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  “Ouch,” Jesse and Gabe gasped.

  “An understatement,” Willard responded. “The motorcyclist, who was about my age, weight, and height, with blond hair like mine, jumped off the bike and kneeled over me. I could see the concern in his blue eyes. Then he spoke. ‘Holy shit, man,’ he exclaimed. ‘You’re okay, right?’”

  “‘Not okay,’” I gasped. At that point Aurora had reached my side. She kneeled beside me and dumped her Slurpee on my crotch. ‘You need to ice it,’ she said. Then she and the biker helped me to the curb. Even in my agony, I was hypnotized by Aurora.”

  “It’s a wonder we’re not all deformed after that,” Jesse observed.

  Willard ignored him and continued. “The biker felt my pain, and I could feel his sincerity. ‘Oh man, I’m so sorry. How can I help you? What can I do?’ he asked. I tore my eyes from Aurora and removed an envelope containing my accepted Cryosperm application from my jacket pocket. ‘Take this,’ I told him. ‘Be me for one exquisite minute and get me my fifty bucks.’

  “He nodded, grasped my hand in some sort of strange biker handshake that implied solidarity, and took the envelope. Shortly afterward, he returned with my money and another apology. Then he got on his bike and rode off. I never saw him again.”

  There was a long moment as we all took in what he had just told us. “Then you’re not our bio dad,” I whispered finally. My eyes welled up and big, fat tears rolled down my cheeks. I had never felt such an enormous sense of emptiness. My whole being, every part of me, felt impossibly sad and wounded, like my soul was dying.

  “You’re not our dad,” I repeated hoarsely.

  “I’m afraid not,” Willard admitted. “The biker gave his seed with my profile. It was a sad day for me, as well—I so wanted to contribute. But on that day, I did meet Aurora, the love of my life.”

  “Why didn’t you ask the guy his name?” I demanded.

  “Perhaps I should have, KT, but I was in agony and besotted with love.”

  “So your hair situation has nothing to do with me,” Jesse observed, stating the obvious as usual.

  “No, but I am quite hirsute. My head is shaved by Aurora twice weekly.”

  “So all we know is that he rides a Harley and plays the guitar. That sure narrows it down,” I barked.

  I felt so incredibly terrible, it was hard for me to speak in a normal voice.

  “I’m sorry you didn’t find your answer,” Willard said, “but you will. I’m sure of it. This house is built on a vortex. There is great spiritual energy here that facilitates healing.”

  “Yeah, I’ll bet,” I mumbled.

  “Have you ever considered the serendipitous synchronicity involved in all of you posting on the Internet at approximately the same time?” Willard asked.

  “What does that mean?” Jesse asked Gabe.

  “It means that our finding each other was more than coincidence,” Gabe answered.

  “How did you know about that?” Jesse asked Willard.

  “I know things because I’m in tune with the universe and, of course, because of my studies at Horvard. I know that you were meant to find each other, and so you did.”

  “Our finding each other doesn’t mean anything if we don’t find our bio dad,” I blurted out, and I saw a hurt look flash across Gabe’s face.

  “This is a full-blown, total disaster,” Jesse added. “What am I gonna do now? Where am I gonna live?”

  “You will all find what you are seeking,” Willard insisted. “I’m sure of it. I’m psychic, you know.”

  “I am, too,” I said. “And I see us leaving.”

  “Why don’t you and Gabe finish your lemonade while Jesse and I spend some time together? You’ll need to wear these,” he told Jesse, handing him some hemp sandals. “Your feet affect your soul, you know, and your soul affects your head.”

  “And your shinbone’s connected to your knee bone,” I whispered, mocking him. I was still in pain but I rolled my eyes, and Jesse stifled a laugh as he took off his Chucks. I was going into numbness mode, when something hurts so much that you just shut down.

  “I’m with you,” he said as Willard put a hand on his shoulder and guided him and the piglet out onto the deck and down the stairs. Swimmy looked back at us with an eye roll of his own.

