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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.

31

Changes

With Mom’s diary in my lap and her urn at my side, I sink my feet into the cool sand. The early-morning fog hovers over Santa Monica Bay like an invisible sponge, coating everything in a layer of dampness and raising goose bumps on my bare arms. The marine layer will supposedly burn off by midday, but after driving through the freezing desert all night, the slightly warmer ocean breeze is a welcome change.

“I guess this is it, Mom.” I scoop her urn from the sand and hug the cold metal to my chest. “Last stop on our tour.”

Just as I’d done at least a dozen times since leaving home, I open Mom’s diary and flip to the next entry. The photo of her riding a carved wooden carousel horse slips from the page into the sand. I rescue the picture and gaze into her soft expression. She looks older, as if she’d uncovered the secrets of the universe since her last entry. I wonder if I look different, too. With her image still burned into my retinas, I switch my focus to her swirly script.

July 22

As soon as we finished doing all the standard touristy stuff, like visiting the Chinese Theatre and Hollywood Walk of Fame, Mom and I headed to the beach. We spent the afternoon on Santa Monica Pier, stuffing ourselves with funnel cakes and cotton candy, and riding the merry-go-round. After getting booted off for taking lewd pictures on the horses, we wandered to the arcade. I totally kicked her ass at Skee-Ball, walking away with bragging rights, a strip of tickets as long as my arm, and a stuffed penguin. We walked down to the sand, past the cute boys in board shorts and the kids building castles, to watch the sunset over the Pacific. I knew we still had the whole trip home ahead of us, but with the tide rolling in and the sun going down, it felt like the last day of summer vacation. And I guess in a way it was. First thing tomorrow morning, we head home. Mom didn’t say anything, but I knew she felt it, too. I almost wish we could stay in paradise forever, bare toes in warm sand, no responsibilities, no worries about the future. I’m pretty sure if I say the word, Mom would make it happen. I tuned out everything but the sound of the tide crashing against the shore, pushing thoughts of tomorrow to the back of my mind, and listened for the sizzle when the sun finally sank into the ocean.

I rest my chin on her urn, my breath hitching as I fight back tears. A light gust ruffles my hair, and I close my eyes, imagining Mom running her fingers through the long strands the way she did when I was little. Part of me wants to believe she’s standing over me while I see this through.