.

“You totally have the hots for him, don’t you?”

“Melody, come on,” I say, not very convincing even to my ear.

“You don’t want him, bring him on over to Mama. I’ll give him some a that Latina somethin’ somethin’. Baby got back!” she says, and now she’s standing too, doing a bump and grind that would shame most pro strippers.

“Can you hold off for a minute? I have a real problem here.”

She gives me a disgusted pout and plops back down. “Fine. Make it all about you.” She pauses and gets serious. “What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know. I mean, he made it sound like a no-lose situation to try it for half a day.”

“But…?”

“But I’ve never done it with someone else.”

Melody rolls her eyes. “Are we back on your nonexistent sex life? What happened to your problem?”

“You know what I mean. Singing. I’ve never done a duet.”

She shrugs. “So what’s the big deal? You sing. He sings. You do harmonies or whatever. People either like it or they don’t. What’s the big deal?”

Crap. She sounds like Derek now. I realize I’ve been working myself up to find the courage to tell him no tomorrow, and I wonder why I’m so averse to giving it a try. In theory, it isn’t a huge leap. It’s just that when he’s right there, in the flesh, theory goes out the window.

“It’s just…I mean, it’s distracting.
He’s
distracting.”

Her eyes narrow to slits. “Girl, you
have
got it bad for him, don’t you? Get it over with and ride him round the block.”

“That’s exactly the kind of advice I was hoping for. Bang my brains out with the runaway I just met.”

She looks distracted. “Maybe I should change my dating pool. I should come by tomorrow and see what this guy looks like. From your reaction, he’s like
Walking Dead
hot.”

Melody’s got this thing for Norman Reedus. The age difference doesn’t seem to matter to her. For a moment I struggle for the right words – Derek has some of that same quality, and I don’t want Melody making a complicated situation worse.

But why is it complicated? I mean, he just wants to make some money, right?

“So what should I do?” I ask.

“Get him drunk and show him how we do it in the big city.”

“Melody…”

“Or try singing with him for the day and see how it goes.”

“For the record, Seattle’s a big city too.”

“Did you ask him where he’s staying?”

“No.”

“What’s his story?”

“I don’t know,” I confess.

“Wait. So this hot mystery guy just shows up in your life, wants to get it on with you, and you don’t ask like all the important questions?”

“He doesn’t want to get it on with me,” I say, sounding defensive as I sit back down. “I mean, I don’t think so.” I tell her about the harmonica and me spilling coffee.

“Oh, he totally has the hots for you. The old harmonica trick. Rowr.” She waggles her tongue, which is pierced, and manages to make it so lascivious I can’t help but crack up. We both explode into giggles, and she pushes herself toward me. “Ahhhlahhhlahhha,” she gurgles, thrusting her tongue around like a frenzied anteater. That makes us both howl even more, and by the time we’ve calmed down I’ve got tears streaming down my cheeks.

“That’s it. No more sugar for you. You’re cut off,” I say as Melody’s fighting for breath.

“Ahhhlahhhlahhhhaaaaahhhh!”

It’s just so frigging funny. I almost pee my pants, and now I’m gasping, too. It feels good to laugh this much, and I realize I haven’t been doing a lot of laughing lately.

We manage to calm down eventually, and she shrugs. “I say go for it. See what happens. Ride that wild wind, baby. It’s not like your picking names for the twins.” A pause. “Unless he’s so distracting you can’t keep your hands off him.”

“It’s not like that.”

Melody’s face could be cut from stone. “Of course it isn’t.”

“Really.”

“Uh-huh.”

I reach out and pull her arm toward me and look at her watch. “Your mom’s going to be home any second.”

We both leap off the couch, and I hurry to the door. I gather my stuff, and Melody hugs me.

“You look way better in those sweats than I ever did. Even if your ass is too skinny.”

“Thanks for letting me borrow them.”

“Just don’t let Derek see you in those, or you’ll be in real trouble.”

“Thanks, Mel.”

When we get to the door, she stares into my eyes as if searching for something. “So what are you going to do?”

I sigh. “I have absolutely no idea.”

After splurging on two slices of pizza, I spend my evening washing my clothes at the most run-down Laundromat in history, a ritual I perform every ten days or so. I travel light, mainly because I don’t have much, but also because if you seem to have too much, you’re a target for other street people, who will gladly steal your shit without a second’s hesitation. It’s one of the constant problems I face, especially with Yam. Even as beat up as it is, it’s probably worth a hundred bucks at least, which is a fortune on the street.

Nighttime can be pretty scary. I’ve got a routine, a few different places where I can sleep for a few hours before I move on. I’m constantly on the lookout for threats, and by now it’s second nature – other homeless, gangs, rapists, derelicts, police.

There are a couple of places in Golden Gate Park and the panhandle green that are secluded and where I haven’t had any problems, but I never stay in the same place for long, because then I’m predictable, and I don’t want to be. I usually try to stay up till one in the morning, then crash for an hour or two, then move again. It’s a routine that can wear you down, but I’ve never needed that much sleep, and I’m used to it by now.

My last two hours of slumber take place after dawn, at a bus stop where there’s a bench I can dominate. I’ve gotten so accustomed to sleeping sitting up, leaning against my guitar case so nobody can lift it while I’m out, that there’s a permanent indentation in it from my shoulder and head.

When I come to, I begin my trudge to my spot and stop at a bagel shop for a large coffee and a blueberry bagel – I’ve still got six dollars and change left over from last night, so I’m feeling flush. That quickly dwindles to two, and after devouring my breakfast, I count out the change and part with half for a refill, leaving me a buck and pennies.

