Less Than Nothing (33 page)

He hugs me again and gives me a phone number for the front desk of his hotel.

“The lady said she’d take a message. If you need to get in touch with me, call, and I’ll return it as soon as I get the message.”

I watch him trudge away, and I’m struck by how life unfolds differently than I thought it did. I always imagined that it got easier as you got older, but over the last four months I’ve learned otherwise. People take wrong turns, make poor choices, or just have bad luck, and they’re squashed like bugs. It doesn’t get any easier. You just get older and your problems change. Maybe instead of worrying about where you’re going to live or where your next meal’s coming from, you’re worried about that pain in your lungs or the lump in your breast. But none of it’s easy, and the biggest mistake is taking any of the good for granted.

I hate myself for thinking about Derek again as I walk to the subway station. I think I’m doing fine, and then, like a physical pain, I’m swamped by a wave of despair from out of nowhere. I can see why people drink or do drugs to escape. But that’s not my way.

Instead, I plan to use the pain to power me through the contest and show the world what I’m made of. Show Derek what he lost. Make him regret his behavior for the rest of his life.

He had it all, had
me
for the asking, and he screwed up. I want him to suffer like I’m suffering, to feel the same hurt, the same emptiness in my core, an agony so acute it seems like it’ll never go away.

It’s petty and mean, but that’s how I feel.

So much for the softer, gentler Sage.

The night of the semifinals Jeremy’s a wreck as usual, whereas I’m as calm as I’ve ever been. I suffer through the hair and makeup without comment as Jeremy regales everyone with a nonstop monologue, which he does when he’s nervous. He’s really funny tonight. His hair is a bright green, and he’s wearing a shiny suit he got at a secondhand store.

My phone vibrates, and I look at it. A text message from Helen, short and to the point:
Good luck – you’ve got this.

Derek’s in the dressing room sitting by himself. My heart melts when I see him, but I don’t allow myself to show any emotion. He’s not going to get the satisfaction of knowing how hard this is for me. When Jeremy and I return from makeup, we sit as far from him as possible, in a replay of the prior week. I’ve seen the articles in the tabloids that claim he’s dating a supermodel now, that a Kardashian was spotted in the Hamptons with him, that he was thrown out of a tony club for threatening someone. I don’t care.

Then again, Jeremy delights in reading the inventions about my love life that are all over the web, and is keeping a running list, as is Melody. So far this week I’ve been checked into rehab for my drug problem, I’ve closed a bar with my new Saudi prince boyfriend, and I’m apparently dating both a Laker and a pop star. I wonder whether it’s hard for them to make all this crap up, or whether they have a wheel they spin to decide what combination they’ll invent this week.

“At least you haven’t been experimented on by aliens again,” Jeremy says. “Probably too busy with the basketball player.”

“Who knew my social life was so busy? It’s hard to keep track of.”

We draw our numbers, and I’m lucky number seven. Jeremy gets ten, which he’s happy about. I don’t particularly care one way or another. The part of me that did is numb. Now I just want to get onstage. I’ve been practicing my song all week, and I think I’ve got it down with some interesting twists. Jeremy’s been humming his all day, and if I hear “Don’t Cry Out Loud” one more time before the show, I’ll strangle him.

Derek’s on second tonight, and against my better judgment I watch his performance on the monitor. He’s doing a Chris Isaak tune, “Wicked Game,” wearing a fifties-style rat-pack outfit that I grudgingly admit he looks incredible in. He’s taken to slicking his hair back for each performance, and when he takes the stage, all I hear is female shrieking for half a minute.

The song’s flawless, his voice never better, and when he’s finished, he gets an ovation. Deservedly so. There’s no question that he’s going on to the finals, and I’m not surprised when he gets three tens. He waves his cast at the audience as he leaves the stage, and it’s pandemonium again as his fans go ape.

I don’t envy the woman who has to follow that, and go to the bathroom so I don’t have to see him when he returns to the room. I spend as much time as is feasible in there, and after ten minutes I emerge, all eyes on me.

