Introduction (Fall 1929) 

It was a Friday after school when Carla Miner found her father hanging from the ceiling.  She was the first person home that day.  Her little brother and sisters were at a birthday party, her mother out grocery shopping with the baby.  The policemen called it suicide; it was happening all over the country, they said.  Men and women affected by the bank failures were overdosing, jumping out of windows, and even hanging themselves because they could not stand the loss of their lives' works.

The children – little Hanna, Matthew, and Dolores – were not told the cause of their father's death.  Their mother, who found another husband soon after because one could not survive the troubled times as a single mother of four, called it "an accident."  Try as the family might to keep Mr. Miner's death under wraps, neighborhood intrigue simmered over his "disappearance," and Mrs. Miner's hasty remarriage only contributed to the gossip about betrayal, divorce, and abandonment.

…

"The market's going to shit," commented Rob, a savvy twenty-something saxophone player, as he sat at the diner counter with his fellow band mate Nick.

"What else is new?" asked the young man with a shrug.  He downed the last of his hamburger and wiped his hands on his pants.

"This ain't a joke, Carter.  I been thinking—well, it's the whole band that's been thinking.  Maybe it's time for us guys to go our own separate ways, y'know.  There ain't no money for musicians around here.  Maybe if we all split up, we can find some money thataways.  I'm myself heading out west."

"Can I go with you?" Nick asked.  With no warning his whole family, music-wise, was about to split. "When do we start?"

"You can go west if you want to, kid, but not with me. I'm startin' off today, you see, and I ain’t gonna pay your fare," Rob told him.  "No offense, Nick, but you're only sixteen.  I can't look cool with a tyke like you hanging on my arm, man."  He patted the boy’s shoulder.  "So long, and good luck to ya," the saxophonist crumpled up his napkin and tossed it on the counter.

"And oh yeah, Nick.  Remember how I said I was buyin'?  Well, I spent all my money on that train ticket," Rob turned out his pants pockets, "So I got nothing on me.  Thanks for lunch, sport."  With a wave he headed out the door.

"Hey!  But I don't have any money..." Nick called after him, but Rob was gone.

I (February 1932)

"Damn car," muttered Carla's stepfather Paul as he tinkered under the old clunker''s hood.  "Be a good kid and hand me that wrench, would you?"

She put down the polishing rag and grabbed the tool off the bench.  "Here you go," Carla handed him the wrench and then busied herself with wiping off the dirty windows.  "So, Paul... How's the job search going?  Mama said you, uh, borrowed some of my stash to pay for gas to go downtown."

"She told you that, did she?  Well, yes, I did.  That's quite a collection of coins you got in that piggy bank of yours.  How long have you been saving up?"

"Hmm... Six years, I think.  Yeah, that's right.  It was right before my eleventh birthday when I got the bank."  She fell into silence, remembering the day her father had brought home the little clay piglet.  Now Piggy lay shattered in a dozen fragments on the nightstand, and her mother had done no more than told her to “grow up” when she’d complained about Paul’s misdeed.  Steeling herself with a little bit of righteous indignation, Carla prodded him again.  "You know, you didn’t answer my question.  I asked how'd the job search go?"

"Not too well," he admitted.  "People just ain't hiring around here, you know?  People ain't hiring nowhere, it seems.  But I will find another job, I know I will.  It's just the bank keeps hasslin’ us about house payments and all them damn bills keep rolling in.  Never seem to have enough money."

Carla was of the opinion that the lack of money was her stepfather's fault.  He liked to stop into the local speakeasies, former bars where liquor still flowed in blatant defiance of the national prohibition law.  Alcohol these days did not come cheap, and Carla knew that there would have been more food on the table if it weren't for Paul's "little indulgence."  She doubted that he'd really used her money on gas, and sometimes she felt that their family would be better off without him.  Paul contributed little more to the family than extra mouths to feed.  He’d not even been married to her mother for three years yet, and they’d already had two little boys, Erik and Jeremiah, with another baby due by autumn.  Who knew how many more were to come?

As Carla reflected upon the current state of her family, Paul droned on about everything from work to the weather.  She listened only half-attentively while he apologized for not providing a better living for them all, for not being a more responsible father, and, most of all, for not being able to afford a present for Carla's birthday, which had recently passed.  Paul discussed how the family did not have enough money and how things around their house needed to change.  "Sacrifices will have to be made in the future so that everyone can be happy.  Your mother and I are sorry, you know, Carla."

"About what?  Not affording to celebrate my birthday?  That's fine," she shrugged it off.  "It's like you said; sacrifices will have to be made, and I can understand that."

"Well, I'm happy you understand, but that's not what I meant by sacrifices."  Her stepfather set down the wrench and wiped his hands on his work coveralls before he placed them on his hips.  "With the baby on the way, we're going to have six kids to feed, not including you.  So I've decided that it would be better for you to leave home now," he told her with the air of a company boss letting his employee go.  "You're seventeen.  That's old enough for you to make your own way about this world."

"Very funny, Paul," Carla laughed without a pause in cleaning the windows.  "And when am I getting my royal sendoff?" she asked jestingly.

"Today, actually.  I'm glad to see that you're taking this so well," he replied seriously.

Her stepfather's tone made Carla stop to look at him.  "You're serious?"  She stared at him for a minute.  "...What?  My God, you want to get rid of me.  You honestly want to get rid of me."  She shook her head, "You're delirious.  My mother won't stand for this."

"Sure, she will.  It didn't take long for her to agree."

Carla gawked at him.  "I can't believe that this is happening.  And you want me to leave today?" she asked faintly.

"Yes, now.  And don't you look at me like that, young lady.  Sacrifices have to be made, remember?  It's not easy raising a family."

