Chasing Stardust: A Novel By Erica Lucke Dean - 30

Hallo Spaceboy

Seventeen hours, four tanks of gas, three stops to pee, and one less-than-restful stay in what may as well have been the Bates-freaking-Motel later, I roll into downtown Flagstaff with the same damn song still blasting from the Betty’s speakers. With the sun hanging low, and craggy mountain peaks jutting into the sky behind the old redbrick buildings, the quaint city reminds me of a cross between an Old West mining town and a ski resort—just one heavy snow away from being a Hallmark Christmas movie. But I don’t have time to enjoy the scenery. Not after spending half the drive replaying my conversation with Jeanie over and over until I’m even more confused than I was before. I spent the other half of the drive trying to convince myself sneaking into a concert isn’t a disaster in the making.

A combination of nervous energy and sick curiosity drives me to pick up the newest issue of Tattle Tale from the local newsstand. After tearing through the pages from cover to cover, searching for any mention of me, Mom, or even Dash, I come to the same conclusion as Jeanie. Someone buried the story. And not in the fine print between “Elvis Sighted in Oregon” and “Rock Star’s Housekeeper Spills Dirty Secrets.”

If a guy’s gonna go to that much trouble to sell you out, he’s not doing it for nothing.

Was Dash telling the truth after all?

I hit the speed dial on my phone, tapping my toe on the brake until G-Lo picks up.

“None of the pictures were published. And not just the pictures. I can’t find a single mention of me or Mom or any of us. Not anywhere. Jeanie thinks that means Dash found a way to bury the story, but does that mean he had nothing to do with the reporters showing up?” The words come tumbling out in a rush.

G-Lo laughs. “Well, hello to you, too!”

“I’m sorry.” I glance at my frantic expression in the rearview mirror and cringe. “I’m just so confused. What am I supposed to do now?”

G-Lo clicks her tongue. “For starters, I’d stop worrying about some nonexistent exposé and start figuring out how you’re going to get past the concert gate.”

“I know.” I groan and sink into my seat. “You’re right. Got any suggestions?”

After G-Lo fills me in on the finer points of sneaking into a rock concert, I pull into the only empty parking spot within five blocks of the venue and get down to business. Less than an hour before showtime, I plot my next move like Bonnie about to pull off a heist without Clyde.

What the hell am I doing?

After rescuing the press pass from beneath a bag of stale fries, I crawl between the front seats and do a little dumpster dive in the back seat. With a shudder, I dig through the assorted food wrappers, empty cigarette packs, and petrified chicken nuggets. I should’ve packed rubber gloves. Once I reach the elbow-deep stash of concert tees, I dive in as if I’ve discovered the Victoria’s Secret sale bin. Not even the countless hours spent in the Betty could prepare me for the treasure trove that’s been hiding in plain sight the whole damn time.

The stash is worthy of the best CBGB has to offer. The Kinks. The Stones. The Police. The Dead Kennedys. My fingers dance over the crackled lettering on an ancient Dark Side of the Moon T-shirt.

How am I supposed to pick just one?

After sifting through every shirt in the stack, I settle on a vintage Bowie T-shirt with a washed-out red lightning bolt emblazoned across the front. Ignoring the herd of concertgoers passing the window, I change out of my sweaty Harry Potter tee and strip off my dirty shorts, swapping them for a pair of G-Lo’s artfully ripped jeans. The shirt’s a little big, but the jeans fit like a glove.

With every bit of makeup I’d packed, plus a few things I found in the car, I get to work, with a little help from a YouTube beauty influencer. Layers of black eyeliner, mascara, and red lipstick transform me into someone I barely recognize—someone sophisticated and confident. Once I’m satisfied there’s nothing left to do, I shove a twenty into my bra, tuck my phone into my front pocket, and lock everything else I own in the trunk of the car.

Everywhere I look, cosplayers representing Ziggy Stardust, The Thin White Duke, Aladdin Sane, and even the Goblin King from Labyrinth fill the streets as if I’ve stepped into a carnival in full swing. Joining the eclectic crowd making their way toward the historic theater, I catch my reflection in a plate glass window. Dressed in my own version of Bowie, with my features hidden behind a mask of makeup and my blond hair twisted into a low knot, I could totally pass for a rock journalist, even if I look nothing like the photo on the pass hanging around my neck.

Nervous excitement courses through me as I struggle to keep up with the pack. Of all the risks I’ve taken on my trip, this one seems the most personal. Everything else I’ve done has been for Mom. This one is for me. I’m on my own here with no road map or trail to follow. No urn. No ashes. Just me and the adventure of a lifetime.

