Less Than Nothing (14 page)

I’m prepared for the worst. At least I think I am. I can already hear it. ‘Look, Sage, this has been super cool and all, but I’m leaving in a few and I have some shit to take care of, so have a nice life, don’t spend all your quarters in one place.’ And I’m ready for it. I can take it. Nothing can hurt me.

He clears his throat, and for the first time he’s visibly nervous. Obviously so, no question about it. Fidgety. Which makes me even more panicked.
If it’s this bad, do I really want to hear it?

When he begins speaking, his voice is so quiet I have to strain to hear it, and he won’t look me in the eyes. Always a bad sign when they won’t look you in the eyes.

“Sage, these last few days have been really great. I mean, you can see the way the crowds react. We sound good.” He swallows hard, his voice tight. “And I know we didn’t get off on the best foot, and you were kind of defensive, but we made it through that.”

I’m thinking,
Kind of defensive
? Major understatement, also not a good sign.

He tries a smile, but it’s uncomfortable, and it never reaches his eyes. “I know you’ve probably gotten some confusing signals from me, but I want to say, just so you hear me say it out loud, I really like you.”

Now I can’t look at him. I know what’s coming. I interrupt him, and when I do, my voice cracks.

“But.”

He hesitates and then continues, talking faster now. “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking, and you know I’m going to New York. It’s something I have to do. I’ll never forgive myself if I don’t.” More throat clearing. “I asked you what you want to be when you grow up, and you didn’t answer. I asked what your dream was. I don’t want to seem pushy, but I’m running out of time, so I need you to really think hard about what you want, and how badly you want it. I can’t force you to have the same ideas I do.” He seems to lose his train of thought and then tries again. “Sage, we’re good together. Better than good.” Now it’s his voice’s turn to crack, and he sighs, the tension causing a slight tremor in his words. “This isn’t coming out right. But here it goes.” Deep inhalation. “I have no right to ask you, and no reason to expect you to say yes, but I really want you to come to New York with me and do the audition. Both of us.”

I can’t breathe. For real this time. I have lost the physical ability to inhale.

He still hasn’t looked at me. He’s gazing off into the distance at a spot a million miles just to the left of the traffic light. “I kind of blew this. It didn’t come out right. I had this whole lead up, this persuasive argument about why you should be sick of the street, want something better, and that together we stand a real chance, and how it’s almost destiny how we found each other out of millions of people in this city. But it is what it is.” His voice strengthens now that he’s gotten it out, and he repeats himself a final time. “I’d like you to come with me to New York.”

His eyes return to me. A single tear works its way down my cheek, slow as molasses on an autumn day, and I sniff too loud. His face falls. He thinks he’s ruined everything, I can see.

And maybe he has.

Maybe it was high time it was ruined. Way overdue.

I rub the tear away and try to find my words. Funny how the instrument you take for granted can turn traitor at critical times. I blink and clear my throat, and suddenly everything’s back in focus, like I’ve been away for a small eternity, off somewhere in a forest filled with my ugly thoughts and every bad thing that’s ever happened to me. When I speak, my voice sounds like it’s coming from the bottom of an empty swimming pool, reverberating off the cold concrete walls.

“Okay.”

Wells, Nevada

An arid wind is howling off the high desert, buffeting the truck stop where Derek and I are huddled for warmth under his sleeping bag on a bench outside the dive restaurant. Headlights illuminate the dozen big rigs parked in the lot each time a vehicle drives past on the nearby highway – a long ribbon of pavement that stretches to the dark horizon.

Stars glimmer overhead, making the night sky a tapestry of light. I gaze up, mesmerized by the show. There’s no smog here, and at almost five thousand feet there’s a lot less atmosphere than I’m used to. The stars seem so close I could reach out and touch them.