Derek’s waiting nearby, and when he sees me, he approaches. I don’t look at him, but he grabs my arm.

“Sage, can we just talk? This is killing me. I miss you so much–”

The look I give him could freeze lava. I overenunciate every word. “Take your hand off me or lose it.”

He lets go. Jeremy rises and comes to my rescue, but I shake my head. I can fight my own battles. Especially this one.

Derek leaves the dressing room, and I unpack and tune Yam like nothing happened. And in my mind, nothing did. I’ll think about it later. Right now the only thing that exists is my three minutes onstage, and I’m not going to let Derek ruin that. I don’t believe that was his intention – he just doesn’t think. Or rather he thinks about all the wrong things.

And then Paul’s assistant is calling my name. I do a final strum, and Jeremy pecks me on the cheek, and then we’re walking to the stage as the previous contestant sobs nearby, her scores inadequate to go on to the finals.

This time when I take the stage there’s no hesitation in my body language. The roar of the crowd’s as loud as a jet engine, but I ignore it. I’m already gone somewhere else in my head, and I have to remember to wave at the audience and smile.

You can hear a pin drop in the silence immediately before I start strumming the intro to the song I picked for the night: Pink’s “Try.” I build the intensity during the verse, and by the time I’m at the chorus I feel like I’m flying – my voice can do no wrong, and I push it to impossible limits, and then past, lost in the music like I used to be when I blocked out Ralph and my mom fighting with the sound of my own singing.

When I finish the song, it takes me a second to realize I’ve ended it – that’s how out of it I am. It’s hard to describe, but when I’m completely on, in the zone, it’s like I leave my body and watch a girl who looks eerily familiar. Then the crowd erupts, and it’s chaos with everyone screaming and clapping and yelling my name.

Three tens, another perfect score, and the judges describe my performance as powerful, a knockout, raising the bar for everyone, the performance of the season. I smile with relief as they talk, but the words sound like a buzz to me, noise, unintelligible. A female voice screams, “I love you, Sage,” from the side of the room, and everything comes back in a rush, and I can make out the record mogul saying he’s awed every time I perform.

I leave the spotlight to cheers and more applause, and then I’m back in the real world backstage, just another contestant, Yam in my hand. Sabrina is arguing with Paul near his podium, and when they spot me, she moves closer.

“Congratulations again, Sage,” she says.

“Thanks.”

“Listen, I hate to bring this up right now, but Paul’s going ballistic. He just got his ass chewed out over some form you were supposed to give him last week? Ring any bells?”

I feign surprise. “Crap. That’s right. With everything else that was going on, I completely spaced. I’m sorry. I’ll get it tomorrow.” The court is supposed to rule in the morning, which is why I’ve been dragging my feet.

Paul nears, and his face isn’t comforting. “I heard that. It might surprise you, young lady, but there’s a lot at stake here, and I’m tired of your bullshit. I’m not losing my job over this. Do you understand me?”

“What are you talking about?”

“We hired a detective in California. He spoke with your mom in the hospital. She hasn’t heard from you in over five months. That ring any bells?”

The problem with lying is that when you’re caught, there’s nowhere to hide. I can’t invent something that will get me out of this. So I stare at him and say nothing.

“She knew nothing about signing a waiver. So whoever’s signature that is, it isn’t hers.”

“I…I’m sorry, Paul. It’s just…she wouldn’t sign it. But don’t worry.” I tell them both about the court tomorrow. Paul shakes his head in disgust, and Sabrina sighs and closes her eyes. When she opens them, her stare is hard.

“Sage, if you don’t get that signed tomorrow, they’ll boot you off the show. The attorneys will force the issue. You’ve put us all in jeopardy by not telling the truth. If I’d known, it’s possible we could have filed a brief with the court in your favor. But now…”

“My attorney says he’s sure we’ll get it,” I say, stretching the truth, ashamed of my dishonesty. My voice cracks at the end, and I sound as bogus as a Chicago politician.