"Yeah, well my father did it,” she returned angrily, “and that was before my older brother and sister moved away.  He raised six kids and would've never thought of turning one of us out to the cold."  Carla threw the washrag at his feet in defiance.  "Daddy could do it!"

Paul stooped to pick it up and wiped the last of the grease from his hands.  "Things were different back then.  Money was easier to come by.  And before you start putting your father on a pedestal, don't you damn well forget that he committed suicide.  That cuss would be no better off in this situation than your mama and me.  In fact, that's probably why he hanged himself in the first place.  Your daddy wasn't man enough to raise his own family when he went broke."

"Shut up, you bastard Paul!" Carla turned away.  Tears smarted at the corners of her eyes as she quickly changed the subject.  "You can't kick me out.  This is unbelievable!  Don't make me go, I don't want to leave.  Please don't kick me out of my own house," she begged.  "I'll get a job, I'll help somehow!  Why me?  I mean, why can't you get rid of the appliances for chrissakes?  The washing machine!" she exclaimed.  "The refrigerator!  Anything but me..."

Her stepfather grabbed her by the elbow. "Don't get hysterical now, kid.  You're making a fool of yourself.  The neighbors are gonna hear you," he dragged her to the doorway.  "Come on, your mother's probably got your bags packed by now.  It's time to go, Carla."

...

"Extra!  Extra!  Read all about it!  Teenage girl forced out of house by family!  Extra!"

Or at least that's what Carla imagined the headlines would be.  As she stood on the street corner, watching Paul drive away in the old car, it did not occur to her that young men and women across the nation were not only being forced from their homes by the economic disaster but were also leaving by choice.  She scowled as the Ford turned not homeward bound but deeper into town, most likely in the direction of Paul's favorite speak easy.

Making a frustrated noise in her throat, Carla turned to read the sign of the hotel where she'd been delivered.  De Anza Hotel, it said.  Carla wondered whether she'd be able to afford it.  The money she had wasn’t really much.  She would have to find a job soon and a way to get to school – that was, if she continued attending now that she was living on her own.

A frown crossed Carla's face as she walked into the building with her valise in her left hand and a knapsack slung over her right shoulder.  She made her way to the counter, which was unattended.  Carla set down her bags on the floor and rang the silver bell, "Hello?"  She rang again, "Anybody here?  I need a room."

A woman in a vulgarly bright dress stood up with a bunch of papers in her hand.  Apparently, she'd stooped to pick them up—or the papers were just a show and the clerk had been sleeping on the job as the rumpled state of her clothing and the bags under her eyes suggested.  "Sleeping or jumping, kid?"

"Excuse me?"  Carla gaped slightly, thinking she had heard wrong.

"Sleeping or jumping," the woman repeated, running a hand through her hair, which was nappy on one side.  At Carla's blank stare, the woman explained, "D'you want a room for sleeping in, or do you just wanna jump out the window?  If so, we got an opening on the top floor.  Hurry it up 'cause I got an appointment with Mr. Sandman."

"You-you're joking right?" Carla asked.  This day was just one bizarre moment after another.

"I'm not kidding, kid," the clerk pointed to a poster on the wall that was covered with a long list of names.  "Those're the people that have used this fine facility for their one way tickets to Hell these past few years.  We got quite a record going here."

"Well, I don't want to jump!" Carla exclaimed.  "I just need a room to stay in for a while."

"You got bags?" the woman asked, suspicious of her.  "'Cause jumpers don't bring any bags, don't need 'em where they're going."  The clerk leaned over the counter and saw the luggage at Carla's feet.  "Okay," she said, satisfied, "looks like you'll be sleeping then."

Carla paid for a key to the cheapest room available.  There was no bellboy so she carried her belongings to the third story room herself.  The chamber was small and dark, the taller buildings next door blocking any direct sunlight from coming into the room, and there was only a dim ceiling bulb to be switched on by a pull of its rusty chain.  The bathroom was not separate but rather a tub, toilet, and sink set into one corner with a raggedy folding screen to block them from view.

"Welcome home, Carla," she told herself and set the bags on the bed.  She sat beside them and contemplated her miserable new state. It could have been worse, of course, much worse if she didn't have any money.  But the money she did have wouldn't last long either.  Carla was going to have to get a job, hopefully soon, or else she would be out on the streets by the weekend's end.  All these thoughts combined with the fact of her new accommodations were too depressing for Carla, so she unpacked her clothes into a small bureau and headed downstairs.

"Might as well start searching for that job now," she said, slipping her room key into her purse.  But as she reached the lobby, Carla heard faint strains of music and followed the sound to a ballroom off the main corridor.

...

"Request a song?  Anyone?" Nick strummed his guitar lazily as he looked expectantly around the room.  From his seat beside the hotel piano, he watched the hotel guests who chatted, ate, smoked, and schmoozed, and once in a while they would take a break from their banal lives to request a tune.  The tips they gave were "fair," but Nick’s hat still had a way to go before it was full.  "Request a song?  Anybody?"  And then one man, entering from the hotel lobby did, and Nick played it.

He sang softly and pleasantly with a rich sounding tenor that for all its gentleness managed to reach the ends of the hall and be heard over the sounds of the crowd.  He closed his eyes as he played, letting his fingers work by memory.  At times he slipped into hums and ad-libs, and he improvised the song a bit, making it his own.  When he finished there was light applause, and when he opened his eyes, he saw a few members of the audience approach with tips.  A young lady, one who hadn’t been there before the song began, put some change in his hat.  The look on her face struck him in its obvious enjoyment of the music but its reluctance to be doling out money.

"You play beautifully," she complimented and took a seat right in front of the stage.

"Thanks.  Don’t tip often, do you?" he commented on her expression.

"Er... did I not give enough?" Carla asked uncertainly.

"No, it’s not that at all.  It's just… the look on your face seemed a little bit unsure.  You here with your folks?  Are you lost or something?" he played lightly as he spoke.

