Red Velvet Crush (14 page)

My heart is still pounding when the song ends. My fingers flutter along the neck of my guitar, even though I'm not playing a note. I feel like I am in a dream.

I hear clapping, but it is far away, muted and fuzzy. Ty and Ginger are beaming at me, but their hands aren't moving. The clapping gets louder.

Ty turns toward the door. Ginger sets his guitar down.

Billie is standing in the doorway wearing striped pajama pants and an Oregon Ducks sweatshirt. She has half a bagel held between her front teeth as she slowly claps. Why did Winston wait until today to finally score us a hotel with a breakfast bar?

She stops clapping and slowly takes us in: the three guitars, the cups of coffee, the notes and papers resting on the chairs behind us.

How did I think this was going to happen?

Did I think we were just going to spring it on her one night? Stand back, Billie, we've got a song that you won't be singing.

Now that she is here, I felt better, less guilty, because at least now she knows. Now all I have to do is clean up the mess.

Billie looks past Ty to the windows that span the side of the Sunrise Room. Right behind Ginger there is a scenic view of the parking lot.

She takes a bite of the bagel and says, as if she doesn't give a shit about what we are doing, “So there's no pool?”

Billie doesn't answer when I knock on her door. It is wedged open, so I push my way in, wondering if she slept that way, with the door open, cracked enough to let light in from the hall.

I kick a crumpled matchbook cover from under the door and listen for the latch to click behind me. Once my eyes adjust to the darkness of the room, I climb into the bed, across a jumble of sheets and hotel pillows and slide under the slippery bedspread.

Billie is buried near the bottom, curled up with the remote tucked under her chin, watching as cartoons play silently on the TV five feet away. It feels like I haven't really seen her for so long. Her fingernails are chewed short, and it looks like one cuticle is bleeding. We both have faded
X
's on our hands, left over from last night.

“Too young to drink, but old enough to rock your world,” a guy with a mustache and way too many muscles said to his skinnier friend when they walked by Billie and me as we were setting up.

“We should get that printed on a T-shirt.” Billie laughed, wrapping her microphone cord around her fingers and watching the muscleman go.

Today her hair is shiny and blown out superstraight,
fanning out around her head on the pillow. She is fully dressed, covered head to toe in bright pink, even her lips, but the bottoms of her feet are black and bare.

I picture her padding around in the hotel hallway at all hours, perfect from the ankles up.

Our mom was the same way. Hair perfect. Lipstick on. Shoes left behind.

In first grade she showed up at my school one day with a squished sandwich in a wrinkled paper bag. And maybe some leftover pie from the restaurant—Marionberry, I bet.

“Teddy, Teddy Lee,” she whispered to me from the hall, followed by the wrinkling of the bag.

I looked up from my spelling book. So did the entire class, including Mr. K, the best teacher ever. My fingers gripped the edge of my avocado green desk. I was frozen.

Mom stood in her waitress uniform and the suntan pantyhose she got at the drugstore. Her hair was done up, her lipstick applied and blotted, but she had slippers on her feet. I gripped my desk even tighter.

I glanced up at Mr. K, wondering if I should answer her. He ran a pretty tight ship.

In the end I stayed put.

Mr. K walked over and retrieved my wrinkled lunch, which he slid into the little wire basket under my seat, while I stared down at my spelling book until I heard those slippers slipping away.

I wriggle in, really close, and Billie stirs. She sets the remote down and looks me in the eyes. I watch her brow furrow, her lips pouting as an idea becomes a thought and the thought becomes words.

“Soon all the songs will be yours,” she says, staring past me.

Over her shoulder I watch a cat hit a mouse in the head with a hammer. I exhale and smooth out the small spot of empty sheet beneath us.

“Don't you think we're pretty far away from that?” I ask.

Billie shrugs, but we are. We are
so
far away from that.

Can't we wait until I can play at least one of my own songs well before we all start to worry? Besides, Jay and Winston are barely in on it yet.

“You know it sucks for me, right?” Billie asks.

I do. I want to pretend that it doesn't matter, but I can see it—in her eyes, in her skinny shoulders, in the quiver when she speaks.

“Yeah.” I nod.

She picks at her nails and keeps quiet, being very serious and un-Billie for a few minutes.

When she finally squirms and says, “That guitar makes my fingers hurt,” I know we are back to regular Billie.