The last two days in San Francisco were a whirlwind of preparation. It’s surprising how much there is to do when neither of us owns more than we can carry, but there is. I convinced Derek that we should spend some serious computer time researching our route so we wouldn’t wind up in Cuba, as well as verify the entry requirements for the show. We left a day early to give us a margin of safety. We’ve saved about two hundred dollars apiece from our singing that hasn’t been spent on food or a few essentials.

When I told Melody I decided to go for it, she was blown away. I think a part of her never believed I’d make the move, but the more I thought about what Blair said, the more convinced I became that changing my attitude would be a good thing. Maybe it’s all a load of crap, but it’s as good a load as I’ve heard. Just by deciding that I’m going to give this my all, it feels like I’ve taken control instead of being pushed along by the current.

At least that’s how it seemed until we wound up in the middle of nowhere, freezing our asses off while we try to find a ride for the next leg of our trip.

We got lucky leaving the Bay Area – a friend of Todd’s was heading to Tahoe in his VW bus, and we were able to tag along in exchange for gas money. Once there we hitched a ride with a self-described rancher who seemed happy for the company on the long drive east. But our luck seems to have run out now that night’s fallen, and neither of us is really prepared for the bitter cold, even in summer.

“I can’t feel my fingers,” I say, inching closer to Derek.

He pulls the sleeping bag higher and grunts. “This is nothing. Try making it through a Seattle winter or two, where it pours rain for about six months solid.”

“No, thanks. I hope the weather reports on New York are right.” The Internet shows the East Coast as warmer than San Francisco, but even with summer coming to an end, the heat is forecast to linger into the fall.

“The Internet’s never wrong,” Derek says, and we both chuckle in spite of the cold.

I spent my last two nights with him at Bull’s, and I’m way more relaxed around him now that we’ve known each other for almost a whole week. I still feel the familiar thrill when I wake up with his arm around me, but so far he hasn’t tried anything, which has me both a little relieved and also wondering whether he really likes me as much as he seems to.

Melody’s solution was predictable when I talked to her the evening before we left.

“Just pretend you’re looking for your cell phone and you think you might have lost it in his pants.”

She’s consistent as a digital clock, but I’m thinking she might have a point. But I’m not going to make the first move – that’s not my style.

Like I have a style. If a few kisses and make-out attempts that were about as exciting as a doctor’s exam qualify as experience, then I’m a treasure trove. I’ve decided not to sweat it, and concentrate on helping us get to New York in one piece. Nature seems to have worked out for a million years with males and females fumbling their way, so I’m not worried, especially with Derek, who no doubt has enough experience for both of us, although he hasn’t come out and said so.

After that morning when the fireworks went off and I was walking on air most of the day, reality set in and I started freaking out – I had agreed to not only travel thousands of miles but also go up against the best singers in the U.S. Little me, who’s never been further from home than San Francisco, which isn’t even a hundred miles from the small town where I grew up, and whose total professional entertainment experience consists of singing oldies on a dirty blanket to stoners.

When you’re me, stressing out over stuff is like a national pastime. I’m really good at it. I’ve been told I can invent enough scenarios to plot a season of soap operas on any given day. It’s the downside to having a good imagination and reading a lot – where most people see a coffee stain, I see a treasure map, dried blood from a murder-suicide, or the Last Supper.

Derek’s the exact opposite. He seems content to take life as it comes, and he’s a hundred and twenty percent confident we’re going to make a splash in New York. We’ve been paying a lot more attention to our harmonies now that we decided to enter the contest as a duo, and the upside to having seven or eight hours a day to sing together is we stuffed a month’s worth of practice into a week. By our last day, there are about ten songs that are standouts, and we’ve taken to rotating them so we run through them at least a dozen times a day.

Even though we’ve spent almost every hour together since that morning, I haven’t gotten tired of being around him. If anything, every time we have to split up feels like an eternity until we’re back together. I have a mental image of this little runt dog and a German shepherd I see in the park most mornings, the two bonded and inseparable, and for some reason that’s what I think of when my thoughts turn to us.