"I'm here by myself," she told him.  "I'm not lost, just new to this.  It’s my first time out – alone, I mean – in the city."

"Ah, so that's what it is.  Nice to meet you.  The name's Nick, Nick Carter," he took his hand off the guitar for just a moment to shake hers.  "So, how do you like the city so far?  You from around here?"

"I live – my family lives on the outskirts.  I moved into the city to try my own thing," she lied, "maybe find a job, you know?"  She paused as though debating with herself and then said, "My name's Carla Miner."

"Well good luck with your job search, Carla.  I'm kinda doing the same.  I travel around and perform, trying to make a few bucks here and there.  It's not so bad.  Sometimes the tips get really good."  He looked into the hat at his feet, "But today isn't one of those days.  Guess I have to get back to work..."

"Yeah, and I should go and look for that job.  Bye, Nick, it was a pleasure meeting you."

"You, too," he nodded.  "Maybe we'll see each other around again.  Good luck with your job.  Hope you find something."  Of course, Nick knew there wasn't any decent work in town; he himself had already combed the streets.  De Anza Hotel was a last ditch effort to make a few bucks before moving on.

"Thanks."

II (Two Days Later, Monday)

Carla lied in bed with the covers pulled up to her chin.  "I should be in school," she said thoughtfully.  But do I want to be there?  The answer was no, she didn't want to go to school and she didn't have to go because she was on her own.  Besides, there wasn't the time for school anyway.  Carla needed money badly.  She hadn't enough to stay even one more night in the hotel, so she would have to go out and find herself some work.  There was no way one could make a living and go to school at the same time.  She was on her own now and when she needed food or money, no one would get those things for her.

Carla turned her head to look at the smudged old clock on the bureau.  "I could make it to English class if I leave now," she told herself.  "Maybe somebody will be nice enough to give me a lift...  Ugh, I should be in school..."  Then Carla told herself to stop saying that.  She didn't want school; she just wanted familiarity.  She wanted routine and for everything to be the same again.  She wanted to be back home.

And what if she were to go back today?  She could deal with Paul and his speakeasies.  She could deal with the growing family and shrinking savings funds.  She could deal with the small meals and the neighborhood gossip and the—

Carla shook her head.  "No, you don't want that...  They kicked you out remember?  You can't go back.  If you want routine, you'll just have to make yourself a new routine."  She looked at the clock again and sighed.  "I should be in school..."

...

Nick sat on a crate outside an empty delicatessen near De Anza.  With his trusty hat—or maybe not so trusty as it had been getting him few tips lately—at his feet and the vacant deli's closed-for-business sign nailed above his head, he slouched against the wall and played a little ditty he'd been putting together.  He thought it would be a nice piece when it was done, but so far it was just the mere sprout of a song:  It had the possibility to grow into something great, to be sure, yet that would happen only if he cultivated it right.

"I've never heard that one before.  Is the song one of yours?"

Nick recognized the voice but couldn't place it.  He looked up from his guitar, "Ah...  Carla, isn't it?  Hi.  Yeah, it's one of mine.  Needs some work, but it's getting there.  Are you..." he looked at her clothes, a right smart looking outfit with a matching cap and purse, "still looking for that job?"

She nodded.  "No luck yet.  Been at it for hours, though.  I'm starting to understand Paul's difficulty with employment…  Paul is my stepfather," she explained, at the confused look on his face.  "He's on the job search, too.  Or at least he should be."

"Well, if it's of any reassurance to you, I'm not having much luck either," he kicked at the "trusty" tip hat.  "Hey, it's Monday,” he said as though a thought had suddenly crossed his mind. “Shouldn't you be in school?"

Carla made a funny sound in her throat.

"Gee, you shouldn't think so much of my question," Nick said, catching the look on her face. "I just thought since you’re such a little piece, and all, that you should be in school still.  How old’re you, kid?  Fourteen, fifteen?”

“Just turned seventeen,” Carla muttered, and Nick picked up her air of discomfort.

He wasn’t sure whether it was because he’d called her out for being a truant, or because he’d mistaken her age.  He decided to go with truancy rather than say something idiotic and dig himself into a deeper hole about her age.  “Oh, well anyway if you aren’t in school anymore it’s no big deal.  What’s the point of school, times being what they area, right?  Even I haven't been to school in ages," he said quite frankly and then changed the subject.  "So have you eaten yet?  It's getting to be about lunch time.  Want to join me?"

After a bit of wheedling, he got her to agree and they headed back to De Anza Hotel for something to eat.  “I got a little deal going on with the hotel,” Nick explained.  “I entertain their guests for free but I get to keep the tips and my room’s free.  They even give me a little discount on food from their cafeteria.”  The two made small talk as they ate and Nick found Carla to be an amiable companion.  Now that he knew she was old enough to fall within his age range, he gave her the critical Carter once-over but decided that she wasn’t his type—too youthful-sweet-happy perhaps?  That must've been what had caused him to mistake her as a few years younger.  She was pretty enough, but he was more into sultry dolled up types and had a certain penchant for flappers with their scandalous fashions, not to mention those flashes of long, dance-toned legs.

Turning his mind away from the subject of the fairer sex, Nick focused his attention back on Carla.  Somehow he could tell that beneath her friendly demeanor there was something troubling her, and he decided to find out what it was.  When they finished eating he kept her at the table talking and shared a little about himself, trying to break the ice and get her talking.

"I was with a band for a few years.  I met those guys when I was pretty young and we toured a lot back in the booming days.  And then when rough times came on, they dumped me right-quick," he shook his head and then shrugged.  "I was really disappointed.  I mean, I felt like I grew up with those guys.  The band scattered when I was about... seventeen—no, sixteen.  I was sixteen.  So for the past three years, I've been performing on my own, traveling the rails.  Know what I mean?"

