The memory of our kiss has been distracting me for two days. But now Marie’s back. And as soon as she walks into the house, I kidnap her and make her drive us to CocoWalk.
“Is it true?” I ask, slurping down what’s left of my cookies ’n’ cream shake. She better say no.
“Is what true, Desi?” Marie asks, eyelid twitching. She finishes off the last of her curly fries without as much as a glance my way. Something is up.
Once I saw this movie about a shrink who wanted his client to confess something, so he stayed real quiet and stared the whole time, trying to make the guy nervous enough to spill the info. But Marie’s not buying it.
“Is what true?” she asks again.
“I heard something about you.”
She glances around the room, looking for the waiter. “And what did you hear, my dear?”
Don’t “my dear” me. “Marie, I’ve been waiting almost three weeks to ask you something, something I’m dying to tell my mom, but you have to give me an extremely good reason why I shouldn’t, because if I do, you’re a goner.”
She shifts nervously in her seat, eyes searching for our missing server. “Where the hell is this guy?”
Hell? Marie using the word hell? “Hello?” My mouth hangs open, and I shove my face into her line of view. “Did you hear me?”
“Yes. Yes, I heard you. What, Desert? What’s the question?”
“Fine. Someone told me you hired that photographer. The one who came to our house last month.”
She wipes her mouth with a napkin then smiles at our waiter, who hands her the check. While reviewing and signing the bill, she presses her lips together. Then she closes the case flap and looks directly at me. “Desert,” she begins. “Let me explain something.”
“That’s why we’re here.”
She stares blankly, like she doesn’t appreciate being interrupted or she doesn’t recognize me. Then her eyes close and she breathes a long sigh. Finally she says, “I want you to know, not that you don’t already, but just a reminder, that I love you. Very much.”
Great. I want to believe this, but I’m not sure about anything right now. “Okay, so what’s going on?”
She sighs heavily. When she reopens her eyes, I see they’re glazed. “You’re almost like my own daughter. I’ve watched you grow up, hon. I’ve seen you change. You’ve got lots of resentment.”
“Resentment?”
“Toward your mom, honey.”
“I don’t have any resentment.” Well, okay, maybe a little.
She grabs her purse. “Let’s go. We’ll talk on the way.” Part of Marie’s expertise is dealing with people who won’t be happy with the news she might bring them, so I can tell she’s using her skills on me now. Take the clients for a walk, so they won’t make a scene in the restaurant.
“Let’s talk here,” I say, staying in my seat. Whatever she has to say, she can say it here.
“Honey, don’t be silly. Let’s go, come on.” She nods toward the door, hurrying me along, like a toddler who doesn’t want to budge.
“What resentment, Marie?”
She looks at me then sits back down. “Fine, you want to discuss this here?” she asks calmly, lowering her face, whispering. “Where people are actually listening, even though they’re pretending not to? Where people who know exactly who you are are eavesdropping and you don’t even know it?” She whips her head around to a man, sitting with a gray-haired woman at a table near us, and he immediately looks away. “Let’s walk, shall we?”
How does she do that? Man, Marie’s so in tune. “Fine.”
We gather our things and leave the joint, strolling out into the blazing sun and tiled walkway. There are people everywhere, buying candles and sweet incense, sipping frozen drinks, listening to a local band. The atmosphere is definitely upbeat, but my heart feels like it’s going to explode.
We walk past a boutique, where a stone bench awaits empty, and Marie takes a seat. I sit too. Like three feet from her.
“All right, baby, there’s no easy way to say this, so I’ll just come right out.”
“Go ahead!” Before I rip it out of you!
She zips and unzips her purse, one of my mother’s trademark quirks when she’s nervous. “Crossfire’s done, sweetie. They’ll soon be history. They’d like to keep playing, but nobody’s listening.”
Well, nobody except Becca. “What does this have to do with the photographer?”
“Desert, don’t you want to see them over and done with? Crossfire?”
“Well, sometimes, but—”
“I’m tired of seeing you angry, Desert! You were always such a happy little girl, and you’ve become so…disillusioned with everything. That kills me.”
“I’m sixteen, Marie. Every sixteen-year-old is disillusioned with life.”
“No. No, they’re not. Not like you. Sweetie, if you were my daughter, I would’ve done things differently. I love your mom, and your dad,” she says, looking down at her hands folded in her lap, “but I wouldn’t have taken you on the road, hon. I think your folks made a huge mistake with that one.”
So she agrees with me? “I don’t get it.”
“All I want is to see you happy, Des. I want to see you all settled down in one place, going to school, making friends, loving life, just like a girl your age should be doing, not tagging along with a bunch of burned-out musicians.”
She’s been listening. An adult who’s actually been listening to me all along. But hey, easy on the burned-out part. My dad is still my dad. “So you’re in this with Adriana? You hired the photographer for her article?”
For a moment she searches my face, worry spilling out of her, like any family member concerned over one of its troubled teens. Then she nods softly, eyes closing in admission.
“I don’t believe this.” I don’t believe this!
“Desi,” she says, reaching over to touch my knee. “I’m doing this for you, hon, you gotta believe me.”
Strange. Weird. This would piss the hell out of my mom. But I believe it. Or do I just want to believe it? I don’t know what to think. “So by getting this article printed, you think that’ll be enough pressure to make Mom quit? But Mom doesn’t care what’s written about her anymore. Especially in some small-time tabloid.”
“Usually. Unless it’s about you, or her as a mother. If it attacks her as a parent, believe me, she’s sensitive to it.”
“This is too weird. I don’t know what to say.” To say the freakin’ least.
“Isn’t this what you want, Des? To see your parents settled down, traveling occasionally, and yourself graduating from a school that you’ve actually attended a couple years straight without interruption? Think about it, Desi.”
Think about it. Yes, let me do that, because I don’t spend enough time as it is thinking about anything. We teens are so unmotivated, you know. This is everything I ever think about! It’s what I confessed to Liam Friday night. It’s only the whole reason I asked him to make up stories about me. To finally experience a normal childhood before my college ticket gets called and I’m on my own forevermore.
“Babalú?” I have to make sure I’ve got this straight.
“Desi?”
“You’re betraying my parents…for me?”
She tilts her head and grimaces. “Betraying is a strong word, Des. Look, all the signs point to a breakup of the band anyway. I’m not the one controlling that. This would just be the straw breaking the camel’s back.”
You see? There’s that stupid camel again.
“Don’t tell your mother, Desert. She wouldn’t understand. I’ve spent my whole career arguing about her choices regarding you. She’s too stubborn.”
I couldn’t agree with her more, but still. For some reason, this doesn’t add up. Why do it like this, in secret? Why not just talk to Mom and tell her how she feels? Why not just explain this to Dad? He’ll listen!
“I know,” I say. “But you do realize if they find out about this, you’re out of a job.”
“Of course, hon. It’s all right. I’ve had offers lined up for years.”
“Is that why you left for home?”
“No, I went for a break. Your folks asked me to. They needed one too, I think.”
“Do you know why Mom’s been down all week?”
Marie knows. She knows everything. She turns her face away, looking at something far off. “Probably the sessions. They’re not working, Des, I’m telling you.”
Yeah, she’s right. They’re sucking pretty bad. One song actually sounds like The Madmen on crack. “But I heard them. They would be okay if it weren’t for Faith. She’s the one who’s throwing a wrench in their craft!”
Marie thinks this is funny and, I swear, I have never seen her look more guilty. “That’s my girl.”