  Gabe and I followed them onto the balcony. We stood at the rail, watching as they began to walk the concentric circles of a stone labyrinth in the center of a desert garden. As they wandered the maze, lit only by a full moon and the sparkling stars of the Sedona sky, they became more and more engrossed in conversation. The piglet trailed Jesse, who actually seemed to be interested in what Willard was saying.

  “Why do you think he asked Jesse to walk with him?” Gabe asked.

  “Maybe because Jesse’s highest on the jerkometer,” I answered.

  Gabe finished off his lemonade and set the glass down on a nearby table. “I wouldn’t jump to that conclusion,” he said.

  We stood there in silence as Willard handed Jesse something. They both kneeled as Jesse threw some stones on the path.

  “What bullshit thing are they doing now?” I asked.

  “That’s called throwing the runes,” Gabe answered patiently. “The runes are special stones, and some people believe you can use them to gain spiritual insights.”

  “Some people are idiots, and the rest are pains in the ass.”

  “What are you so mad at, KT?” Gabe asked me softly.

  “Why do you care?” I wanted to know.

  “’Cause you’re my sister, and in my family, people care about each other and the way they feel.”

  “In my family,” I told him, “people make lousy decisions and nobody sticks around. I have never in my entire life seen a relationship between a man and a woman that’s worked out. It’s been my experience that they always turn to crap.”

  “I get it now,” he responded. “That would piss me off, too.”

  Our eyes locked, and when I looked at him it was as if I was seeing him, really seeing him, for the first time. I knew exactly who he was, and I knew he knew exactly who I was. That scared me a little, but it felt kind of good at the same time.

  “Besides,” I continued, ignoring the good feeling, “rock and roll is rebellious. Being pissed off is good for my writing.”

  “That’s what you say to make it okay,” he said gently. “What you told me before is the real reason.” He reached out as if he was going to hug me, and then he sneezed, snuffled, and blew his nose in a tiny scrap of a used tissue.

  “Do pigs shed?” he asked.

  The old Gabe was back, but it struck me that maybe the other one was there all the time, as well. “All these farm animals are going to kill me,” he said so seriously that I laughed until I almost peed. He didn’t seem to mind. As a matter of fact, soon we both were rocking back and forth with laughter, and then we did hug, and it felt surprisingly good.

  chapter eighteen

  Willard and the piglet walked us all to the parking area. By that time, Gabe was shooting allergy spray and snuffling like a walrus.

  “Sorry you can’t stay for dinner,” Willard told us. “I wanted you to get to know Aurora, but I am positive that this is the absolute right moment for you to leave.”

  “Me, too,” Gabe sneezed. “I don’t want to be rude, but I think your barnyard friends have a contract out on me.”

  Willard hugged him and reached over to hug me. I couldn’t do the hugging thing, especially with the guy who screwed up getting our dad’s name. He instinctively pulled back.

  “Stay hopeful, KT,” he said.

  “It’s not my style,” I told him and slid behind the wheel. “I enjoyed our talk,” he said to Jesse. “You’re an excellent student.” They did the man hug, back-patting thing.

  “Thank you for my shoes and for everything you shared. This was a very important day for me.” Jesse picked up the baby pig, smooched it on the snout, and handed it to Willard. It was a truly bizarre thing for Bacon Boy to do. “I�
�ll never forget you,” he said to the pig. Then he added mysteriously, “Nothing with a face,” and he and Willard smiled at each other.

  “There’s a cantina up the main road if you’re hungry,” Willard suggested. “As a matter of fact, my Horvard training is telling me it’s very important that you go there, and strangely enough, it’s telling me to advise you to watch the TV.”

  “I hate Mexican food and TV,” I countered, pulling out the car and pointing it away from the scene of our disappointment.

  “Give it a chance, KT,” Willard called after us. “I swear to you, it will all work out.”

  I watched him wave goodbye in the rearview mirror, his silly head gleaming in the moonlight as we disappeared into the dust, heading back to civilization.