Ty is teaching her how to play. He ran out and bought her a brand-new guitar, keeping up his end of the deal that Ginger and I made.

It was waiting for her in the front seat of the van when we packed up to leave the afternoon I told Ty and Ginger I wanted to sing. She never even asked why. It had pink sparkles on it, and that was enough.

I reach over and examine her fingers. The tips are red but not raw.

“Are you scared?” I ask.

She shakes her head.

I know she wants to believe that we are always thinking and feeling the same thing.

When we were little, she would suddenly look over and ask me with her eyes lit up, “Are you thinking what I'm thinking?” She wished we were wonder twins, with great hair and boots and telepathic powers.

I studied her. Tried to mind meld. But I always gave in.

“I don't know,” I'd say. “What are you thinking?”

This time I know better. I loop my fingers around hers.

This time I say, “Me, too.”

W
e are pulling into Pocatello, into that endless gray light that can somehow seem much brighter than sunshine, even if it's just seconds from flat-out rain. I watch a freeway interchange coming up, a concrete cloverleaf of double yellow lines and hybrid cars. My eyes dilate in the bright light and then throb.

Everyone inside the van seems as listless as the weather. Maybe nobody's born to be wild when it's overcast, but come on. We are the farthest away from home we will get on this trip, the farthest away I have ever been. They can at least act excited.

Plus, tomorrow night I will sing for the first time. We will use tonight to feel out the crowd for original material. I am hiding my nervousness under a hoodie, a jean jacket, and a vow of silence, Ginger Baker style. Thank God for one more night.

“Okay, here's the deal,” Winston calls out from the driver's
seat in his loud DJ school voice as he stops the van. “We've booked two nights with a band called”—short pause while he consults his managerial clipboard—“Blasting Cap.”

“Woohoo.” Billie claps, half assed.

“Cool name,” Jay says, coming alive, stretching his arms toward the carpeted sky and yawning big.

Ty nods. “Wish I would have thought of that.”

“Our name is cool,” Jay says.

“It is, in an Elvis's grandmother's favorite cake recipe kind of way.” Ty jokes, stabbing me through the heart with his words.

“I love cake,” Jay says, so dreamy and wanton that I seriously question if I have fallen for the wrong former Trigger Brother.

Winston consults the top sheet on his stack of papers and peers out the side window. “This has got to be it.”

He drops his clipboard onto the dash and slowly eases the van into the entrance. The back end creaks up and over the curb into the parking lot. A bum stands next to a pink rosebush under a weathered marquee that says
THE BARRACUDA
L
OUNGE
.

TONIGHT BLASTING CaP!

I sit back in my seat. They couldn't spring for another big
A
?

The sky is getting darker, dimming down to rain. We circle the empty parking lot, doing our usual drive by.

The homeless guy slides behind the rosebush when we make our way around to the front of the building again. The van lurches over the curb and out into the empty street, leaving him behind.

It starts to sprinkle. Winston snaps the headlights on, lighting up the pink, red, and yellow rosebushes that line the streets. The roses glow from the misty background. We follow their colors down the rain-washed streets, all the way downtown and to our hotel with a capital
H
.

Yep, this one has more than two floors.

Winston dumps us out at the front doors and goes to park the van. The Hotel has a swanky old-time lobby with a velvet sofa and a dusty smell. It may be tall and stately, but nice left this hotel a long time ago. Timeworn is the best way to describe it. I get in line to check in while Billie and the boys crash on the sofa in the corner.

I'm behind a tiny, pale guy with slick black hair. Skinny arms. Twenty-two at best, he appears to be turning hotel registration into some sort of Advanced Placement test.

“We're in a band,” he says to me over his shoulder, as if he were apologizing and trying to impress me at the same time.

It does explain the knot of dark-haired smokers in the other corner staring at us.

I nod. “That's nice.”

He folds up his paperwork and slides it into the inside pocket of his vest. Then he turns and looks me up and down.
I try to ignore the fact he has no shirt on, just the vest. Eww. Finally he steps to the side, letting me at the front desk.

“Wait,” dark and tiny says, shaking his head. “That usually works.”

The girl behind the counter smiles at me past her lip piercing.

“We have a reservation,” I say to her. “Carter. Red Velvet Crush?”