"Traveling the rails...  You mean like the 'free' kind of traveling?  I’ve heard a little about it," Carla admitted, at his nod.  "In school, there was a lot of gossip about those homeless folks who catch trains without paying.  But from the way others said it, it sounded like they were talking about a bunch of stowaway hobos.  Normal, respectable folk wouldn’t do that kind of thing… would they?"

"Well, partly true... there are some rough characters out there, but you'll be surprised.  It's not just ol' hobos who hitch the trains.  A lot of guys do it that way.  There are plenty of fellows my age and younger who need to get around but can't afford the ticket prices.  Railroads charge too much anyway, and 'sides, they're all a bunch of tycoons.  They can afford to let folks sneak into a boxcar, or steal a ride on the catwalk—that's the roof of the train."

Carla propped an elbow on the table and rested her chin on her hand, leaning forward with a rapt expression.  "Hmm, well, now that's certainly something else," she commented.  "I never knew...  I mean, I always thought it was a bunch of vagrants..."

"Like I said, sometimes they are.  But, you know, once in a while you'll even find a feller who can afford to buy a ticket but who's hitching a ride anyway.  One time I met this guy whose father owned a surviving business, one that was still flourishing even.  He was a well-off fellow but wanted to ride the rails just for the fun of it, for the experience," Nick laughed at the memory.

It took a while for him to gain her trust.  By the time Nick had gotten Carla comfortable enough to tell him as much about herself as he'd shared with her, the hall had begun to fill with the afternoon crowd.  He found her story interesting.  She was the third of eight children, soon to be nine and her father had passed away a few years ago.  “Your mother must have been devastated when your father passed away, huh?” Nick sympathized.  “Was it hard for her to get over him?  And what it musta been like to have to raise all those kids alone!”

Carla gave him a wry smile, “Well, it wasn’t as hard for mama to get over him as you might think…  Remember my stepfather Paul I mentioned earlier?  She got remarried to him, uh, rather quickly after that.”

Nick could tell that she was only divulging the parts of it that she felt appropriate to tell him, which was fair enough considering they were still practically strangers, but he was driven by curiosity.  He asked questions to fill in the holes in Carla’s story and assumed that she was being more or less honest, except where the truth was uncomfortable, like when he queried, "So, you left home because you wanted to try the 'independence' thing, huh?"

"Um, yeah..." she replied.  "And, also, there are so many kids in my family that I was offering more hindrance than a help."

"I see," he nodded, filing in his memory the fact that Carla was a bad liar.  "And how have you found the city to be so far?  What's it been like for you?"

As she told him about her weekend's experiences, Nick watched her manners intently, noting the little grimaces and sighs and the way Carla held her cap in her hands and rotated it when she said something especially vexing.  But she was always quick to switch back into cheerful mode again, as though she was ever so concerned about spreading her burden onto someone else’s shoulder.

"But I've done too much complaining already," she said finally with a bright smile.  "You know how the job search is.  I'm sure you don't want to hear it all over again from me.  I must be boring you by now with my altogether banal life."

"Not at all.  I told you about myself, and you were nice enough to listen.  In fact, I think you're a very un-boring person.  But tell me something," he leaned in towards her, "are you all right?  Is something the matter?  Just seems like there's a cloud hanging over your head."

Carla's shoulders sank, "Oh.  Do I seem like a bothered kind of person?"

"No, just that something's weighing on you..."  Nick said carefully.  "You could tell me—if you wanted to, that is.  What's wrong?  Has the new setting got you down?"

She gave a small smile, "No, I'll be all right.  It's just that the job search is tough.  If I...  If I don't find some work soon, I'll be out of a place to stay."

"Can't you go back home?"

"No."  For the first time Carla looked at him in the eyes—not at the cap in her hands, the tabletop between them, the piano behind him, but right in Nick's eyes—and said, "No, I can't."

...

Carla didn’t know where to go next.  She stood down the street from De Anza Hotel, tired and disheartened.  After a whole afternoon of walking, trolleys, and job searching she’d found no one to hire her, and she was nearly broke.  A couple of shops and a greengrocer had offered to take her on for a few odd errands, but they would only barter in items and she needed cash.  There was not enough left in her purse to stay another night at the hotel, so where should she go?  Certainly not back to De Anza.  Carla had lied to the clerk who’d asked her earlier to pay up, saying that she would have the money as soon as she returned.

So what next, pack her bags and sleep in an alley?  Of course not.  But what was there to do?  It was getting dark out now and she needed a place to stay.  Again Carla thought of her family, but that was no good.  And, besides, it made her want to do something stupid like cry.  Instead, she took out her frustration on a fence, a ratty old fence covered with paper and whitewash.  The most recent layer was made of posted fliers announcing the latest news—all of it bad, of course.  Carla walked along the fence, tearing down random leaflets and shredding them as she went.

She muttered to herself as she walked, berating her own bad fortune.  The handfuls of torn paper Carla crunched into a large ball, which she chucked over her shoulder.  Then she stuffed her hands in her pockets and headed determinedly back to the hotel.  If she was to be kicked out of her place of residence yet again, Carla figured that she might as well get it over with.

However, when she reached De Anza, a voice from behind stopped her before she got to the front counter. "Hey, Carla."

"Huh?"  She turned to see the young guitar player standing at the doorway to the ballroom where she’d first met him.  He beckoned her over to him.

"What is it Nick?  You look like you’re waiting for someone," Carla referred to the instrument propped at his side and the manner in which he was standing.

"Yeah, I wanted to talk to you.  Wait, first—how did your job search go?  Any luck?"

"Um, no..." Carla said sheepishly. She slipped a hand unconsciously behind her neck.  "I was about to check out of the hotel because I couldn’t find any work."

