CHAPTER FIFTEEN
I want to say that the band sucks, but I find myself singing along to every song they play. I’ve probably heard each one of them over a hundred times . . . maybe a thousand times or more in total, so it’s no surprise that I can. I picture my moms dancing around the house and singing at the top of their lungs, hugging one another and collapsing into giggles on the couch. Red Hot music always made them so happy. It makes me sad that they had to leave that relationship behind for my sisters and me.
I stare at each member of the band, trying to pick up clues as to who might be my father or Rose’s or Em’s. I don’t see any resemblance to any of us, but maybe it’s because they have so much makeup on and that hair . . . Oh my god, that hair. What on earth are they thinking?
I know big-hair bands are coming back in style, but these guys are not pulling it off. I don’t think my critical feelings are coming from the fact that they’re family-abandoning jerks either, especially when some girl standing next to me is pointing and laughing at them.
When the band pauses between songs, I heed the call of my bladder and go to the bathroom. I’m in a stall listening in on people’s conversations to pass the time.
“Did you see that guy singing?” one girl says.
“That’s Red Hot Wylde,” another girl says.
“But his hair . . .” She giggles. “He needs some extensions or something.”
“I know, he’s thinning on top.” They both laugh and then snort in synch. They sound drunk, but the alcohol is working as a truth serum; the guy is definitely going bald, and his attempts at teasing his hair to hide it are bordering on pitiful.
“What about that guy on lead guitar?” the first girl says.
“I know. Who is he?” her friend replies.
Another woman speaks up. She sounds older than these two I’ve been listening to. “That’s Keith James’ replacement, and not much of one if you ask me.”
My hand hesitates on the door of my stall. I’m ready to unlock it and have a conversation with this woman. I mean, I’m no expert, but I know good guitar playing when I hear it, and I know all the band’s songs by heart; he didn’t miss a single note.
“What do you mean?” one of the girls asks. “He’s totally hot.”
“He may be hot, but he doesn’t belong in the band.” The woman is clearly angry about this.
“Because he’s too hot.” The two girls laugh again.
“No, because he doesn’t get it. He wouldn’t look like that if he got what we were here for.”
“I’m just here for the free booze,” one girl says.
“And I’m here for the music,” the other younger girl says. “I like the music. But I could care less who’s playing it. They sound better on the radio when you can’t see their faces.”
“Word up,” her drunk friend says. I hear two hands hitting together—probably a high five.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about. You missed out when they were playing in their heyday. There was nobody better. They could pack an entire stadium in ten minutes of ticket sales, and that was before we had the Internet. We camped out for days to get those tickets.”
“Yeah, but that was then and this is now,” says the drunker of the two girls.
I can’t sit there and listen anymore. I leave the stall and find all three women checking themselves out in the mirror. I was right—two of them are younger and the last one looks to be about the same age as my mothers.
The young girls leave and it’s just the two of us outside the stalls for a few moments. “So you really love the band, huh?” I ask the older woman.
She applies lipstick very carefully to her bottom lip. “Yep. Have most of my life.”
“My moms too.”
She looks at me funny. “Moms? Plural?”
“Oh, I meant my mom. Singular.” I usually remember not to do that when I’m in public. Not that I’m embarrassed, but it usually requires an overly long and awkward conversation with a stranger that I’d like to avoid tonight.
“They were amazing,” she says, sighing as she puts her lipstick away.
“Aren’t they still, though?” I smile, trying to cheer her up. Those idiot girls harshed her mellow big-time. I could imagine my mothers going off on someone saying that stuff about their favorite band.
“Yeah, they’re still great. But that kid they hired . . .” She shakes her head in disappointment.
I turn to face her a little bit, leaning on the sink. “What’s wrong with him? He seems like he’s a pretty good guitarist.”
“He is. He’s just not . . . Red Hot material.”
“I hear he’s been a fan of the band his whole life. He knows all their songs backward and forward.” Apparently, I’m a saleswoman for Tyler Stanz now. Yep . . . a glutton for punishment.
She shrugs, taking out a comb to tease her hair up even higher than it already is, which is several inches off the top of her head. “That may be, but he just doesn’t have the look.”
“You mean the mullets?”
“What’s that?”
“You know . . . the haircut. Short in the front, long in the back?”
“Oh. Yeah. Maybe.” She shrugs, teasing more hair. “I mean he really does stick out, don’t you think?”
