Everybody Knows Your Name (16 page)

It's Saturday morning, and I'm helping Dillon lug his stuff outside to the waiting town car. He's been pretty quiet toward me since Wednesday's performance show. Even more so after the results came in last night. He thinks I'm nothing but a liar. Last week he couldn't stop projecting his voice to his imaginary Madison Square Garden—now, total silence. We walk down the driveway without saying a word.

The driver takes Dillon's KISS computer bag from me and drops it in the trunk. KISS was vomiting fake blood onstage back when computers were the size of living rooms, so I'm not sure what they're doing selling laptop bags.

“This sucks,” I finally say. What I mean to say is,
This sucks that you're going home, and this sucks that our friendship dies here
. And it's also me trying to own up that I know it should have been me, even though I didn't want it to be.

Dillon takes a deep breath and gives me a look full of hurt. “Yeah, well, too bad I didn't have a secret family to pull up and hug onstage.”

“Dill, I—” I start.

He doesn't want to hear it. “Yeah, welp, that's show biz, man.” He says this like he's a fifty-year-old road dog at the end of an exhausting world tour. He makes a depressed set of rock horns with his fingers. “Friends are strangers, and strangers are friends. Being a straight shooter won't get you anywhere.” He looks off down the street. “But don't worry about me. I'm sure you'll get over your guilt. I'm sure people at home will forget about my last performance, eventually. I'll live it down.”

That performance is why Dillon's going home instead of me. For obvious reasons, I was in the bottom two with him. What started out as a pretty good version of “Baba O'Riley” turned bad when Dillon climbed onto a giant human pyramid of actual teenagers and it collapsed. He finished the song mumbling “teenage wasteland” from the bottom of a dog pile.

When you make a mistake on live TV, people get to enjoy watching you blow it over and over. Dillon's pyramid collapse has already gotten millions of views online. It's as if that version of him has been pinned up like a butterfly, and he'll be stuck like that forever. How are you supposed to get any better if you can't screw up when you're starting out?

As Dillon ducks into the car without saying bye, I know something has gone bad between us. I guess losing out to someone who killed off his own family isn't sitting well with him. The car pulls away.

I drift back into the mansion.

Everybody's on different schedules with fittings and coaching, so I search the place until I find Mila upstairs doing what I think is yoga in the music room. She watches me walk in behind her, her head hanging upside down between her shins. She doesn't seem any happier with me than Dillon was. But I don't need her to be my best friend—I just need her to help me get to Magnolia.

“Dillon gone?” she asks coldly.

“Yeah, he's gone.”

She moves into a kind of side lunge with one arm up in the air. “He's a good person, so hopefully good things will happen for him,” she says pointedly. “You know. Karma.”

I take a deep breath. “Do you know where Magnolia went?” I ask.

“Hair consult, fitting, story meeting with Lucien.”

Magnolia has gotten really good at not being wherever I am. She's been away a lot for coaching, and she disappears somewhere in the house when we get home at night. We've been near each other only when everyone else is around. At the premiere she wouldn't talk to me. This morning she was gone somewhere before I got up.

An hour ago I tried texting her, but she still hasn't responded. I guess that not answering is her answer:
I hate you, go away.
I can't blame her.

But I also don't know what to do with all these feelings now that their reason for existing wishes I didn't exist.

“She hasn't said anything about me, has she?” I know it's a stupid question as soon as I've asked it, but it comes out anyway. I already miss Magnolia so much that even hearing something painful she's said seems better than nothing.

But Mila doesn't answer and just twists her body into something that looks like the letter
D
. I think that's
D
for
Done with this conversation
. I slip out and head back up to my room.

I take a minute to stare at Dillon's empty side. His bed has already been stripped of its sheets. The bareness reminds me of those war movies where your bunkmate goes out on a dangerous mission and never comes back. Another man down. Who's next?

Out of the corner of my eye I sense a shape in my bed, like there's someone in it, and I whip around. But it's just a big USPS box of letters. Hell, it's the biggest one yet. Before I came on this show, I think the last time I got a personal letter in the mail was from my grandmother on my eighth birthday. It was a card with a two-dollar bill inside and instructions to use it to jumpstart a savings account. I spent it on Milk Duds.

I head over to the box and start going through the mail inside. The return addresses are a list of places I've never been but always wanted to go: New York City, San Francisco, New Orleans, one from England. I picture it being written from a castle tower with one of those feather pens. Do they even get the show in England?

But what really surprises me is how many letters are from Arkansas and the feeling these postmarks from my state give me: now that I've left home, I feel closer to it.