"Oh.  Well, could you come with me a minute before you do that?  I was wondering if you could do me a favor," Nick jabbed a thumb in the direction of the ballroom, "in there."

She followed him into the hall toward the performance stage.  They scooted through small crowds and sidestepped between tables that had been pushed closely together.  The room was nearly full with the gathering evening throng.  Nick climbed onto the stage and then gave Carla a hand up.  There was an excited look in his eyes, like he had an idea and was waiting to spring it on her.  He pulled out the piano bench and sat, patting the seat for Carla to sit with him.

"Look at this crowd!" Nick grinned.  "Not as many as there were last Friday, but it’s still a good number of people.  Listen, I was wondering...  Do you play?  Are you musical at all?" Nick motioned toward the piano beside him.  "’Cause I saw you eyeing it when we were talking at lunch and I thought that it seemed like you wanted to play it."

Carla looked at the worn piano again.  It had indeed caught her notice before, but she hadn't realized that Nick saw her looking at it.  "I play... I guess.  I mean, I used to take lessons before my—before times got rough but I really only just play for fun, not for other people to listen."

"Well why don’t you give it a shot?  Want to accompany me?  'Cause I wanna do something to catch these people's attentions.  They haven't been tipping very well as of late.  I say, give 'em something different to listen to and maybe they'll warm up a bit.  What do you say?"

"Oh.  I.  Well..."  She reached out and touched a piano key.  Though the piano was worn, it was well-tuned and the note struck true.  Carla gave a pleased little sigh.  Why she had hit that key in particular, she wasn’t sure, but the note brought back memories of lingering tunes; shadows danced in the living room of her mind.  Her father waltzed with her mother, while her older sister Barbara giggled as their brother Al mimicked their parents' dance by himself.  Carla blinked and the shadows blew away like smoke in the wind.  She turned to see Nick watching her.

"So, will you help me?" he asked.

"Yeah, I will."

...

When Carla's fingers first struck the piano keys, it was a false start.  The audience's chatter died away as people stopped to listen, but Carla was only warming up and their talking resumed anew.  Nick sat on the edge of the stage and tuned his guitar, listening to her practice with one ear.  He grinned to find that she was being modest earlier, her playing was altogether more than satisfactory.  They played a quick little ditty together just to get used to the feel of each other, then finally, the time came for the evening's entertainment to start.

"Hey, folks," he stood, raising both hands into the air for some silence.  "Are you ready for some music?"  There was enough of a response to make Nick grin happily.  This was going to be an audience that got into the performance; they would tip well.  "Allright then.  Let the show begin!"  A cheer went up from the crowd, and the first bars of the song spilled forth from the piano.

Nick soon found that playing with Carla was a good idea—no, a great—idea.  Her touch added more depth to the music, and the crowd responded better since it wasn't just one guy on a guitar singing for them.  A lot of the songs she knew were a few years old so Nick knew them, too, and the people listening seemed to enjoy being reminded of the songs they'd loved back in the swinging days.  The two played intermittently for hours.  Most of the time Nick sang, but sometimes Carla did with a rich soulful voice that stirred the vocalist in him.  She was good despite of having a largely untrained voice, but Nick made sure not to strain her and took over the lead after she had tried a few numbers.

When their set ended, the audience whistled more than Nick had heard them whistle since he’d come to town.  His tip hat had a happy weight to it, and Nick gave it a good shake just to hear the money jingle.  He ordered food and drinks and sat with Carla at a table as the next act took the stage.  She was practically glowing with energy after the show.

"Wow!  That was great, Nick.  Is it always like that?" she asked in a rush.

"Not always, but when it is, it's a real buzz, huh?"

Carla nodded in agreement and then their food arrived, so they ate and listened to the next performance.  Once their plates were emptied and taken away, Nick poured the contents of his tip hat out onto the table top.

He saw Carla's eyes go big at the amount of money they had made and grinned.  "Yup, this was a good night."  Nick counted the loot out quickly and then pushed more than half of it toward Carla.  He gave her the larger coins and bills, but was careful to make it look like they were getting the same amount.  "Here you go, fifty-fifty.  Thanks for the help, kid."

"No, thank you."  The look on her face was absolutely thrilled.  "This'll be a big help until I find my job.  Thanks, Nick."  She looked at the clock on the wall, "It's late.  I should go pay my bill."

"All right, maybe I'll see you around tomorrow."  They shook hands.  "You got talent, Carla.  Maybe there's someone in town looking for a piano player, or some rich kid who needs lessons, eh?"

She blushed and said goodnight.

III (Wednesday)

Carla separated the money she possessed into little piles on the bed.  Now that she'd paid her hotel bill, the tips from her performance with Nick seemed less plentiful than they had the other night.  Carla was at her wit's end and could barely think straight.  Finding a job was hard enough, but to add to that Nick would probably leave town soon, the rails taking him somewhere far off to find better work, and she would no longer have his moral or financial support.  In fact, the guitar player might just be gone any day now, if Carla had heard him correctly.  She stood up and went to the doorway where a yellowing timecard for the Greater Northwest Railroad Company was posted to double-check what the young man had said.

"Hm..."  Carla read the placard.  Nick was right, she thought, these railroads do cost a fortune!  She turned to look back at her money on the bed and sighed.  "I could never ride one out of here."

Unless...

Carla stood there, thinking very intently. "What if?" came the thought, forcing itself ever more firmly upon her until she finally succumbed.  With a flurry of corollary ideas crowding to get into her head, the girl began pulling out bureau dressers and gathering up all the clothing she had with her onto the bed.  The idea was just reckless enough to work.  Maybe.  "Yes, this will do.  And this, and this..." Carla said to herself as she sorted through her belongings.  At least, in kicking her out of the house, Carla's mother had had the "kindness" to pack some decently fetching clothing.  Carla folded all of the dresses that she could use for her plan and put them into her bags then got ready to leave.  Standing in the doorway when she finished, she reminded herself for courage, "Father said that the most brilliant plans are also always the most foolish...  Well, wish me luck, Pop."

