Holy cow. Becca lives here? Looks like the butt end of a bigger house. It’s an efficiency, underneath a bunch of banana and umbrella trees, bougainvillea, and palms that look nothing like the ones on Rodeo Drive. The screened door squeaks when Becca opens it.
“Hey! You found it okay?”
You mean, did I machete my way through dense jungle foliage only to locate an inhabited shed? “Yeah, it was no problem. Nice place,” I say, impressing myself with my straight face.
Becca lifts an eyebrow at me. “This is a no-sarcasm zone, Desert. Didn’t you see the sign when you came through the gate?”
“I’m serious. It’s very…uh…secluded, tropical. Lots of people would love to live here.” Offhand, I can’t think of anyone.
“I thought you couldn’t come over this weekend,” she says, letting me in.
“Oh, I finished my room, so I thought, ‘Why not?’” Actually, there was another session at the studio this morning, and if I had to endure any more torture, I would’ve ruined the recording with the sound of my head banging on a wall.
“Did you eat? Wanna order that pizza?”
“Sure, why not.”
Becca hits the programmed number for Papa John’s on her corded (read: ancient) phone and orders a two-large special with cheesesticks. Yum! Now I’m starting to like this little hut. Even if the A/C unit in the window groans while spewing only slightly chilled air. At least she has terrazzo floors!
“Where’s your grandma?” I ask.
“Next door. Hanging out at Didi’s.”
“Who?”
“Her best friend. Saturdays are flowerpot-painting days.”
“Ah. No brothers or sisters?”
“Yeah, I have a sister. She’s twenty-one, works in Gainesville. I saw your mom dropping you off. Nice car,” she says casually.
Mom drives an Accord, which is quite a surprise if you think about it. I guess that says something about her response to fame. Anyone can drive a Porsche once they have the cash. It takes someone zany enough, someone who names her children after landforms, to drive a car so far below her means. Me, I would’ve taken the Acura NSX.
“Thanks. She’s promised it to me for my birthday.” Actually, she promised me anything under forty thousand, but no need to mince words.
“Lucky you.” Becca sighs. “I’ll be happy if I get a scooter.”
Becca’s room is the size of my closet, but I like it. Pictures of guitarists cover the walls. Jimi Hendrix. Eddie Van Halen. Eric Clapton. The Edge. And J. C., but I try not to notice that one. The twin-size bed is against the wall. Her guitar is uncovered, on its side in front of sheet music.
Oh, would you look at that. The music is for “Between the Sheets.” Dad would be honored. I, on the other hand, am mortified. If Becca and I are going to stay friends, I’ve got to tell her about my family somehow, when the time is right. But this isn’t it.
“Cool room. It says a lot about you.”
“You think so?” she asks, glancing around. “I guess it says some things.”
“It reflects your interests, anyway.” I drop my purse next to the closet and myself in front of her stereo. She sits on the floor, back against her bed.
“What kind of music do you listen to?” she asks.
Ah, the million-dollar question. “Well, I’m pretty eclectic. My collection’s got everything—rock, classical, rap, reggae, emo.” Yes, emo.
“Do you listen to bands like The Madmen?”
“Ha! You actually call them a band? Shouldn’t playing your own instruments be a requirement before calling yourself a band? The Madmen owe their existence to Faith Adams’s theatrics and that’s about it.”
Becca stares at me wide-eyed, like she doesn’t know what to think of that.
“I know, I know,” I say, remembering a boy “band” I saw on TRL complaining about what makes a band a band. “A band is any group of people who make music together, even if they’re only humming. Go ahead, let the backlash begin.”
“No, you’re right,” she says. “That’s exactly how I feel.”
Well, alrighty! “See? I knew I liked you for a reason.”
Becca smiles that melancholy smile again. “Faith is cool and everything, but if you strip her of all that glam, there’s not much substance there.”
“Exactly!” Exactly.
Becca’s eyes light up. “I think creating meaningful lyrics has got to be one of the hardest parts of writing songs. To come up with words, like Smig was saying, powerful enough to convey a message. I totally respect anyone who can put their thoughts down like that. I can’t do it.”
“Oh, I’m sure you can. You’re in Honors English!” I laugh.
She’s not laughing. “Seriously. I can’t. Every time I try it, the words come out sounding like slop, with not even the slightest fraction of the emotion I was feeling when writing them.”
“Maybe it takes practice.”
“Maybe it takes talent.”
I smile. “Talent’s overrated. Lots of people with talent get nowhere without practice.”
“That’s true. Look, read these,” she urges, pushing the CD insert for Crossfire—Insanity into my hands. “This is what I’m talking about.”