My phone rings from the windowsill. It's got to be Magnolia.

I pick it up and see Catherine's name. I eat the barreling disappointment and answer.

Catherine doesn't bother to say hello. “So I was up half the night dealing with your
interesting
family.”

I already know what's coming next. Like I'm a psychic.

“They had some kind of trash-tastic party at their hotel and wrecked the place. I kept it out of the press and paid for the damage, but they've been kicked out. I told them they'll have to foot the bill at their next lodging because I'm not taking another penny away from the show to replace shitty motel carpet.”

I drop my forehead onto the cool wall. “So where are they going now?”

“I gave them the info for a cheap dive by the airport. But that's not what I'm really calling about.”

“What else could go wrong?”

Catherine puts on a sunshiny voice. “Not wrong, right. You get to go to a party tonight for Rocket Fuel energy drink—they're our biggest sponsor, so I don't want you moping around. This is important for rebuilding your image and making people forget we fed them your shady shit. Go. Distract people from your fib. Have fun. Got it?”

“That's nice of you to do this for me, but I'm not really in a mood to go to a party . . . ” I start to tell Catherine. I feel small, and low, and I want to find a big rock to crawl under.

“Hmm, yeah. But are you in the mood to be in the bottom two again?” she asks, and hangs up.

A second later a car horn blares outside. Followed by people shouting. Gears grinding. It sounds like a bunch of chaos, so I just know, without having to look, that it's the Buckleys.

Again, maybe I am psychic. Because somehow I sensed they weren't going to shell out their own money for a motel. Or maybe I just know them too well.

I drag myself down to the front door, and sure enough there's Aunt Rose's RV, and it's squeezing its way through the front gate. Jesse the PA is running down the driveway, waving his arms.

Here come the four horsemen of my personal apocalypse: Mom, Dad, Sissy, Cody.

Jesse is trying real hard to stop the rusty RV, now splattered with mud from six different states, from parking on the fancy landscaping of the front lawn. He doesn't know this, but there's no way his pantomiming is going to get my family to comprehend that a lawn isn't for parking on.

It's a game of chicken that Jesse's bound to lose. He has to jump aside as the RV tears through the front flower garden that's worth more than the RV is. Black exhaust fumes fill the air as the RV rolls to a stop. Its front bumper breaks the graceful necks of a bunch of what I now know are called birds-of-paradise.

Sissy jumps out of the driver's side, tossing her golden hair, a black sweatshirt hanging off her shoulder. She's yelling at Jesse the second her feet hit the ground. “What's y'all's problem? You looking to get run over?” Her eyes have that fighting gleam in them.

Jesse looks pretty surprised, probably not expecting the driver to be this savage blonde girl. “You can't park that here,” he says, all sheepish.

“You want me to park it in your ass instead?”

“Sissy, leave him alone,” I call from the front steps. “He's just doing his job.”

“Ford!” She runs over and wraps her arms around my neck. “My famous brother. Tell this dipshit what's up.”

“Jesse, I'm sorry. I'll get them to move it.”

Cody appears from the side door of the RV carrying two garbage bags full of clothes. He tosses his golden hair too. Honestly, it's only a few inches off from him getting mistaken for Sissy from the back. “Hey, bro!”

I'm already bracing myself for a battle. “You gotta move this thing.”

Jesse, who's been talking on his headset, holds up a hand. “It's all right, Ford. Catherine says to leave it here for now to avoid any more commotion.”

“No worries for the trouble you gave us,” Cody says, and throws his garbage bags at Jesse, who awkwardly catches them. “Just take my bags up to my room, will you?”

“Cody, he doesn't work for you,” I say.

But Jesse actually takes the garbage bags into the house. Probably because it's the fastest way to get out of this situation. As he heads in, I'm just now realizing that no one else is getting out of the van.

“Where are Mom and Dad?” I ask Sissy.

“Well, they've never seen the ocean before—except the Gulf, but that don't really count—so we left them down on the beach. They're probably pretty drunk, I imagine. Do you think the show could send a car down to pick them up?”

I roll my eyes at their total predictability. Before I can answer, Cody's giving me a handshake that turns into a one-armed hug. He steps back to look up at the mansion. I can see his mind working, trying to find some overlap from the world we come from with the one in front of him. Trying to match up something familiar. But you can't because the gap between the two things is so huge.

Once you really understand how huge it is, it seems indecent, and you wish you could forget it. You can't.

“We had a little trouble down at the hotel. But really, should family be staying at a hotel when you've got a house like this?” Cody shakes his head at me in holier-than-thou judgment.