Following G-Lo’s instructions to the letter, I linger near the entrance until I spy a few guys with passes like mine. Then, pressing my phone to my ear as if talking to someone important, I follow them to the glassed entrance and jump in line behind them. With my stomach lodged in my throat, it’s a wonder I can breathe. My heart pounds so hard, G-Lo’s stupid press pass practically vibrates against my chest. When the guys flash their passes, I smile and flash mine, then walk through as if I belong there. I follow them all the way backstage, where they introduce themselves to the band and a flame-haired Bowie impersonator. Electricity crackles in the air as people scurry around with their last-minute details.

This time, before I press the phone to my ear, I actually dial.

“Well?” G-Lo’s voice bounces down the line.

Pure excitement oozes from my pores. I haven’t felt this sort of a thrill since I jumped from the trestle. It’s all I can do to keep my voice to a whisper. “I did it! I’m backstage.”

“Aww, honey, that’s great. I know the feeling well. Enjoy every second of it.”

“Trust me, I will!” Not for the first time on this trip, I realize how true that statement is. I love the rush I get from flying by the seat of my pants, diving into one adventure after another. I started this trip to say goodbye to my mom and ended up discovering my true self. I don’t know if I can ever go back to being who I was before Mom got sick. I’m not sure I want to.

“Go,” G-Lo shouts as the first guitar licks of “Ziggy Stardust” roar through the speakers. “Have fun!”

“I will. I’ll call you later.”

The tribute concert is laid out in several acts, each era of Bowie’s life represented by a different lead singer. After seeing the Ziggy version onstage, I finally understand why G-Lo got so caught up in the young Bowie. The current version—a platinum blond in a baby-blue suit—gyrates onstage while belting out “Modern Love.” When he’s finished, the familiar opening chords of “China Girl” send a ripple up my spine. Feelings I can’t begin to reconcile wash over me, and the words “our song” fall from my lips before I can stop them.

Memories of Dash singing karaoke pop into my head, and I laugh. For half a second, I swear I hear his horrible, off-key warbling coming from the audience.

You’re totally losing it, Zoey.

From my vantage point, I scan the wall-to-wall people crowding the stage. More than half are at least two or three times my age. G-Lo would’ve fit right in. A flash of light reflects off a pair of black-framed glasses, and my heart jerks to a full stop. The lights dim so fast, I can’t make out the face behind those glasses, but the dark hair, the tall frame . . .

I shake the absurd thought from my head. Why would Dash be in Flagstaff? And even if he is, would I want to see him? Jeanie’s words come back to haunt me. Dash swore he would fix everything. Then someone buried the story. I was so angry with him and said so many cruel things. What if he was telling the truth? What if he meant it when he said what we had was real? It was certainly real for me. Shouldn’t I at least give him a chance to explain?

It takes me all of two seconds to realize how much I want Jeanie to be right, and how much I wish Dash were in Flagstaff. I need to know what really happened back in Detroit, and I need him to tell me face-to-face.

With a step forward, I hold my breath and squint into the dark. The Clark Kent look-alike disappears into the shadows, but I can still make out his silhouette clapping along with the beat.

The strobing lights pan over the crowd again, and I catch a fleeting glimpse of the guy. My pulse thunders in my ears. I’d know that smile anywhere. Despite my best efforts, I’ve thought about nothing but his smile since the minute I boarded that bus for Memphis.

“Dash!” I scream his name from the wings, making several people, including the bass player, glance my way. Cursing under my breath, I slink back to the shadows, quickly making my way to the nearest exit.

Pushing past the music journalists and photographers, I weave around speakers, dodging wires and assorted other equipment, searching for a way into the audience.

The lone security guard standing between me and the long hallway raises an eyebrow at my frantic escape attempt. “Where’s the fire?”

“How can I get into the audience?”

“Without a ticket? You can’t.”

“I have a press pass!”

“And that gets you right where you are.”

“But you don’t understand.” I squeeze my palms together, pleading with my eyes. “I’m pretty sure I saw someone I know, and I wasn’t very nice to him the last time I saw him, and I need to let him apologize, but if I don’t get out there right now, I might not get another chance!”

“Oh, well, if that’s all.” The guard nods and motions me to follow him down the hall toward a metal door. “You can go right through here, and down the stairs.”

“Thank you!” I shove the heavy door open, then fly down the stairs and through another door at the bottom. But instead of landing on the stage floor, I end up in the rear parking lot. Before I can grab the door, it locks behind me.

Damn it! So much for that adventure.

Almost an hour later, after sitting on a bench across from the theater watching the last of the concertgoers trickle out of the building, I begin to think I hallucinated the whole thing. Not a single person looks remotely like Dash.

Why do I keep seeing him everywhere? First, it was the little boy dressed like Clark Kent on the bus, and then I insulted the caving guy because I was imagining Dash. And now this. It’s as if I have Dash Hammond stuck in my brain, replaying like a broken Bowie 8-track.

With one last look at the theater entrance, I drag myself off the bench and make my way back to the car. No more interruptions. I need to get to California and finish what I started.