Gavin does a rock-star look for a few seconds, which is when your eyes stare at nothing and it seems like you’re thinking about something important. It’s the best rock-star look I’ve ever seen anyone do in person.
“I get that,” he says. “Sydney would be jealous when I went to this one coffee shop without him. It’s called Proof Bakery and they have the best croissants in L.A. Crispy on the outside and fluffy on the inside. We spent a lot of Saturday mornings there together.”
“I wish he were here with us,” I say, still thinking about Dad.
“Yeah,” Gavin says.
Now it seems like we’re both in a quiet mood and I didn’t mean for that to happen. It’s just hard to think about music stuff and not think about Dad. I really hope he likes my song.
“He will,” Gavin says and that’s when I realize I was just talking out loud. I’m not sure which parts Gavin heard but the dimple on his cheek is making me feel like whatever I said was the right thing to say.
Now we’re facing a whole different direction and we’re looking down a busy street with cars going both ways, but before we take just one step, someone stops us.
“Excuse me,” says a lady with red sunglasses. She’s standing with another lady who’s holding what looks like a map, which is something we have hanging in our classroom but you hardly ever see anywhere else because everyone has maps on their phones.
I’m thinking the two ladies are lost, but then they ask a question that has nothing to do with directions. It’s a question that makes me excited and jealous at the same time.
The lady lowers her sunglasses so she can see better and she says, “Are you Gavin Winters?”
We find an empty booth in the pizza restaurant and I ask, “Is this where John ate?”
“We’re off the tour,” Gavin says. “We’re taking a lunch break.”
“But I don’t eat pizza.”
“I know. Your mother told me. She also said you never tried it. I’ll be right back.”
I call after him, “Wait!” But he’s already talking to the guy with the gigantic wooden paddle.
The two ladies who stopped us on the street both wanted to be in the picture with Gavin so I was the one who took it with the first lady’s phone. Gavin stood with his arms around both of them and their shoulders fit right under his armpits. I looked at the photo before I handed the phone back and it was so easy to tell which one of the three people was famous. I hope one day I can stand out like that in a photo and I hope ladies will know my name and stop me when I’m walking down the street. I will be very nice to them, just like Gavin was.
He comes back carrying a tray. I see three slices of pizza and two drinks.
“What’s happening?” I say.
“If you’re ever going to try pizza, you’re in the right city.” Gavin takes off his sunglasses and puts them on the table. “You ready?”
I look down.
“Just one bite,” he says. “Remember, the more you experience, the more you have to write about.”
I don’t know how biting into this slice of pizza will turn me into John Lennon, but I don’t want to let Gavin down. I lift the slice with two hands and bring it to my mouth. Gavin is watching me so I take the smallest bite and it’s not as bad as I thought, but still not good. I hate cheese and it’s so saucy. I shake my head.
“Hey, you tried,” Gavin says. “That’s all that matters. I’m proud of you. We’ll stop somewhere else after this and get you something to eat.”
“That’s okay. I’m not even hungry,” I say, washing out the cheesy feeling with water. I look across the table and it seems like Gavin wants to kiss his pizza slice.
“You’re missing out,” Gavin says, taking a huge chomp. “God, it’s been so long since I’ve had real pizza. We don’t have this in L.A.”
“You don’t have pizza in L.A.?”
“We do. But it’s nothing like this. You’ve got this amazing city right in your backyard. You’ve got to take advantage of it. You can’t even hail a cab in L.A.”
He stops talking so he can do more pizza eating. He’s humming as he finishes his first slice and he wipes his face with a napkin. “Is that related to the memory thing?” Gavin says. “You staying away from certain foods?”
I swish more water around my mouth. “With some foods, yeah. Like bananas, which I tried for the first time when I had a bad stomachache and now I never want to taste them again. But with other foods, they just have a look or smell that I don’t like.”
“I think I was pretty picky as a kid too.”
“You don’t remember?”
Gavin chews. “My whole childhood is a blur. Only the really big things stand out.”
“What are the really big things?”
He looks down at the paper place mat, which shows a map of Italy. “My dad was gone by the time I was ten, about the same age as you. That was a huge one. My sister was just a baby. She never really had a dad, only a mom. And me.” He stops for a second like he isn’t sure whether to take another bite of pizza or keep talking.
I’ve been pretty bummed about Dad having to leave the house every morning and only getting to see him at night and on the weekends, but I guess it’s better than what Gavin and his sister had. “Where did your dad go?”
“Sorry. I didn’t explain that well. He didn’t go anywhere. He got into an accident. A truck slammed into his car and…”
“Oh no,” I say, and when I say it, I think about how it would be the perfect thing to put in my song to make Gavin cry, but I feel bad for thinking it. I should probably change the subject, which is something you do when something isn’t fun to talk about.
“Anyway,” I say, which is a good subject-changing word, “what’s it like to be famous?”
He laughs but it doesn’t sound like a real laugh. “I wouldn’t say I’m famous.”
“I would. You’re on TV and you’re on the news and people want to take pictures with you.”
“That’s just because I made an ass of myself.”
“You mean when you started that fire and you were on TV in your underwear?”
He leaves his crust on the plate. “Yeah, that’s what I mean.” He tries to grab a napkin from the holder but instead of just one, a thick clump comes out, so he gives up and drops the whole wad on the table.
I pull a napkin out for him.
“Thanks.” He takes it and folds it into a triangle. “From what I can tell, being famous is pretty shitty. Sorry—crappy.”
“I’m allowed to say shit.”
“It would be one thing if I was getting attention for the work I’ve done. Who doesn’t like that? But I’d rather not be known as the underwear-fire-starter guy.”
“I didn’t even know you were on a TV show until I saw you on the news, because it’s a grown-up show and it’s on past my bedtime. It was cool to see your name written out on the bottom of the screen. That’s the first time I saw it.”
He points to my plate. “You going to eat that?”
I slide my plate over.
“So, what you’re saying is, I shouldn’t care so much how people discover my work? I should just be grateful that they discover it at all?” he asks.
I’m not sure that’s what I was saying but I nod anyway.