Shadows enfold, shadows embrace
Through a dark veil, behind the face
Hides a deep void, a sleeping cocoon
Butterfly waits, freedom come soon
Will you accept me? Will you believe?
Will you cast stones at what you perceive?
I need you to love me, a sleeping cocoon
Unfolding my wings, freedom come soon.
Late in the afternoon Mom enters the kitchen, interrupting my poetry session. The look on her face spells you-better-have-a-good-explanation. “Desert, someone’s here to see you.”
“What? I haven’t told anyone where we live! Don’t look at me like that, Mother!” I jump off the island stool and head toward the foyer.
What the hell?
“Becca! How did you—?”
“Find out you live here?” Her expression is one of hurt and shock. “You took out papers from your bag to make room for the CDs I lent you, then left them on the floor. Your schedule,” she says, holding it up, eyebrows raised, like any idiot could recognize the neighborhood, “has your address on it.”
Oh.
Blood drains from my face. She goes on. “Millionaires’ Row. Thanks for telling me.” She hands me the schedule by the very corner like it has cooties. I guess she could’ve sliced my face with it if she wanted to. “So I live here, what’s the big deal?” I mean, really.
“Nothing, except you were basically laughing at my house the whole time you were there.”
That is so dumb. “No, I wasn’t.”
“If I had known this, I wouldn’t have invited you over. No wonder you didn’t want me coming here.”
“I really did have to organize my room.”
“You lied to me.”
“I haven’t lied to you about anything!”
“Well, you sure as hell didn’t tell me you were rich!”
I think that’s the first time I ever heard someone call me that. It almost sounds like an insult.
“All right, so what was I supposed to say to you? Hi, Becca, I’m Desert, and my parents have lots of money? Is that what I should’ve said? I don’t care about that, so why should you?”
“Well, not telling something is the same as lying. You’re withholding information.”
“Girls?” My mother has joined us in the foyer. “Would you like to come in and argue somewhere a little more comfortable?” Her polite way of scolding me for acting like a dumb-ass.
Becca and I look at each other, a little embarrassed. “Sorry,” I tell her. “I should’ve said something. Wanna come in? This is my mom, Matti.”
Becca smiles nervously. “Hi.” She then takes her first real look around. Her eyes soar up to the ceiling at the entrance chandelier. The marble staircase. The parquet floors. She’s in awe. “Nice shack.”
I laugh, showing her in. “Come in, dork. Sorry about the mess.”
Mom’s been unpacking some of the boxes today, so there’s kitchen stuff all over the counters. And the dining room, and practically everywhere. Dad’s been—wait a second! “Mom? Where’s Dad?”
She must pick up the panic in my voice, since she says, “Hmm, probably in his cave,” and runs off to make sure he doesn’t come out of his private studio for anything while Becca’s here.
“Didn’t you say your father was an artist?” Becca asks, picking up a slotted spoon, running her fingers along it like it’s made of gold or something. Fine, so it’s silver.
“Yeah, he is.”
“But not a starving artist, I can see that.” She puts down the spoon and picks up a bottle of Cristal instead.
“My mom’s a manager,” I say, like it’s her career and not much else that explains how we live. Obviously, that doesn’t work.
“A manager?” she laughs. “Of what, Microsoft?”
“Something like that.” Behind her, I spot the Billboard and American Music awards being used as stops to the dining room door. Must evacuate the premises, quick! “Wanna see my room?”
“Okay, but can I check out this place first? Your house, it’s so…beautiful. I’ve always dreamed of living somewhere like this.”
She doesn’t understand. It’s not all that great. “Um…sure. Here, let me show you. Living room, dining room, great room, patio, pool, garage, guest bath. Now, wanna see my room?” Big smile.
“Oh, my God!” Her hands fly to her mouth, eyes like saucers.
Oh, no! She saw the family portrait, or a Crossfire poster, or my dad waving to her from outside, I just know it.
“That’s your backyard?” she cries, gliding over to the French doors, opening them up. The hot breeze from the bay swoops in and surrounds us.
It’s an incredible afternoon, and I can see why she’s amazed. The water is glistening like diamonds in the dying sun. Dozens of sailboats line the horizon. Jet Skis and wave runners circle each other, like kids playing tag. Pelicans sit on posts, lazily watching the view. I guess I never really noticed how nice it is out here.
Becca skips over to the pool, following its curve like a yellow brick road. I hadn’t exactly thought of what to tell her about my dad, but I have to think of something quick. Mom can’t keep him captive in the studio all night. Not what I had in mind for breaking the news.
“Becca, I’ve gotta tell you something.”
She turns around to face me. “If it’s about what I told you, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable or make you think I’m after you.”
“No, no, that’s not what I was gonna say.”
“I’m almost sorry I said anything, ’cause now you’ll think I’m weird.”
“I don’t think you’re weird. Well, maybe a little.”
Her sense-of-humor meter is on low as she stares at me for a second, scanning my eyes, reading my face. Then it kicks in. She grins big and shakes her head.
“Kidding!” I say.
“Sometimes I’m not sure.”
“Look, what I was gonna say is…”
Damn. How do I do this? I can’t just tell her straight out. She’ll faint. “Let’s sit over there.” I walk her to the patio chairs, underneath the big sun umbrella. “Becca, we’re friends, right?”
“I should hope so.”
“Good, ’cause you know how you had this great big secret to tell me but were afraid to? You thought I’d take it the wrong way?”
“Yeah?”
“Well, it’s only fair that I let you in on something too, but you have to promise, no…swear, swear you won’t tell anybody, okay?”
“Sure. What is it?” she asks, palm to her heart. “You’re scaring me!”
“Sweetie?” Mom’s back, rounding the pool and wringing her hands. “I haven’t found Daddy. Have you seen him?” She lowers her stare to let me know that Flesh, lead singer of Crossfire, is running loose on the grounds somewhere and we must catch him. Quickly.
“No, I thought he was in the studio!” Crap! Crap! She can’t see him before I tell her!
“No, honey, only Faith.”
“Studio?” Becca’s eyebrows shoot up.
“Yeah…um…photo studio, my dad’s a photographer, I mean, no, he’s not. Okay, Becca, look…”
Becca’s head turns back and forth to examine my nervous face, then my mom’s, then once again past my shoulder, to see—
Dad comes out of the pool shed, wearing his Rock Is Dead cap and brandishing the bug-net pole over his shoulder. “Hey, girly!”
No! Not like this! Aauuughhh!
“Desert!” Becca whispers, leaning into me. “That guy, he looks exactly like…” There’s a long silence, except for the buzzing of mosquitoes and the Jet Skis out on the ocean.
And then she’s done. No peep. No scream. Nothing. Just her eyes rolling back into her head as she slumps out of the patio chair.