Less Than Nothing (28 page)

In the end, I suppose there’s no difference, which makes me sad.

She’s got several tabloids that want interviews, as well as a national late night show that’s expressed interest, and by the time we finish talking, it’s obvious that we’ll be booked at least four days next week.

I watch the final contestant try to follow us up to lackluster response, and try to ignore the quiver of unease in my gut.

It’s going too well.

Nothing in life has ever gone this well for me.

Naturally, I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop.

And when it does, it’s a whole box full.

It’s three days later, and we’re finishing up our appearance on the talk show, the host joking with Derek, and it seems like nothing can stop us. Sabrina’s getting more requests for us than she can field, and we’re booked five days this week. We’ve gone from being broke drifters to the couple everyone wants a piece of – minor celebrities, an underdog story the media adores.

I found an apartment in the Bronx, not the greatest neighborhood, but clean and only a subway ride off the island, where the owner will rent us a studio apartment for three-fifty a week. The landlady’s a fan of the show, and when I admitted that I’m
that
Sage, she switched from hard-nosed landlady to fan, and within a few hours I’d handed over seven hundred dollars for two weeks’ rent.

It’s our second night in the apartment, and it’s impossibly luxurious – there’s a refrigerator, only a few hundred cockroaches, no rats that I can see, a bed, a TV, a small circular table with three chairs, and a sofa that’s more worn than Derek’s motorcycle jacket.

It’s heaven. Even if the water has a troubling brownish color for the first few minutes of showering, it’s a world away from Lucifer’s.

Derek waves at the studio audience as the host takes a break and cuts to commercial, and then we’re being escorted from the studio by Sabrina, who’s apparently working fifteen-hour days while the show’s airing. We stop in the lobby, and she signs out with the security guard and then turns to me.

“We’re on for tomorrow, right?” she asks, confirming our appearance in the morning for our second national TV appearance, this one on
Good Morning USA
.

“Absolutely. But we’re going to need to take Wednesday off. Rest up for the show,” I say. I don’t tell her that Derek promised to take me to the zoo.

“Perfect. Then tomorrow’s morning show, and an interview with that paper I told you about, and then you’re off. See you at six, right?”

“Yup.”

Whoever believes being an entertainer is easy has never actually tried it. We’re working longer and harder now than we did on the street, and there’s no end in sight. The media’s a monster that demands to be fed, and the only thing worse than being popular is being unpopular, when the calls stop coming and you’re yesterday’s news.

We grab dinner at a restaurant on West 73rd and then ride the train north to the Bronx, through Harlem. Those last five stops before the end of the island are the diciest at night, and we stay in the first car, where the driver’s compartment is located – that’s the least likely area for killings and robberies, we’ve been told.

The three-block walk from the station seems way longer at night than it did yesterday in the early evening, and I’m relieved when we bolt the door behind us. The apartment has bars on the windows and, most miraculous of all, an ancient AC unit that still works pretty well. It sputters on at the twist of a knob, and soon the little room’s bearable.

I take a long shower, luxuriating in the knowledge that I can bathe two or three times a day if I want. When I step out of the bathroom, hair still wet, Derek’s reading the schedule that Sabrina gave us with a frown. I know what he’s thinking – we should be getting more money – but this week we’re clearing two grand in cash from our appearances, and even after rent, we’re rich by my standards. I’ve already told him I’m going to take my half of the loot and get some new clothes and a decent haircut. I haven’t asked him what he’ll do with his.

My phone rings, and I answer it. Derek points to the bathroom, and I nod. I watch him cross the room with his hygiene bag as Melody’s voice greets me.

“Yo, homegirl. Whassup?” she chirps.

“Like I texted you, we’ve got a place! I’m super excited.”

“How is it?”

“After living in the tunnels, like the Taj Mahal.”

“That sounded totally sketchy. You must be stoked.”

“I am.”

“How’s wonder boy?”

“He’s good.” I don’t elaborate. Which only goads her on.

“You bump uglies yet? Make the beast with two backs? Do the nasty?”

“Nothing’s changed since yesterday.”

“Have you tried rubbing oil all over yourself and doing the forbidden dance for him?”

“The what?”

“Never mind. I can tell I’m wasting my valuable advice.”

“Pearls before swine,” I agree.

“In case I didn’t tell you, I’ve built a little shrine to Sage and Derek in my bedroom, and I’ve recorded every appearance you’ve made. You’re hella cute on the tube, you know.”

“They say the camera adds ten pounds.”

“It did ’em in the right spots.”

“How are you doing?”

“Compared to you? Bored out of my mind. I realized last week that what I really need is a hottie to sing with and a national TV presence. Can you help out on that?”

“I’ve heard you sing. Maybe juggling instead?”

“Don’t be bitter. I can tell you’re jealous. It’s unattractive in one so young.”

“Melody, I’m older than you.”

She breezes right past that, as always. “Did you see the article in the
Tattler
?”

The
Celebrity Tattler
is a tabloid that’s famous for its lurid covers, usually depicting aliens or starlets or both, and headlines like “I Married A Martian!” Not really my regular reading material. “No. What’s it about?”

“Oh, my God! You’re famous! I’ll have to scan it and send it to you. Did you ever get an email account?”

“Uh, no, Internet was kind of flaky at Lucifer’s. Rats chewed through the wires or something.” I spend almost zero time on the web. Which makes sense since I don’t own a computer, my phone’s a relic, and Internet cafés have been out of my budget until recently.

“Well, go buy it. It’s almost all wrong, but it’s funny as shit. I think they basically just invented most of it – although they did say your mom’s in the hospital.”

I close my eyes, but I’m not surprised. She’s been warned enough times. “What else does it say?”

“That you and Derek have been an item for a year, that there was a pregnancy scare, and that he’s battled drug and alcohol issues but seems stable now. And that you’re discussing your wedding if you win the contest.”