...

Nick just hated to admit it, but this town was dead.  Even Monday night's tips, though a lot better than what he'd been seeing lately and a major boon for Carla, were disappointing compared to what they should have been.  "Oh, well.  I guess it's time to move on then," which was probably a good idea.  He hated De Anza hotel with its terrible commissions and that annoying female clerk who was always giving him "the eye."  Nick shuddered.  She was too gross and rumpled to think about, not to mention too old to be looking at him that way, anyhow.

But Nick would miss the kid, of course.  Carla seemed as nice a gal as he had ever met on his travels, and she had a load of talent, too.  He wished her the best of luck for the future and would tell her so as soon as he saw her again.  In fact, the musician was even considering leaving her the extra money he'd scrounged up in town.  So what if Nick barely broke even?  The kid deserved it.  He thought that it would have been nice to stick around and get to know her better but the road was calling.  Besides, the picking seasons were on their way, and he wanted to be around when the farmers started to need help.  Farm work was always a way for Nick to keep himself fed and employed between shows.

But still...  In spite of all the logical reasons he had given himself, Nick wasn't as eager to leave as he should have been, given the circumstances.  Well then, he thought, there's only one way to get myself jazzed up for leaving.  I'll go say goodbye to Carla right now.  Nick would feel ten times better once he'd gotten it over and done with, or at least that was what the young man told himself as he made his way to the room where Carla said she was staying.  He knocked on the door and waited for a minute but there was no answer.  Figuring that she'd gone out, Nick decided to sit in the lobby where he would be sure to catch her as soon as she returned to De Anza.  He sat down in a stuffed chair, trying to look inconspicuous because he didn't want that tacky lady clerk to spot him.

He ended up waiting an hour before he finally got impatient.  "Geeze, I wonder where she could be," Nick pulled out his pocket watch and frowned to see that he'd been sitting there for so long.  He really should have been getting his things ready for traveling, but there was something nagging at his brain that told him to talk to Carla first.

“All this trouble for a girl you're not even keen on,” he muttered to himself.  What was it about Carla that made him even bother?  Sure she was an extremely nice person, but she wasn't exactly the dolled-up type that he usually went for – not a bad looker either, mind you, but it wasn't her looks that made him more interested in her than he usually was with people.  In fact, Nick was so interested that he was concerned with her well-being.  Would Carla be okay after he left?  What kind of job would she find?  Would she be able to eat and find a place to stay?  Nick realized that these kinds of questions were the things keeping him from wanting to go.  And then there was friendship.  He was always making pals on the rails and knew that he would run into them again eventually – most likely on top of some other boxcar.  But would he ever see Carla again once he left?  Probably not.  He wouldn't even be able to drop her a line once in a while, seeing as she didn't have an address.

Maybe she would go back home, in spite of what she had told him about not being able to.  Nick remembered that Carla said her family lived just on the outskirts of the city, so it was not like she really couldn't just go back if worst came to worst.  Then he recalled the way she'd looked every time she talked about her home: it seemed like they didn't want her there.  Or maybe her reason for leaving is like mine, Nick thought briefly before ditching the idea.  It couldn’t be.  No one had a reason for leaving home quite like he did, and that was that.

"So if her family made her leave..." he said to himself quietly, "they're going to want her back.  She's a good kid, and they'll be missing her soon enough if they don't already."  This revelation made Nick feel a lot better.  If Carla went back home, he wouldn't have to worry about whether she would make it on her own. Plus he'd be able to wire her a telegram once in a while, since he would have an address to send it to.  The idea was so well settled into Nick's head that he half expected one of Carla's family members to walk into De Anza Hotel this instant.  In fact...

"By George," he snapped his fingers, watching a young man with a small pack who had just entered the lobby, "I'll be damned if he's not a brother of hers come to get her."  Nick marveled at the sheer timing of the matter as he got up and walked towards the guy.  He has to be related to Carla, Nick told himself, the family resemblance is just terrific.

He approached the young man, who'd almost reached the stairway to the upper floors, and tapped him on the shoulder.  "Excuse me, fellow.  Hope you don't mind me asking, but would you happen to be related to a girl named…”

...

"Carla!!!"

The girl jumped nearly a foot off the ground as she turned around and Nick shrieked in surprise.  She somehow managed to fall against the stairway and grabbed at the handrail to regain her balance.  "...Nick," Carla replied weakly.  That was all she could bring herself to say because the expression on his face was one to which she was not quite sure how to respond.  His eyes were bulging, roaming up and down her figure with bewilderment, and there was something in his eyes that looked like disappointment.

"Nick, I..." She had planned out something to say earlier so as to explain her decision to him, but now she was caught off guard.  Drat, we’ve begun all wrong!  She'd not expected to be standing in a stairwell like this with Nick gaping at her like a trout.  Carla grew slightly piqued at the way he kept staring at her and exclaimed, "Hey, stop it!"  She had to bring her hands together, clapping loudly in front of Nick's face to snap him out of it.

Nick blinked at the harsh sound and, shaking his head into awareness, looked past Carla up the stairway.  "There's someone coming," he said.  Fully regaining his senses, Nick nodded towards the ballroom where they’d previously played, and Carla followed.

...

"Now," he hissed as they took their seats at a small table, "what did you do to yourself, and how bad is it?  Come on, let me see your cap."

Carla removed her new hat and set it on the tabletop to reveal her hair, which was cropped close like a boy's.

"My God..." Nick's mouth opened again, and he resumed his fishlike expression.

