More Than Anything (6 page)

“I swear I cried that final show. I felt like I was right there with you when you sang that last song. I recorded it and everything.”

“That’s great,” I say. I’ve always been terrible at accepting compliments, so this part of the deal is like Chinese water torture for me. I look at the barista behind the register, like, “Where’s my coffee?” He snaps out of his funk and goes to the machine, and only once he’s halfway through pouring mine does he realize the pot’s empty. So now I’m committed to standing here for at least three more minutes, every second an ordeal.

“I heard you were from around here, but I never thought in a million years I’d meet you,” the woman says, not picking up on my silent signals that I’m hoping the floor will open up and swallow me whole.

“Well, life’s strange that way. Again, nice to meet you,” I say and return my stare to Melody, who’s having a hard time keeping from busting up, judging by the look on her face.

“Can I trouble you for an autograph?” the woman asks. Right now I’d give her all the money in my pocket to just go away.

“Sure.”

She picks up a biodegradable, recycled napkin and roots around in her Coach purse for a pen, and then hands it to me.

“Just write, ‘To my biggest fan Jenny,’ would you?” she asks. “Jenny. That’s short for Jennifer.”

I hastily scratch out her request and return the napkin and pen, relieved to be done.

“Thanks so much.” She holds the napkin over her head and turns to the rest of the line. “Hey, everyone. I got Sage’s autograph! How cool is that?”

The next ten minutes are more of the same – a never-ending line of fans piling into the shop. Melody checks her phone and leans over to whisper in my ear. “Jenny’s friend tweeted you were here.”

“Is there a back way out?” I ask.

“I’ll ask the manager.”

Fortunately there is, and moments later we find ourselves in a narrow service alley that reeks of garbage. We run to the mouth and peer around and then explode into giggles.

“This is something like a movie,” Melody says.

“A horror movie, that is.”

“Come on. They’ll figure out you bailed pretty quickly, and then it’ll be open season on Sage in the Haight.”

“So much for shopping, huh?”

“Don’t worry. We can take side streets until we’re at the other end from P&C. That’s where all the cool shops are anyway.”

“This is so weird. Nothing like this ever happened to me before.”

“That’s because you were in New York. New Yorkers wouldn’t stop if you were dancing naked with a snake.”

“Where do you get these ideas?”

“My mind’s a cesspool. I blame it on daytime soaps.”

“They have nude snake dancing on soaps? I had no idea what I was missing.”

“Come on.”

She takes my hand, and we bolt across the street and hang a right, then slow to a jog as we round the corner onto Waller Street and make our way east to Buena Vista Park. There are no throngs with pitchforks and torches – or cell phone cameras – so I relax, and soon we’re in a shop that hasn’t turned its inventory since the sixties.

Melody convinces me to buy a too-tight top that says ‘Girl Power’ in bold letters ringed by an orange starburst, and a pair of hip-hugger bell bottoms I know I’ll never wear. She rewards herself for her advice with a tank top that features Bruce Lee’s shirtless torso, which oddly enough looks great on her. Then again, everything looks good on Melody.

She tries to convince me to get a haircut at a trendy shop on the corner, but I’m not feeling that adventurous.

“I don’t want to be trapped in a chair with wet hair if anyone else recognizes me,” I say, and she pouts.

“I can’t believe you. If I was you, I’d be waving my hands, screaming my name over and over.”

“Just one of the many mysterious differences between us,” I agree, which settles things.

We stop at an organic restaurant and peck at super-expensive rabbit food for half an hour, and then my phone rings. When I hear Derek’s voice, I feel a surge of joy in my chest.

“Derek! Thank God.”

“What’s up? You sound…frazzled.”

I tell him about my morning.

“But you escaped, right?”

“I did. But it was close. I almost had to chew a paw off.”

“They taste kinda like chicken.” He hesitates. “How’s your mom?”

I consider several possible responses, then opt for blunt. “She’s dying. If not this time, soon.”

That stops any discussion in its tracks. He clears his throat. “When are you coming back?”

“I…the label wants me to record in Los Angeles. I tried saying no, but they didn’t give me a choice.” I tell him about Sebastian.

“You got Sebastian Stalt to do your record?”

“Yeah. Pretty cool, huh?”

“I’ll say. They’re still–”

The line goes dead with a beep, and my phone blinks at me. The battery’s dead. I’m such a loser. I forgot to charge it last night.

My face must look like someone kicked me in the gut, because Melody puts her fork down and tilts her head. “What happened?”

“Phone died. Battery.”

“D’oh.”

I shake my head. “My plane will probably crash, too, at this rate.”

“Or you’ll get seated next to another super fan for the flight.”

“Maybe I should buy one of those glue-on mustaches.”

“Yeah. That would look great with your new top.”

By the time we make it back to Melody’s, I’ve only got fifteen minutes before I have to leave. She calls a taxi, and I plug my phone in, but it’s too little time.

She hugs me tight at the front stoop and then cocks the Raiders hat at an angle as the cab rolls to a stop. “You look fly, girl. Nobody will ever recognize you.”

“Tell that to Jenny.”

“Just chill and enjoy it, Sage. You’re going to be holed up in the studio for the next month, sounds like. Have some fun while you can. You’re a frigging rock star, for crying out loud. Live large.”

I look down at my Chucks and smile.

“You bet. Large living, coming right up.”

All I can think about the entire ride to the airport is Derek. It’s not the same on the phone. He sounds different. Distant. I know I shouldn’t read too much into it, but that’s not my way. I analyze everything to death, and now I’m wondering why he didn’t call sooner, what he’s doing to pass the time while I’m gone, whether he’s out partying at night…

I tell myself to stop it, but now I’m in a vicious loop, replaying every word of our brief conversation, looking for clues as to how he’s really doing, what he’s really thinking.