I say, “It ain't my house,” but Cody and Sissy are already stepping around me and going in. I follow like a sleepwalker. Immediately, Cody's patting the walls like he's checking the construction or something, and he's also whistling in admiration at the building details. Cody the architectural expert. Maybe he'll accidentally make himself useful, stumble on the Superstar; but then he'd probably charge me 50 percent of my prize money for it. If I know him, I imagine he's trying to add up what everything costs.

He jogs up the stairs and we end up in the media room, where McKinley's watching a playback of his last performance. He makes notes on places he can improve, writing in a spiral notepad. I swear, the kid runs his life like it's already an international business.

“Hey, it's that little guy from the show!” Sissy claps her hands. McKinley looks up from his notes, alarmed.

Cody steps close to the TV, watching McKinley's playback with his hands on his hips. “You're all right for a little kid. I mean, you can really sing. Problem is, you might be too good, y'know? Too perfect. You got a voice that sounds like it was made by a machine. You got to put the soul in there.”

There's some truth in what Cody's saying, but McKinley is sort of like a robot in that he just can't process it. He stares at my brother.

“He doesn't need your advice,” I say. “He knows what he's doing.”

“If you say so.” Cody pulls a can of beer out of his jacket pocket. Just like that. He cracks it open.

My head starts to swim. I start pleading. “C'mon, man, settle down. You just got here five minutes ago—you want to get kicked out of here, too?”

Cody looks real confused for a second. Getting day drunk is not something he would usually give much thought to because to him, it's as basic as putting on your shoes.

“
You
settle down,” he says. “It's a free country.” Then he holds out the can to McKinley. “Mc-Coo-Coo, you want one? Might be good for you, get you out of your head.”

“I'm only fourteen,” McKinley says.

“Hell, when Ford was thirteen, he could outdrink a grown man! Of course, that was back when he was fun. Before he became a monk.” Cody takes a swig.

“I'm not a monk.” Stress already has my head sloshing like one of those wave tanks at a water park. I don't know why this can't ever just be easy.

“Whatever,” Sissy says, and moves the tension elsewhere as she sits down next to McKinley and messes up his perfectly groomed hair like he's a puppy. “What I want to know is, does this little heartbreaker have a girlfriend?”

McKinley stiffens. As cool as this kid is onstage in front of millions of people, he's still been pretty sheltered, so he doesn't have the know-how to deal with someone like Sissy.

“I'm not dating yet. Not until I release my first album. I've got to stay focused.”

“Does that mean you're a virgin? Like Tim Tebow? Wink, wink about his virginity, am I right? Well, it's a good thing we met. I promise I'll be gentle.” This is just Sissy joking, but McKinley jumps up from his seat like he's been cornered by a wild animal. He darts out of the room, mumbling something about a five-year plan.

“Must be losing my looks.” Sissy laughs and then says she wants to see the pool.

When we go out back, Rebecca is sunbathing on a lounge chair. I'm surprised to see a big tribal tattoo in the middle of her back because it's in better condition than the rest of her. She shades her eyes with her hand and squints up at us.

“Sissy and Cody,” I say, “this is Nikki's girlfriend, Rebecca.”

“Nikki like Nikki on the show?” Cody asks. “The hot island chick with all those flowers behind her ear?”

“Is that a problem?” Rebecca lifts herself up on her elbows, ready to be challenged.

“Dang, girl, you're a lesbian?” Sissy sits down on the chair right next to Rebecca. She's never had much respect for personal space. “We don't get too many lesbians back home, except for Traci Greene. But you don't mess with Traci, now—she will tie a knot in your tail.”

Rebecca peers at Sissy for a second like she's going to put out a cigarette on her, but then she kind of just looks interested. “She'll ‘tie a knot in your tail'?”

Cody weighs in. “Hope you don't mind me asking this, but what is it gays like about Los Angeles so much? Is it the palm trees?” He looks up at the trees above us, sipping his beer, like he's really trying to come up with a workable theory.

I tense again, but Rebecca's expression is entertained. The likes of Sissy and Cody seem just as new to her as she is to them. “Yeah, that's it. We just love palm trees.”

Cody nods like he's made a major discovery.

“So there's the backyard pretty much,” I say, trying to move things along before they get weirder. “And now I'll show you guys my room.”

“I'm gonna hang with Becky,” Sissy says, and slaps Rebecca's thigh with the back of her hand like they're old friends. “Get some sun and talk about lesbian stuff.”