Sabrina lowers her voice when she sees others nearing us. “Sage, if you don’t get that waiver tomorrow, I won’t be able to help you. You’ll be off the show, no more chances. Do you understand? This isn’t a game.”

I nod. “I know it isn’t. And I’m sorry. I’ll take care of it. I promise.”

Paul shakes his head and stalks off. His parting words slice me like a knife. “Your word’s not worth shit.”

Sabrina looks away, and I feel lower than dirt. It all seemed so harmless when I forged her signature. Now the reality of people losing jobs because of my recklessness, and being thrown off the show when I’m almost at the finish line, comes crashing in. Here I am judging Derek for blowing it, and I’m guilty of the same thing. I’ll lose everything if the court doesn’t grant my plea, and have nobody to blame but myself.

What was I thinking? That I could become a national celebrity and the problem would just go away? How naive can you get? I should have bitten the bullet and begged my mom, or told the truth and let the show help me. It’s not like they haven’t been supportive. Sabrina’s right. I’ve been treating the situation like it wasn’t serious, and judging by Paul’s attitude, I’m about to get the mother of all reality checks.

I see Derek by the stage door and want to run to him, throw my arms around him, tell him I’ve been an idiot – that my pride’s dictated my moves, not my heart. But he’s talking to a reporter, and instead of trusting my instinct, I turn to Sabrina. “I can’t apologize enough. I didn’t do it to get anyone in trouble. I just wanted a chance to be on the show, and my mom…she’s an alcoholic, in and out of the hospital, and she’ll do whatever her boyfriend says. He’s the reason I ran away. He hates me,” I explain, but her expression’s still hard. Nobody trusts a word I say, and I don’t blame them.

I brought it on myself.

Sabrina frowns. “That’s a shame, but it’s out of my hands. If this isn’t handled by close of business tomorrow, I – we, have no choice. I’m sorry too.”

She walks away, leaving me to stew in my own juices. I have to stick around to do the final winner’s hurrah on stage – I’m one of the final six who will compete in the finals, as are Derek, Jeremy, Alan, Misty, and Samantha. I stand in the spotlight with a fake smile, wanting the earth to swallow me whole.

When we tromp offstage, Jeremy takes my hand and whispers in my ear, “You look like you saw a ghost. What’s up?”

“I’ll tell you later.”

The media’s waiting for all of us, and Sabrina expertly directs the proceedings. The six finalists are news, and she’s putting the full-court press on getting everyone visibility so the final show’s a ratings blockbuster. I answer the questions by rote, having gone through so many interviews I’m on automatic pilot. I can’t wait for this to be over tonight so I can go home, crawl into bed, and shut the world out.

I see Derek by the door again, and this time I move toward him, not sure what I’m going to say but sure that I need to say something. But Sabrina steps between us and introduces me to a woman from
Rolling Stone
magazine who wants just a minute of my time. I glance over at where Derek was just a few seconds earlier, but it’s too late.

He’s gone.

Morning brings off-the-charts anxiety as I make my way to the courthouse to appear with Norman before the judge. He’s assured me it’s a formality, but I’m still nervous. Jeremy has a morning show, so I’m going it alone, and every step seems like I’m slogging through mud.

Norman looks like some sort of cave insect dragged into the light in his rumpled gray suit and cheap tie, and my confidence level plummets when I see him. If he’s trying to wow the court with his acumen, looking like a used car salesman’s probably not going to do it.

I follow him into the courtroom, which is half full of people waiting their turn for other matters, and settle in for the duration.

An hour later my world’s come crashing in. The judge refuses my application with a terse rejection. I sit shell-shocked as Norman says he’ll pull some strings and get it reheard, but I stagger away, dizzy and disoriented. It won’t matter if he can get it heard in a week. I’ll be living at Lucifer’s by then. Or worse.

I don’t know what to do or who to turn to. My phone vibrates, and I answer it without looking at the screen. It’s my dad.

“Wanted to see if you have time for lunch,” he says.

“I…It’s really not a good time.” My voice breaks up as I try to swallow back the bile that’s rising in my throat.