"Please don't look at me like that," Carla entreated him.  "I had to do it.  Will you let me explain?"

"All right," Nick sat back in his chair, "but let me guess first.  You went and sold your hair."  He figured that she would have gotten a large sum for her nice brown locks.  Her hair was a dark, rich color and had almost looked heavy before, pinned up in a mass of curls at the nape of her neck.  "And your clothes," Nick studied her new attire, which was a lot cheaper than the well-tailored dresses that she'd worn before.  Now she just ported a loosely fitting outfit with a rough shirt and dark trousers.  She's got her suspenders on all wrong, he noticed.  But, gosh… I could mistake her for a regular chap with her hair so short that way. "Why'd you do it?" Nick asked.  "Do you need money that badly?  I could've helped you, you know.  And...  With the way you look, how do you expect to find a decent job in this town now?"

"Well, I don't," Carla replied, raising her chin slightly.  She was looking him in the eyes now.  "I'm not planning to stay any longer.  I'm leaving to find work somewhere else."

"But the nearest town that's gonna offer any jobs is miles off.  What're you gonna do?  Walk?  Take a cab?  And 'sides, there's still the fact of the way you look.  No straight-up place is going to hire a girl who looks just like a fellow.

"Of course they're not.  But they should have no problem hiring a regular ol' boy who's willing to work hard," she countered.  "That was half my problem in finding a job, Nick.  They said I seemed nice enough, but even if they did have work to give out, they would prefer to hire a boy.  So, you see, this is the only way.  As for how I'm getting there, I won't walk; I'll just ride the rails like you!"

"Ugh," Nick covered his face with his hands so he wouldn't need to stare dumbfounded at her again.  WHY did I ever tell her about hitching?  ...Great job, Carter, you've gone and ruined a perfectly nice young girl.  With a large sigh, he dropped his hands and regarded her.  "Look, Carla.  I admit, you look convincingly like a fella, but that won't be enough.  In spite of everything I've told you about my lifestyle, you'd still have no idea how to handle yourself out there.  The world's a dangerous place to be alone, you know."

"I know, Nick.  That's why I plan to tag along with you."  There was a long pause.  “If you'll let me, I mean."

Well, he had to admit, the girl's got spunk.

"And," Carla continued before he could disagree, "I'll try to stay out of your way.  Plus, I'll pay you if that's what you want.  I got a little bit of money from pawning off my dresses and stuff, and a lot from selling my hair."  She pulled a large wad of cash from her pocket.  "I still need to pay off my bill and send some to my family, but I'll give you whatever you want."

Nick gave a low whistle.  "You seem to have thought a lot about this..." He dropped his eyes, considering exactly what he was agreeing to, as she looked at him expectantly.  "No," Nick decided finally. "Save your money.  It's not like I'll be feeding or housing you or anything.  I just don't understand why you would want to follow me."

"'Cause from the way you talked the other day – about traveling, working for farmers, performing – you know where the money's at.  You've survived this long, so it can't be a bad life, and it's got to better than anything this old town's got going for it.  ...Is it a yes then?  Can I go with you?  Please?"

"Yeah, sure."

"You don't mind?!" Carla's eyes got big.

Nick figured that because her whole plan was riding on him, he couldn't exactly say no; that's why it surprised him that she was genuinely shocked that he'd agreed.  "No, I don't mind really."  For some reason he grinned crazily as he pushed back his chair.  "Come on, we've got some stuff to take care of before we can go."

IV (Later Wednesday)

"Now... whatever you do, you are not to utter a single word, is that understood?"

Carla nodded as they walked toward a bluff outside of town.

"No, no," Nick said, "you can talk for now.  It's just that if you're gonna pretend to be a boy, you'll need a cover and we can't have you slipping up.  So as long as there’re other folks around, you’re just gonna have to pretend to be mute, all right?  Plus, if we tell everyone you're mute, that lets me do all the talking.  But don't worry, you can still laugh and stuff—just do it silently.”  Nick looked to the heavens like he was praying to God that this would work.  “Besides, you're a terrible liar, so we’re better off if you don't speak anyway.  Anyone ever tell you that?”

"Oh.  No… but then I guess I never needed to lie all that much before," Carla admitted, fiddling with the straps of her new pack.  When they'd gone to purchase traveling supplies, Nick had made her sell her old valise and knapsack for a single bag that would be easier to travel with.  This new rucksack was made of sturdy leather with rivets and reinforced stitching so that it wouldn’t tear, and was coated in beeswax and tallow to make it waterproof.  They’d filled the bag with canteens, flashlights, clothing, and portable food, and Carla rather felt like she used to as a child, camping out in the woods with her father and brother.  However, unlike a camping trip, this journey would not end after a weekend of mosquito bites and poison oak, and there was no cozy house or family for her to return to.  For a moment, she was almost sad again but a remark from Nick distracted her:

“Also, from here on out your name is Carl."

"Carl?!  But that’s a boy’s—oh, right."

“Exactly,” Nick said.  “I can't exactly go around telling everyone you're a guy and still call you Carla, can I?  How's the new bag feel?" Nick changed the subject quickly as he noticed her shifting the pack’s weight.  "Not uncomfortable, is it?

"It's fine, not too heavy.  I'm just getting a feel for it is all.  So where did you say we're going?"

"On the other side of that low hill right there," Nick pointed, "is a place where the train track for the Greater Northwest rail curves right alongside the bluff.  It's close enough that you can jump down right onto the catwalk.  See up there, if you look closely, there's already a few people waiting for the next train to go by."

He was right.  Carla strained her eyes and could see three or four tiny figures silhouetted in the distance.  The sky behind them was a crisp cloudless blue, no longer as cold and biting as it had been in January, not yet as soft and mild as it would be in the spring.  The fresh hope that the open sky presented and the promises that coming spring held for her spurred Carla on.  "What are we waiting for then?" she asked, her heart starting to pound.  "I'll race you to the top!"  With that she dashed ahead.