Which of course does me absolutely no good at all. My psychic powers are notoriously bad when it comes to him, but that doesn’t even slow me down. By the time I’m at the departure terminal, I’ve played a dozen scenarios in my head, some of which involve me blowing off the record company and flying back to New York instead of to Los Angeles, others have Derek on the next flight out…

I get my pass and make it through security with no problems, and see that I’m in row two – business class. It’s only a short flight, but still, I’m happy I won’t be sitting next to the toilet.

Which is one of my newly discovered phobias. I don’t want to use the toilet on the plane. I held my water all the way from New York, out of an irrational fear that something terrible would happen while I was in the bathroom. I’m reminded of it again as I sit in the departure lounge, and make a point of using the restroom before I board. I have no idea what I think will happen if I have to go on the plane, but I don’t want to find out. Visions of me trapped in the compartment as firemen cut me out battle with horrific fantasies of the plane plunging out of the sky as I scream all the way down.

The man in the seat next to me is fifty and reading a spreadsheet, and thankfully seems as interested in me as I am in helping him interpret the long columns of numbers. Takeoff goes without a hitch, and I close my eyes and pull Melody’s hat down, lost in thoughts of Derek, whose grinning face dominates my imagination as we hurtle south at five hundred miles per hour, winging me to a town I’ve only heard about – Hollywood, land of beautiful people and megabucks. The only exposure I’ve had to L.A. is from the few times I saw a Kardashian on Melody’s TV and from the occasional movie before I left home.

That brings me full circle to my mom and Ralph, and all the ugliness associated with them.

I spend the rest of the flight catnapping, since the alternative is spending time in my head, where it’s ugly and dark, filled with hateful memories and secret fears I’d do anything to flush, once and for all.

But that’s not how it works.

Especially for the girl who’s too freaked out to use the bathroom on a plane.

When we land, all I have is my backpack, which I carried on. I quickly make my way to the arrivals area, where a tall man in a full-on chauffeur outfit complete with black hat and suit is waiting with a Sage sign. I approach, feeling totally embarrassed, and nod at him.

“Hey,” I say.

“Welcome to Los Angeles, Miss Sage.” He reaches out a hand. “Is that your only bag?”

I hand him my backpack, ratty from almost six months of heavy use, and make a mental note to step up a few grades in my luggage. I got this one on sale at Walmart when I was still living at home, and I eye it skeptically as he shoulders it. It’s pretty lowlife.

“I travel light,” I say, and his face doesn’t change. “And it’s just Sage.”

“Very well. The car is across the way in the parking structure. I’ll gladly pull it around if you’re willing to wait, or if you’ll accompany me…”

“Let’s go.”

The car’s a limo, and I wish my crummy phone took pictures because I’d take one and send it to Melody. I make another note – buy a decent phone. With a long battery life.

So far my L.A. shopping spree is going to be leather pants, a phone, and a bag. Hardly high style, but hey.

The driver calls Ruby to confirm that he picked me up, and then hands me his phone. I take it, and he starts the car. She greets me as though we haven’t spoken for weeks, and asks if I have the energy to meet Sebastian Stalt after I get comfortable at the apartment. I think about it – I’m seventeen, of course I have the energy to meet the most influential producer in town. But I don’t say that.

“Sure.”

“Tell the driver to wait for you. He knows where Sebastian’s studio is.”

“Are you sure? I can take a taxi.”

“Steve’s one of our staff drivers. He has nothing else to do today but take you wherever you need to go.”

So now I’ve got my own chauffeur. I can’t wait to text Melody – she’ll flip out. Which I would do in a heartbeat if my loser phone wasn’t deader than Elvis.

Traffic’s a snarl leaving the airport, and we’re barely crawling as we inch north.

“Is it always like this?” I ask.

“No. Rush hour gets really bad.”

“Ruby said you can take me to Sebastian Stalt’s studio a little later?”

“Of course. Shall we get you settled in Westwood and then go to the studio?”

“That’d be great.”

The apartment turns out to be a security building near the main street, and Steve parks in the passenger loading zone out front and hands me a set of keys. “I’d show you the way, but I should stay with the car. I’ll be here. Just come down whenever you’re ready. If I have to move, I’ll circle the block, so I’ll never be more than a few minutes away.”

“I won’t be long.”

“It’s number 302. Third floor. The brass-colored key opens the front door. The silver one is for the apartment.”

Steve pops the trunk and retrieves my backpack. I heft it over my shoulder and move to the entry. The lobby’s got marble on the floor. Real marble.

The elevator’s newish and nearly silent, and it startles me when it arrives at the third floor with a ping. I walk down the hall – also marble – and spot 302. The front door looks like it costs more than everything I own. The handle alone would easily pay for my flight from San Francisco.

Inside, the place is spotless and looks more like a five-star hotel than an apartment. On the dining room table there’s an enormous basket with a bunch of chocolates and snacks, as well as a bouquet of flowers with a card welcoming me.

There are three bedrooms. Three! I take the master, my mouth hanging open as I toss my bag onto the king-size bed and walk into the bathroom, which looks like those photos of the Ritz in the airplane magazine. A sense of dizziness hits as I stare at myself in the mirror, the Raiders hat and sunglasses flat-out dumb-looking, and I grab the counter for balance.

Marble, of course.

I so wish Derek was here to see this. But with that thought, another part of me feels bad, like I’m showing off. He’s staying in a boarding house – which, while no doubt a step up from Lucifer’s, doesn’t sound like the same level of place as this. Like it or not, my reality’s split off from his, and at least for the time being, mine’s all about marble and chauffeurs.

Don’t get too used to it
, my inner voice warns.
It can all be over in a blink
.