Yeah, he does stick out. He’s the only one who looks halfway decent up there. “He does, but shouldn’t it be about the music and not what he looks like? I mean, if they hired him, obviously they believe in him. They think he’s good for the band.” Yes, I am still trying to sell this woman on Ty. I’m obviously desperate for conversation and missing my mothers.
She shrugs. “Maybe. But they haven’t said anything about it.”
“What do you mean? Who hasn’t said anything?”
“The band. They go on interviews all the time, and they know people are saying this stuff about the guy, but they never say anything about it. They never defend him. It’s like they agree with us.”
Now I’m starting to get the idea why Ty is so upset. “Oh . . . well . . . that’s weird. You’d think they would defend their choice.”
“Exactly.” She puts her comb back in her purse and snaps it shut. “Which tells me that they don’t want him there.” She arranges her bangs on her forehead. “He’s probably there because some lawyer or some band manager said he had to be, and they don’t even want him. They’re being forced to use him. I hear he wasn’t even supposed to be here and then he just suddenly showed up. He doesn’t even have the respect to get here with the band.”
“Is that fair?”
The woman looks at me like I’m crazy. “What do you mean, fair?”
“To guess what their reason is without knowing for sure. To assume he showed up late in a disrespectful way.”
She stares me down. “Listen, little girl . . . I’ve been following Red Hot since I was twelve years old, and I’m not going to tell you how old I am right now, but trust me . . . I’ve been a fan for a long time. I know them like they’re my brothers.”
“Really?” She makes me want to smack that smarmy smile off her face. “How many kids do they have?” Ha! She’ll never pass this test. If she doesn’t say at least three, then she’s wrong.
“They have no children because they never got trapped by any women and they never got married.”
Trapped. That’s what people are going to say about my mothers . . . maybe even about my sisters and me too. It makes me sick to even think about it. “Maybe they’re gay,” I say, hoping I can plant a seed of doubt in her mind.
“Please. They are players. But they’re smart, not like those other idiots.”
She walks around me to leave the bathroom.
“What other idiots?”
“Those idiots like Mick Jagger and Steven Tyler who didn’t use birth control and got girls pregnant and then got stuck with kids they didn’t want hanging around with their hands out.”
I’m so shocked I don’t know what to say at first. But as she opens the door and walks out, I yell at her back. “That’s a pretty harsh judgment on those innocent kids, don’t you think?”
“All I know is what I see in the news.” And then she’s gone, taking her nasty judgments with her.
The door is shut for half a second before it opens up again and lets in noise from the band playing their next tune and two more women old enough to be my mother. I’m trembling with anger and something that feels like fear. What if people find out that the band members have three daughters? Will they say horrible things about my sisters and me? About our mothers? Will they think that we’re all assholes with our hands out? It’s the conclusion that Ty jumped to, and he knows the band personally. Oh shit.
We’ve lived completely anonymous lives down on the farm. Nobody has ever said anything rude to us except the occasional town council member who didn’t like our horse manure piling up or us using a barn as an animal clinic. But this is a whole other ball of wax, that a stranger who knows nothing about me would judge me or someone in my family so cruelly.
I wash my hands slowly, contemplating the change that could be occurring in my life right now, a change that I have little control over. This is nuts. I really need to talk to my sisters, but I don’t want anyone in here overhearing my conversation.
More groups of women pour into the bathroom laughing and talking, some of them tripping over themselves because they’re so drunk. I dry my hands off and leave, staying on the outskirts of the throng. The song comes to an end and Ty turns his back to the crowd.
Red clears his throat and speaks. “The band’s going to take a break, but we’ll be back for another set in about twenty minutes. Booze is on us and so are the snacks, so eat and drink up, and don’t forget to tip your bartenders. All profits from tonight’s event go to the Children’s House Charity. Make sure you stick around, because we’ve got some exciting news to share with you soon.”
Lister shows up at my elbow, scaring the crap out of me. “Are you ready to meet them?” he asks.
I look up at him, angry and annoyed, the conversation in the bathroom still fresh in my mind. “They actually want to meet me on their break? They think this conversation is just going to take a couple minutes?”
“It can take as long as you want. They don’t have to go back out in twenty minutes if they’re not ready or you’re not ready.”
I snort in disgust. “That’s just what I need. All these people hating me more than they probably already do.”
“What are you talking about?”
I shake my head. “Never mind. Just bring me to them and we’ll get this over with.” I don’t need to worry about the twenty-minute deadline. What I have to say isn’t going to take any longer than two minutes, tops. I rub my stomach as we walk, worried I just might vomit when I meet the man who claims to be my father.