  You’d think that Gabe and I would have jumped on Jesse, wanting to find out everything that went on between him and Willard, but our situation had, somehow, just begun to sink in. We were all digesting the fact that we had no biological dad, no plan, and nowhere to go but home. We’d reached the end of our search. It sucked beyond words, and nobody said a thing until we rolled into the parking lot of the Red Rock Cantina. It was filled with old cars and battered pickups, and the Jeep fit right in. A neon sign on the cantina flashed:

  COCKTAILS-BEER-DANCING-FOOD.

  Underneath it, another sign read:

  TONIGHT IN PERSON: THE MOTHER TRUCKERS.

  Country music drifted through the desert night.

  As we walked to the door, Jesse finally spoke. His profound words were, “Do you think there’s line dancing?”

  “Are you asking like that would be a good thing?” I said. “I can assure you if there is, we’re leaving.”

  “We’ll take a vote,” Gabe informed me. I rolled my eyes at him in return. A vote was not happening.

  We opened the door to a sawdust-on-the-floor kind of joint with tables, booths, a small stage, a bar with a TV set, and about twenty customers, most of them cowboy types.

  When we stepped through the door, it was kind of dark and some cowboy carded us. Then he stamped our hands so that no one could serve us beer.

  Onstage, The Mother Truckers were winding up a song to applause. As we stood in the darkened entry, the lead singer made an announcement.

  “Hey, everybody! I want y’all to meet The Mother Truckers’ new pal, who kept us company all the way from Joplin. It was better than a case of Red Bull, listening to his songs about his love for KT, the little ladybug who’s been makin’ his life a livin’ hell. Give it up for Dylan Stewart.”

  And there he was under a single spot on stage . . . puppy boy. I thought I would freak out on the spot, but I bit my lip and held it together. Then he began to sing, “Nobody Loves You Like Me,” one of the zillion songs he’s written about me. Even in my depressed, flipped out, hopeless, screwed-up, dead-tired, bummed-out state, I noticed two shocking things I had never noticed before: Dylan could really sing and Dylan looked really hot. His dark hair was all messy, but in a good way. His big, brown eyes were really intense, and when he played guitar, the muscles in his arms rippled. This puppy was a contender for best in show. Why had I never seen that before? Then I came to, remembered what had just happened, and he became old annoying Dylan again.

  “That’s a pretty song,” Jesse said. “You really know that dude?”

  I turned to head out the door, but Gabe grabbed my arm.

  “Please, KT,” he whispered. “Go with the flow for once.”

  What could I do? We walked into the light of the restaurant, and Dylan stopped singing.

  “This is her,” he announced into the mike. “I can’t believe it! It’s my girl, KT, in person. She’s walking into this cantina and back into my life.”

  The whole place turned to give me the stink eye. There were a few hisses and a couple of boos.

  “Don’t be hard on her,” Dylan told them. “I love her.”

  They only hissed louder, so he started singing again as we slid into a booth, and I tried to disappear. He finished the song to huge applause and sneaked off the stage as The Mother Truckers ended their set. Then he walked over to where we were sitting.

  “Hey, man,” Jesse said, “I liked your song.”

  “Thanks,” he said, looking only at me.

  “You can sit down, Dylan,” I told him.

  “This is amazing. You look beautiful with that color hair,” he said. “I was going to start looking for you tomorrow.”

  “My heartfelt congrats. You’re ahead of schedule.”

  The waitress, who looked about our age, came over to the table.

  “My name is Daisy, and I’ll be your server,” she announced. “Your song was bitchin’, Dylan.” Then she smiled a dazzling smile that seemed to be directed at Gabe. “You guys decided on your order?”

  We told her what we wanted, and she walked away humming “Nobody Loves You Like Me.”

  Then Jesse and Gabe jumped in, asking Dylan all kinds of questions about his travels with The Mother Truckers. I was relieved that I didn’t have to talk.

  When Daisy came back, she set Dylan’s order of tamales down in front of him. “It’s on the house, Dylan,” she said. She slid Jesse’s plate over to him. “One vegetarian special.” Then she served Gabe. “Chile relleno . . . very hot,” she said pointedly, smiling, “for . . .?”