I'm not sure how Randy made the reservation.

“You're the Crush?” my new little friend asks.

“Apparently.”

“Good name. Very dramatic.” He raises his arm with a flourish of black polished fingertips. “We're your headliner, Blasting Cap.”

He points his finger at me and shoots an imaginary pistol when he says the band's name, but I doubt this guy could handle a BB gun, let alone a serious weapon of any kind.

I fill out the van's info and forge Winston's signature on the receipt.

He continues. “We're only slumming here until we swing on through to Seattle.”

I nod. “Sweet.”

He lifts his chin toward the scrum of greasy rock boys in the corner.

“That's the band,” he says as they stub out their cigarettes and make their way across the faded carpet toward us. They all
are dark and small just like him, but he is obviously the master of ceremonies.

They nod. The one closest to me has tragically bad teeth. I watch him smile and thank God that Billie, Winston, and I were lucky enough to end up with good teeth. Lord knows we can't afford the dentist. Most days I am glad we have enough toothpaste to go around.

“That's my band.” I lift my chin toward the sofa.

“Yours?”

“Yep.”

“And the little blonde?” the cutest one asks.

Billie is squealing and laughing as Ty puts her into a headlock and Jay messes up her hair.

“That's Billie,” I say.

I gather up the key cards in their little envelopes and the printed map of the hotel with our rooms circled in black ink.

They all are watching Billie, but I'm not worried. They are nothing more than a flea circus for Billie to train for her entertainment and eventually swat away.

“Don't bother,” I say as I walk away with my hands full, “she won't remember your name tomorrow.”

“We can live with that.” The ringmaster chuckles. “And by the way,” he calls after me, “it's Ben.”

“There are way more dudes out there than last night,” one of the Blasting Caps boys says as I squeeze by behind him and
stop, scanning the room for Billie. He is blocking his dressing room doorway so he can peek out at the crowd. It is almost a full house.

This is a big club. Not just for us, but for any band. It has a real backstage, with separate dressing rooms for Blasting Cap and us. Their room is bigger, full of cast-off furniture and an old oak bar and tons of people.

THE BAND
is painted above their doorway, and someone drew a skinny rocker dude in a wifebeater and big boots on the wall next to the door; the grubby light switch is his belly button.

We are definitely riding on Blasting Cap's coattails. They bring a crowd with them, and I am nervous and anxious to sing to a full room, an excited mob. But I need to find Billie first. I tell myself I will worry about singing after that. The thought makes my throat dry up.

I spy Billie in the darkest corner, making out with one of the Blasting Cap boys with reckless abandon. I hope it's the cute one. They are kissing like they can't be seen, like they aren't backstage, surrounded by strangers and assorted musical instruments. It makes my tongue tired just watching.

“Where are all the hot chicks?” the first Cap moans.

He has gray jeans on with silver designs sewn into the back pockets and tattooed arms. His jeans hang low on his skinny ass as he turns back into the room and presses himself against the wall that separates the stage from backstage.

“All those dudes out there greatly decrease our chances of getting laid, you know.” He drops into a chair in a puff of Old Gold dust.

“Are you kidding?” the other one asks, his eyes sliding over to Billie in the corner, “What if she brought along some friends? Can you imagine?”

Then he takes his turn peeking out at the club.

“Way worth the extra dudes.”

The first one—shiny pants—sighs. “I do love the crazy ones.”

“We all do.” The second one agrees as they tap their beer bottles together, toasting my little sister and her supposed legion of hot friends.

I probably should be offended. But I laugh and pass them by, knowing that Billie's never really had any friends. Temporary tattoos last longer.

Blasting Cap showed up super-early to our sound check, arriving backstage with fresh bottles of booze and dusty red packets of bottle rockets while Ty and Jay were double-checking our gear and retaping our cords to the floor. The two of them walk up next to me now, their eyes flicking toward Billie in the corner, buried in the couch.

“Great,” Ty says, turning away. “That's all we need . . . a Blasting Cap baby.”

“A little powder keg,” Jay coos, rocking his arms back and forth.

I roll my eyes.

“A little six-shooter.” Jay continues, his Vans keeping pace with me as I make my way toward Billie across the worn, dingy red carpet that is decorated exclusively with cigarette burns and strange wet spots.