“Sounds like the only thing they left out was time travel.” We both laugh. “You could put my life on Disney right now. No weddings planned.”

“Duh. I just thought it was hysterical.”

We finish the call with a summary of her love life since I left, which could be a movie of the week, and she says that if we go to the finals, her mom agreed to fly her to New York for the show. The thought of Melody invading New York is almost too much to contemplate, and when I hang up, I miss my friend a lot.

Derek’s done with the bathroom when my phone rings again – a New York number I don’t recognize.

“Hello?” I answer.

“Sage? It’s Paul. From the show.”

“Oh. Paul. It’s kind of late, isn’t it?”

“Sorry, but I need to check this off my list. I just got out of a meeting with the producers and our legal team, and there’s a concern the attorneys raised. They said we need your waiver notarized.”

“What does that mean?”

“Your mom needs to take it to a notary public, who will verify her identity, and then stamp it and sign it. It’s a formality, but apparently an important one. Frankly, you’re the only minor on the show, so it hasn’t come up with anyone else. We’re all kind of learning.”

Crap. I can’t tell him that she can’t get it notarized because she never signed it in the first place, so I punt. “She’s in the hospital. Don’t you read the paper?”

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. Nothing serious, I hope.”

“It may be. We’re all hoping not, but…”

“I’ll tell the producers. How about your father?”

A vision of Ralph pops into my head, and I feel instantly sick. “He’s…I lost touch with him.”

“Well, I’m sorry to burden you with this. Maybe we can have a notary go to the hospital.”

“I’ll check to see how she’s doing and get back to you.”

“Please do, Sage. Sorry to call so late. We can talk more at the show.”

When I hang up, it feels like I’ve been punched in the stomach. I’m afraid I’m going to throw up. The room suddenly feels too hot, and the walls are closing in. When Derek comes out of the bathroom, I’m pacing in front of the air conditioner, which is wheezing like an asthmatic. His hair’s dripping, and he’s wearing a pair of oversized shorts and a black T-shirt. I can’t help but notice how sculpted his legs look, but that’s doing me no good, so I plop down on the bed.

“What’s wrong?” he asks.

I tell him about Paul. By the time I’m done, I feel a full-blown panic attack coming on. Derek sits on the sofa and studies me for a few moments, and then smiles.

“I bet I can find someone to notarize it. It’s probably just a matter of money. And for once, we have some.”

“I don’t know, Derek. We’re pretty high profile. Maybe if we weren’t on TV every day, but I can’t see anyone sticking their neck out for a few bucks. That would be fraud or something, right? I mean, they could go to jail.”

“Probably not jail. But you might be right. Only one way to know for sure.”

I shake my head. “I can’t take the chance that someone will blackmail me someday, Derek. People suck. My face is on TV and the papers…” Which reminds me. I tell him about the tabloid article, and he laughs.

“That’s great! Maybe I’m sleeping with Elvis, too. That’s next week,” he says and turns serious. “You can always reach out to your mom.”

“She’s dependent on Ralph for everything – her brain’s mush. She’ll ask him, he’ll say absolutely not, and I’m screwed. That’s not an option.”

After a few more minutes of discussion, neither of us has any new ideas. I can probably stall a while longer with the sick mother excuse. Maybe a coma.

Derek’s sleeping on the couch, and I have the bed. He called the couch when he first saw the studio, and I didn’t protest. I don’t offer to have him sleep with me, even though my motives are as pure as my heart, which isn’t saying much when it comes to Derek, and he’s smart enough to avoid suggesting it. Neither of us wants to tempt fate, and in spite of our best intentions, I’m having a hard time sticking with the platonic thing with Derek only a few feet away.

As I toss and turn for another difficult night, I remember Jeremy telling me he can resist anything but temptation, and for once I can totally relate.

The third show arrives all too soon. We’re back in the now-familiar dressing room, which is a lot emptier with eighteen contestants than fifty. Jeremy’s hair is orange this week, and he looks like a pumpkin, which I take glee in telling him. He doesn’t care – his theory is that it’s all about giving the audience something to remember, and there’ve been a number of comments in the press about his ever-changing coloring, which has become a trademark.

“Girl, you just have to give them something to identify you by. With me, even if they’re tone deaf, they’ll remember ‘He’s the guy with the weird hair.’ And that puts me closer to the winner’s circle than if I’m just another pretty face.” He eyes himself in the mirror and lifts a distressed bang from his brow before dropping it back into place and throwing a glance at Derek. “No offense to the pretty faces.”

“I’m not just a piece of meat, you know,” Derek says good-naturedly. “I have thoughts and ideas and shit.”

“Of course you do,” Jeremy says with a smile.

“What’s this week going to be?” I ask him. We’ve been way too busy to get together since our last lunch.

“Whitney, biatch. ‘Greatest Love of All.’ When I get done there won’t be a dry eye in the room.” He snaps his fingers.

“That should be great with your voice,” I say, and it’s true.

“I’m trying to give the judges an idea of my artistic range.”

“Your what?” Derek asks with a smirk.

“Oh, hush up,” Jeremy says with an eye roll. He turns to me. “Did you bring his toys to play with? He’s getting uppity.” A pause. “What are you two going to do for our amusement this fine summer evening?”

“‘Thirty Days In The Hole,’” Derek says.

An evil smile flits across Jeremy’s face. “Sounds like my dream date.”

Paul enters and approaches me. I try not to look guilty as a poop-eating dog. He hands me a form and tells me I have a week to get it notarized, and then checks the time. “Half an hour, people.”

We drew numbers earlier, and we’re number five, Jeremy number eleven. His superstition over number one’s evaporated, but he’s still convinced that being the last act of the night would doom him to failure.