My only fear – other than being murdered by someone who picks up hitchhikers to kill them, or freezing to death in the New York winter, or being gang-raped by mountain men on the road – is that maybe I’ve misread Derek and he’s really only interested in a musical relationship. I’ve told myself that’s okay, but the truth is the more time I spend with him, the less okay it is.

I pride myself on my ability to read people, but I look at him and have no clue what’s going on behind those eyes. Which is unnerving. Especially now that my feelings are changing, growing less professional with each passing hour. I watch him, looking for clues, but I might as well be staring at the Sphinx.

A semi-rig air-brakes as it pulls into the lot, and I shiver. I lean my head against Derek’s shoulder and tell myself we’re not going to be stuck here all night. He shifts and pulls me close, and a surge of warmth courses through me. I silently will him to do something, anything, that would confirm he’s feeling more than brother and sisterly, but he continues to be a gentleman.

Which sucks worse than I can explain. I wet my lips and close my eyes, thinking about Melody’s advice. Maybe I’m going to have to make a first move. I’m working up the courage to nuzzle his neck when he stiffens and sits up straighter. A trucker with a bushy red beard and a grimy Hooters baseball cap is exiting the restaurant, and he slows when he sees us.

Derek nods at him with a small smile, and the trucker nods back.

“Mighty cold, isn’t it?” he says.

“Probably going to get worse before it gets better,” Derek confirms.

“Where you kids headed?”

“East.”

The trucker looks me over, and then his eyes return to Derek. “Got a ride?”

“I wish. We’re hoping to hitch one. We don’t have much, but we could help out with gas.”

The trucker’s silent for a few seconds. “Diesel,” he says. “These babies drink diesel.” His gaze moves back to me. “That everything you got?” He nods at our pitiful bags and guitar cases.

I decide to try some feminine charm. Anything to get out of this cold. “That’s it. Mister, we’d be really grateful if you’re headed east and could help us out.”

He appears to think it over. “Hmm. Well, I’m going as far as Denver. Gonna be driving all night. If you can help keep me awake, you can ride with me.”

I practically bolt to my feet, but Derek’s slower. “You sure?”

“Sure. I got a couple a kids about your age. I’d hate to see ’em freezing in the ass end of nowhere. You can stow your stuff in my cab. I got a bed in the back. It ain’t much, but it works for me.”

Derek stands and extends his hand. He’s a few inches taller than the trucker and solid muscle, whereas the older man looks like the only exercise he gets is waddling into diners.

“Much obliged,” Derek says, and I give him a sidelong glance. Since when is Derek a good ol’ country boy? “Name’s Derek. This is Sage.”

The trucker reaches for my hand. I give him the total courtesy shake and notice his nails are a science experiment. Still, beggars can’t be choosers.

“Gus,” he says. “Pleasure to meetcha.”

We follow him to a red Peterbilt and I climb into the cab. Derek hands me our stuff, and I stash it in the sleeping berth, and then he climbs in next to me. The seat’s only big enough for one of us, so I climb up into the berth while Gus pulls himself up behind the wheel and starts the motor. I’m surprised by how nice the interior is considering Gus’s overall look. It’s actually pretty comfortable.

“You should take yer shoes off. That’s my bed nine months outta the year,” he says. I unlace my Chucks and put them on top of my backpack. He looks in the side mirrors and puts the truck in gear, and soon we’re pulling onto the highway, his radio chattering and squawking as we go.

Gus turns out to be from Jacksonville, Florida, and has been driving for twenty-two years. I made him for fifty, but turns out he’s forty-four. He’s got a wife and two kids, son and daughter, twenty and sixteen years old. The son’s in college on a sports scholarship, and Gus tells endless stories about his miraculous feats on the field. The daughter wants to be an architect, and Gus has been saving up to put her through school.

I’m listening to this, and my self-esteem’s tunneling with every mile. Eventually he asks what we’re doing, and Derek tells him about the talent show. Gus listens attentively and laughs when Derek’s done.