After our first night sharing a bill, I know these things for certain: Blasting Cap likes alcoholic beverages, Billie, and blowing things up.

Their show is the Fourth of July and a mini Mardi Gras rolled into one, complete with smoke screens, small explosions, and a steel drum. By their third song the stage is knee deep in empty beer bottles and burned matches. Ty and I didn't stick around for the after-party last night, but Billie must have.

“Whatcha up to, Billie?” Jay asks, grinning down at her as we approach the battered couch. It has seen better days, probably ten years ago.

Billie stops to take a breath.

She swings her head up in our direction. Her eyes are lusty and unfocused, her cheeks shining pink.

“Sinning in the name of rock and roll,” she says with a smile.

Jay chuckles.

“Well, stop,” I say.

I reach down and peel her and the sweaty cap apart.

“It's time to cool down a little,” I say. “And—”

Oh, crap, it isn't the cute one, I realize. It's the one with the teeth.

“Swab for diseases.”

I yank Billie up by her wrist, steady her out, and straighten her skirt. She smells a little like gunpowder.

Holding her tight by the elbow, I steer her across the room.

As we turn the last dim corner and step onto the stage, she hisses into my ear. “I'm singing them all tonight.” Her breath is smoky and sour.

Strange cylinders line the edge of the stage, every couple of feet. They must be new, compliments of Blasting Cap and their special effects team. His name is Dave.

“No, you're not.” I assure her, and myself, as we navigate through the maze of old coffee cans and our gear.

“We'll see.”

She twists away, bobbles on a loose cord, and finds her balance. She isn't that drunk tonight, but man, is she mean. I leave her alone, cranking her mic stand down inch by inch as I take my own spot onstage, on the audience's far right, and slide my guitar over my head.

Late last night when I was in bed, staring at the ceiling and waiting for the stars shining so brightly in my mind to fade so I could finally fall asleep, I thought about performing, about my music, about something that I created, that didn't exist until I thought of it, and I realized I will never want
anything more than this. It is awesome and painful and sweet all at the same time. It fills me up and then craps me out the other side, ready for another go.

I smile to myself onstage, watching as my little sister brushes the hair out of her eyes and wipes the spit from some snaggle-toothed boy from the corners of her mouth.

Billie can make all the messes and sing all the cover songs she wants. Tonight it is finally my turn.

Our third song starts with a roll and a punch. Then the rush hits me. This is my song! A chorus of butterflies carrying chain saws circles in my stomach.

It's not like I didn't know it was coming. How many times did I hear Winston repeat our plan before the show: open with two covers, slide in a new song, and then get back to what they came here for? At least twice, but it felt more like ten.

But then Billie scratched over the set list with her boot, and I guess I really am lost in the sunshine of your love because I am totally surprised when Jay bounces down three bass notes of the intro, hard and heavy, announcing my song, my shot. Here it is.

The crowd swims before me, eyes and hair and teeth and smiling and clapping and waiting and watching and wanting, as I reach for the microphone.

Blood shoots through my veins, a thin, hot river of adrenaline. My mouth tastes tinny, like I licked a guitar string.
My heart rams at the walls of my chest, trying to escape. Please, ribs, I beg, don't break.

Billie steals one last look at me and goes off. She is a lit fuse, running and twirling and dancing. A hot flash of white legs and blond hair that streaks across the stage in a short black skirt while the rest of us race to keep up.

I open my mouth to sing and am slammed back by a sharp, deafening squeal of feedback. I cringe and cower away as a loud pop jolts the stage and everything is swallowed up by a deep, sudden darkness. Then silence.

It probably doesn't last more than a few seconds, but as I stand there on the stage with the microphone in my hand, that quiet feels like forever.

My mouth is open. The tips of my fingers are throbbing.

“Aww . . . Christ,” Ty moans from behind me.

I hear his sticks land on top of his snare. “Blasting Cap blew out the lights.”

Not just the stage lights, all the lights. And not just the lights, all the electricity, it seems. The only things still glowing are the exit signs above the doors and a Schlitz malt liquor lamp on the bar that looks so fossilized it probably runs on kerosene or melted whale blubber.

I swallow my disappointment in a large, disquieting gulp and cram the microphone back into its stand with sweaty fingers.

The crowd rustles self-consciously. I can feel fear and
excitement and confusion rising from the floor. A single shout goes up.