I look at Rebecca to see if she wants rescuing, but she can hold her own. With Sissy, you're either instant friends or instant enemies—that's just her way. Rebecca points to a pack of cigarettes at the foot of the chair and says, “Grab me one of those, and I'll tell you the secrets of the sisterhood.” Cody and I leave the two of them chatting. I'm just thankful nothing has turned into tragedy so far.

But once we're up in my room, I spot Cody's garbage bags sitting on Dillon's empty bed and a renewed panic goes through my body. Does Cody really think he's staying here with me?

Last time Cody and I shared a room, I was ten years old and I had to build a fort of pillows around myself to survive the nights. Darts. Chinese throwing stars. A bike chain. Whatever was within reach, he flung it at me when the notion took him. I still have a scar on my forehead from a particularly well-aimed G.I. Joe jet plane.

I turn to Cody, trying to figure out how to broach the subject of the family leaving, but he's already diving onto my bed. He starts digging through the fan letters.

“Oh, man, look at this. You got girls writing you from all the way out to space.” He tears one open, dumping out the letter and peering into the envelope with an eye closed. “I bet there are some topless photos in here.”

I pull the letter out of his hand. “Don't tear those up. Those people took the time to write me.”

Cody grins tightly, but his eyes are flashing anger. “Oh, I see how it is now. Don't like to share the glory, do ya, little brother? But you don't wanna forget: If it wasn't for me, you wouldn't even be here. I taught you everything you know.”

“Yeah, you taught me how to play guitar. But Leander taught me more about music than you ever could. And then this, being here”—I throw my arm out at the room—“it's something I did on my own.” Still, I can't seem to meet his eyes as I say this. He continues to have some older brother power over me.

“You always did think you were better than the rest of us. You didn't think we were gonna see you make us out to be a bunch of sad dead hicks on TV?”

Now I look him in the eyes, and I find out he's not smiling anymore.

“Well, we are a bunch of hicks,” I say. “And I don't think I'm better than anybody. I just maybe think different about things than you do.”

Cody pretends to be respectfully taking off a hat he's not wearing, meaning that I'm putting on airs. “Oh, you think different, all right. You think family don't mean nothing. But you can't change the blood in your veins. Don't forget: family sticks together.”

Family sticks together. Granddad's unbreakable code. I remember a fight I lost the summer I was eleven. I was crying on the hot asphalt street with one eye swollen shut, curled in a tight ball to blunt the stomping feet of the Nolen brothers. I'd tried to stand up to them for calling Sissy a whore. Defending her honor was a full-time job.

When I was no longer able to catch my breath, Cody appeared, wading into the Nolens like an avenging angel, leaving one of them with a broken nose that's still crooked to this day.

“No one messes with my brother,” he told me. That day I was just about in awe of him. But the next week he was back to terrorizing me, like nothing had ever happened.

I believe that Cody would die for me, but letting me live the way I want? That he can't do.

“Why don't you cut out all the guilt trip stuff and just tell me what you want?” I say. “Just be straight. Y'all are messing this up for me, out here tearing up hotels, acting stupid. How am I am supposed to focus on winning this thing with you here? I want you to go home, so really, what is it that
you
want?”

Cody drops the hurt act and nods like he's ready to do business. “I think it's fair that the whole family should benefit from your situation here. That's all. You want us out of your hair? I can make that happen. You tell that producer lady that we'll leave”—I wait for it—“after she pays our per diems.”

“What do you know about a per diem?” I know from Jesse that a per diem is daily spending cash some crews get when they travel with a show, to buy food and things. I don't know where Cody heard the word.

“Internet research. Per diem, travel expenses, whatever you want to call it. Just tell them to pay us whatever they'd spend for us to stay in a four-star hotel for the rest of the show. In cash, tonight. Then we'll make ourselves scarce.” He shrugs. “Otherwise we've got no choice but to stick around. And we might have to talk to the press too. I might have to tell them how terrible you've treated your family, how you had a drug problem . . . whatever will help them sell their gossip magazines. I'll come up with something.”

The back of my neck goes as hot as if I have a fever. “Did you come all the way out here just to blackmail me?”

“Not you—you're broker than I am! These Hollywood people, man. It's not like they need the money. And I've got a good little deal set up. I'll even let you in on it, 'cause I'm fair.”

I won't lie, it's painful to watch how people here will spend a regular human's yearly salary in one night just on finger foods for their party. Where I grew up, you'd be ashamed of wasting money like that when other people don't have a thing. But it's just like Cody to only see what he can get from other people, not giving a damn if he burns every bridge this show might build for me. Being rich can make you mean, and being poor can make you ugly. It seems like there's a lot of problems in those circumstances that nobody ever solves.