  “Gabe,” he prompted her. He smiled back, and if they had been in a comic book, there would have been little hearts in the balloons over their heads.

  “Arroz con whatever for you, KT. I think the chef spit in it.” And then she plunked my plate down hard in front of me. “Enjoy.”

  I turned to Dylan. “We’re not meant to be, Dylan,” I told him wearily.

  “You’re wrong, KT,” he answered softly. “I’d be really good for you.”

  I wanted to cry for so many reasons. “Please,” I breathed, “I can’t do this. Especially now.” I picked up my plate and walked over to the empty bar. I needed to be alone.

  As I walked away, I could hear Dylan asking if we’d met our bio dad yet and Gabe telling him the reason I was so bummed was that Willard had turned out not to be our dad. Then I noticed Daisy sliding into the seat next to Gabe, saying, “Can I hang out with you on my break?”

  It looked like Abracadabra was feeling the magic instead of making it. He took off his glasses, and his face lit up with a big grin that actually made him look kind of cute. I could see Daisy chatting away, and he was getting into the conversation thing without any lessons from Jesse.

  I looked up at the TV. It was tuned to David Letterman, and Dave was saying, “And now we’re back with Jimmy Savage, certified maniac and former lead singer of Bad Angels.”

  The dude who was sitting in the guest seat was wearing skintight leather pants, cowboy boots, a purple plaid shirt, and an orange patterned bandana on his head. He smiled and waved at the camera.

  “It’s been said,” Letterman told him, “that if Axl Rose and Bruce Springsteen had a baby, Jimmy, it would have been you.”

  “I’ve heard that, Dave,” the dude answered. “And I’ve addressed it in a song on my new solo album that’s called ‘The Boss, the Madman, and Me.’”

  There was scattered applause from the audience.

  “I guess not everyone’s heard it yet, or maybe they have,” said Dave. There were a few scattered chuckles. “You look like you were born to be a rock star, Jimmy. You ever do anything else?”

  “I went into the nonprofit field right out of high school.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I put together a band.”

  It took Dave and the audience a second to get it, and Paul Shaffer, the bandleader and keyboard player, yelled, “Musicians don’t make money at first.”

  “Ah. I get it,” Dave explained. The audience chuckled appreciatively. “But I understand you’ve had some other unusual gigs.”

  “Right! The best one I ever had was selling my sperm in St. Louis back in the nineties. Very cool.”

  The audi
ence laughed, they were really interested now, and I called to Gabe and Jesse. “Hey, c’mere, quick!” They joined me at the bar, with Dylan and Daisy tagging along. “Get a load of this dude,” I said.

  “Tell us more,” Letterman encouraged him. “This is a subject of great interest. Did you have to audition or do they accept just anyone?”

  “I didn’t have to audition although I would have been happy to,” Jimmy answered, smiling. The audience was warming toward him. This was the good stuff.

  “So where did you go to make this donation?” Dave inquired.

  “Well, the place was called Cryosperm. It was in St. Louis. Early ’90s, I believe. I even memorialized my donation. Check this out.” Jimmy rolled up his sleeve and searched through the snakes and dragons on his arm. When he found what he was looking for, we all gasped and even clutched each other’s arms. It was a moment that could only be described as cosmic, soul shaking, magnificent, and beyond belief . . . because there on Jimmy Savage’s arm was a big beautiful tattoo: DONOR 908.

  We stood there, frozen and speechless.

  “Did you do it just for the fun or was there big money in that?” Dave quipped.

  “Fifty bucks, Dave. Big money in the day, but I gave it to a friend.”

  The audience applauded. They were loving him now, and he was loving them loving him, as was Dave.

  “So,” asked Dave, milking it, “you think there’s any little Jimmys running around?”

  Jimmy stood up, faced the camera, and held out his arms, offering himself to his fans, “You tell me, ladies. Anybody out there as good looking as me?”

  The audience went wild, and so did we. I started screaming, “It’s him! It’s our bio dad!” and jumping up and down like a head case.

  “I can’t believe our bio dad’s a rock star,” Gabe whispered, in shock. “I was a ‘listener’ in chorus.”