It dawns on me for the millionth time that there’s not much of a future in my lifestyle, but I don’t see any way out. I won’t do what so many girls I’ve met have done to support themselves – there are some lines I won’t cross. Then again, so many of them have drug habits it’s not surprising they’re turning tricks. Even with the drop in the price of heroin and crack over the last five years, it can easily run a hundred or more per day to get by, and there aren’t a lot of options for underage runaways trying to disappear.

I’m lucky I at least have a skill to fall back on. Not that it’s a particularly profitable one. But it beats the alternatives.

I’m still pissed because two weeks ago the collapsible stool I found at the flea market got stolen while I was sleeping. It made a big difference for my act, but I don’t have another forty dollars to squander, so I’ve made do with the blanket. It softens the sidewalk somewhat, but I still think back to the giddy days of my stool with regret and fond memories.

I turn the corner onto Haight Street and make my way to my spot and almost trip over my own feet when I see Derek already there, leaning against the wall with one foot against the brick façade, his guitar strapped on, his rucksack on the sidewalk by his open case. He sees me and beams a megawatt smile. My breath catches in my throat, and for a second I can’t breathe. My heart rate accelerates by about twenty beats per minute, and my leg muscles feel watery.

I’m glad I’m far enough away that he can’t see the effect he’s having on me, and I do my best to ignore how damned fine he looks. I had just about convinced myself that I was exaggerating his hotness in my mind, but this morning, if anything, he looks better than yesterday, which was a tough act to follow.

When I draw alongside him, he stops playing and winks at me. “Morning, Sage.”

“What do you think you’re doing?”

“Me? Keeping someone else from stealing your spot.”

At least he acknowledged that it’s my spot, not ours. That’s hopeful. I sigh as I set my guitar case down and retrieve my blanket from my backpack, holding my tongue until I spread it on the sidewalk. He watches me out of the corner of his eye, and I feel for a moment like he can see through my clothes – a not altogether unpleasant sensation, but not a helpful one if I’m going to keep things businesslike.

I look at his case. He’s already got two bucks in it. Damn him. It must be the female tippers, because I get nothing but spit before nine.

He clears his throat when he sees me eyeing the coins. “Don’t worry. We’ll split that.”

“Gee. Thanks.”

“Did you think about what I suggested?”

The moment of truth. I look up at him, at his hopeful face, and I know what I’m going to say. Still, when I do, I feel a sense of relief, a flood of anxiety washing away as the words tumble over each other.

“I did, and I’ll give it a whirl as long as you remember your promise.”

He crosses his heart with his pick hand. I haven’t seen someone do that in years. I notice his nails are clean and well trimmed, making me immediately self-conscious about my chipped black enamel job.

“You bet. Let’s talk about songs. You know many?”

I frown a little. “Are you kidding? I know ten hours’ worth. Maybe more. Hundreds. No, maybe thousands.” Only a little exaggeration, but I feel intimidated by his question as well as by how close he’s standing.

“Cool. It’ll take some practice to figure out who does what, but if we switch off on lead vocals, the other can take the harmonies, and it shouldn’t be too bad.”

I nod. Makes sense.

His gaze drifts to my eyes, and I feel that sensation of spinning on the carnival ride again. “I heard you sing. Nothing that comes out of that mouth could be bad,” he says and smiles again.

I flush. The blushing is uncontrollable, and I curse the German part of my heritage that blessed me with pale skin, the better to display my embarrassment when the blood rushes to my face.

“How long have you been here?” I ask, more to have something to say than out of genuine curiosity.

“I don’t know. Maybe a half hour?” He nods to a cup of coffee next to his rucksack. “I got you some brew. Just the way you like it. Should still be hot.”

Maybe this isn’t going to be so bad after all. I try not to notice that the early sun is creating a halo effect around his head. Or maybe that’s just the last of the sleep in my eyes.

I nod and move next to him. He smells freshly scrubbed. Again. I so want to ask him where he’s showering, but it seems kind of forward, considering I should be trying to crush him with the power of my will. Instead, I accept the coffee, which tastes better than good.

“So how do we do this?” I ask, always the sensible one. “How do you want to pick the songs?”

He rubs a hand across his face and considers the question. “It’s your gig. How about you pick ’em, and I’ll do my best to keep up?”

He’s not getting off that easily. “What about the guitars? We can’t just strum the same chords.”

“How about whoever is singing the lead plays the main riff, and whoever’s singing harmony noodles over it?”

If this is going to work, I need to stop being so defensive, I decide. I can boot his ass off the street at noon when we’re still broke. Until then, I’ll play along. Literally. I also realize that it’s kind of cool to have someone to talk to during what’s usually a pretty lonely stretch of time. Which I would never tell him.

“That should work.” I slurp my coffee. It’s still awesome.

Derek slides down the wall and sits Indian style, and I reluctantly join him. We tune up, and he looks at me expectantly. I throw a fairly obscure song at him.

“You know ‘Thirty Days in the Hole’?”

He cracks his crooked grin. “Lead on.”

I give him a starting note and, on my nod, start the chorus refrain a cappella. His voice matches mine, the harmony perfect, no guitars, and a thrill goes up my spine. I strum the chords that start the verse and sing it loud. When I get to the part about weak in the knees, I realize that perfectly describes how I feel.

We keep going well past the point where we should have stopped the song, jamming along. The final chorus extends for a good minute, his voice entwined with mine, both of us riffing in and out of the melody. By the time we finish, I realize something special happened. It was exciting and raw and powerful.

He holds my gaze for the last thirty seconds as we sing, locked on me with laser precision, and when we’re done, it feels like the world comes back into focus, like someone turned on the color after everything being all black and white.