Oh, goody.
Becca flips to a song called “Wilderness,” a song I happen to know very well because my dad wrote it next to me on a bus ride to the Meadowlands. He wrote it after having a huge fight with my mom that morning.
“‘Darkness spreads its wings over my bitter heart,’” she recites, gazing somewhere over the rainbow. “Isn’t that beautiful?”
“I guess. It’s kinda corny.”
“Corny? Desert, can’t you hear the pain this man was feeling when he wrote that? That anguish of being distant from someone you love? To put that raw emotion out there for everyone to hear? It’s amazing anyone could do that.”
“Mmm-hmm.” Damn, she’s pretty good. I don’t remember her being on that bus ride.
“You don’t seem to think so.”
“No, I do! I agree. What else you got?” Get me out of here, this is scaring me.
“There’s lots more, but Flesh writes the best lyrics of any songwriter by far.” She reaches behind her and pulls back the closet door, revealing an early poster of my dad in his wild child days, long hair, no shirt, a hand down his pants. “Isn’t he awesome?”
If someone could just get me a bucket, I’d like to barf now. “He’s probably not what he seems,” I tell her.
“What do you mean? He’s well known for being totally sincere and openhearted with everything, from his songs down to his interviews.”
“Yeah, I know, but still, famous people are always different once you get to know them. So I’ve heard.”
“I guess that could be true. He’s probably got ten cats and loves bubble baths, right?”
Let’s not go crazy. “Who knows? Maybe.”
Becca picks up her guitar and strums a few chords. My stomach growls. I hope she didn’t hear that. She starts into something that sounds like it could be Indigo Girls, but it’s not. It’s totally Becca. And it’s good. Really good. She must, and I mean must, get better strings. Maybe I can sneak her some. But the whole vibe is there. I listen and the more I do, the more I feel something stronger coming through.
Becca goes out on her own. There’s no me, no CDs scattered about, no cat on the floor next to her. There are no walls around her. Just music rising out of her guitar, at the expense of what seems to be a very broken heart. She lets the last note trail off like a kiss in the wind and drops her head onto the curve of the instrument. That’s when her sobbing begins.
Okay. Maybe I shouldn’t be here. She’s forgotten she’s not alone. I’ll just be going now. No, wait, Des! Whatever the matter is, this girl has just let me into her soul. Through music. Stay.
Becca looks up, wiping her tearstained face. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. That was great!”
“Don’t lie. I’m just a moron who’ll never learn to play right.”
Excuse me? “Um…Becca, I beg to differ. You play better than some people who’ve been taking lessons for years. Why are you crying? You okay?”
“Desert,” she begins, “you know how you asked why Liam and I haven’t hooked up?”
“Yeah?” Oh, Christ, she does have a thing for Liam! I knew it!
“And I’ve told you how that wouldn’t happen?”
“Yeah? Becca, I think he’s really cute and all, but if you want him, you need to tell—”
“I’m gay, Desert.”
Oh.
“You can freak out now if I’ve scared you,” she says.
And I thought my secret was big.
“What? Why would that scare me? I didn’t know that, but it doesn’t scare me.” Actually, it scares me a little.
“Of course you didn’t know. It’s not like I have a sign on my forehead.”
“All right, you’re the one who said this was a no-sarcasm zone, not me. Look, I’m fine with that, really. I mean, I’m not gay, but that doesn’t mean we can’t be friends, right?”
She wipes her eyes with the inside of her shirt. “That’s what kills me. Anyone I ever meet that I’m remotely interested in is never interested in me.”
Is she talking about me? ’Cause that would really make me feel crappy. “I’m interested in you. I don’t have to be gay to be interested in you as a person, do I?”
She smiles sadly. “Thanks, but you know what I mean.”
“I know.” I don’t really, but what else can I say?
“I’ll never find someone. It’s so hard.”
“Of course you’ll find someone, Becca. You’re a very pretty girl with a beautiful soul. You just showed me.”
We sit quietly for a minute.
“Nobody knows, except Liam, so please don’t go broadcasting it.”
“No problem.”
Becca exhales deeply. “I don’t mean anything by telling you this, okay? I don’t expect anything from you. Just wanted you to know, that’s all.”
“Okay. I appreciate it.”
Now what?
For the next few minutes, we don’t speak. Becca tunes the guitar and continues to space out like I’m not there. We need something to get this ball rolling again.
“Pizza!” the delivery boy shouts, knocking so loud on the front door that even the cat meows out of a deep sleep.
Thank the sweet Lord. Food.