Nick stood in her dust for a moment.  "Hey!  Car—uh, uh Carl!  Wait for me!"

It didn’t turn out to be much of a race.  Even though Carla had plenty of supplies to carry, Nick had a later start plus his own bag and guitar weighing him down as he chased after her.  Carla scrambled up the hilly rise, following the path as it wound through the brush and dry bramble.  Sometimes she looked back, laughing to see her travel partner on her heels.  After a while, though, when Carla stopped to wait for him, Nick didn't catch up and she couldn't see him anywhere.

She stepped off the path, wading into the crackling bushes to get a clearer look through the trees but there was no sign of Nick.  "Where did he g—" Carla tripped on a large exposed root and, before she could right her balance, tumbled headfirst down the slope.  She bumped and rolled unceremoniously downhill until the ground began to flatten out and stopped with a loud "Oof!" Clinging to a tree trunk, Carla struggled dizzily to her feet.  The world was spinning about her head and she hugged the large oak tightly, waiting for the whirling motion to still.  When all was calm, she dusted the dirt from her clothing and shook the leaves from her hair.  Fortunately, her knapsack had stayed shut, so there was nothing to retrieve from her fall from grace except her hat.

After a few unsuccessful attempts to scramble back up the slippery slope down which she’d come, Carla headed in the other direction towards a clearing.  What Carla found there surprised her greatly.  "Nick!" she called out confused, and then again louder, "Nick!"  The clearing had been converted into an unsettling sort of campground with felled trees around a circle of campfire ashes, filthy stained bed mattresses, and scattered bones.  The sickening smell of refuse and human waste overpowered her senses, and Carla clamped a handkerchief over her mouth and nostrils.  She wasn't quite sure what to make of this repulsive discovery.  She took a deep breath through her handkerchief and shouted, "NICK!!!"

Finally there was a faint answering cry.  "Carl, where are you?!"  They kept calling back and forth until Carla saw Nick thrashing through the bushes towards her.  He looked around the campsite in disgust.  "Pee-ew!  How did you get down here?"

"I—I fell," she pointed back towards the rise from which she'd tumbled down.  "Don't worry, I'm fine," she said in reply to the question on his face.  "What is this place?"

"It's a jungle.  A nasty one.  Come on, let’s get out of here and I'll tell you more about it later.  We got a train to catch."  Nick took Carla firmly by the arm and led her back the way he'd come.

...

"You've got a lot to learn, kid."

They sat with their backs to the wind so that Nick wouldn't have to raise his voice for Carla to hear.  He was glad the jump onto the train top hadn’t scared her and even more grateful that she seemed unfazed, calmly riding on the catwalk as the Northwest steamed along.  In his day, Nick had seen plenty of new hitchers scared to death and clinging for dear life to anybody and anything.  Those were the guys who rode inside the boxcars even when it wasn't necessary.

"First thing you need to know is how to whistle.  That way the next time you call for me, you don't hafta say a word.   Can you whistle?"

Carla puckered her lips and whistled a few notes from a popular radio tune.

"Not a bad start," Nick admitted, "but I'm gonna teach you how to whistle so loud a man can hear ya a mile off—you know, like they do at baseball games.  Now take your fingers like this," he lifted his hand with his thumb and index finger pressed together, "and then stick 'em in your mouth and give it a good blow."  He presented a short toot as an example.  "That was just a small one; it'll get much louder than that.  In fact, some folks can put a man deaf with a good whistle.  You try now."

Nick watched as Carla stuck her fingers in her mouth, filled her cheeks with air, and blew hard.  Nothing came out but a bit of spittle and a whooshing sound.  He laughed at her grimace.  "Not bad, not bad...  Okay, it was bad," Nick admitted with humor.  "But you're holding your fingers all wrong.  Here, like this—no, keep your fingers in your mouth."  He reached out and adjusted her fingers, "Go ahead, try aga—”

Nick clapped his hands over his ears as she whistled shrilly.  "Jesus!  You tryin' to kill me?"

Carla's eyes went wide and she opened her mouth to apologize.

"No, no talking, remember?  I was just kidding," he grinned.  "That was a good one, Carla—Carl.  Damn, that name'll take a while getting used to, eh?"

From somewhere down the catwalk another whistle came back in reply.  "Hey, looks like the guys approve of your whistling, too.  Well, let's see..."  Casually, Nick started cracking his knuckles.  He began with his pinky finger and went down the line, giving each one a little pop before he moved on to the next.  "There's a lot to teach you, kid.  I guess, the jungles are first, since you were wonderin' earlier."

Grabbing his guitar case, Nick laid it across his lap so that he could lean his elbows on it as he spoke.  To either side of them small dusty towns, plains of grass, and low rises of hills flashed by in a blur.  "Jungles are basically places to stay, campgrounds of sorts.  You usually find them nearby the train tracks because that's where railroad boys'll stay in case they need to rest while waiting for the next train to hitch.  The one you saw on the hill looked pretty bad, filthy as all hell, but for the most part they are decent enough places, I guess.  Some of the nicer ones have fire rings and supplies of wood to burn, bits of mirror stuck to the trees so you can shave, maybe a fishing pole or two if it's by the water."  Nick absently tapped his fingers against the guitar case.

"But sometimes, hobos will make permanent homes in the jungle, the poor bastards."  He looked up at Carla, "Excuse my language."  When she shook her head that it was fine, he continued on.  "Anyway, you usually end up camping in a jungle with other riders, and it's a friendly atmosphere.  If they're nice guys, you split your rations, boil the little that each one of y'all have together in a pot, and it makes a full meal—burgoo, or sometimes they call it mulligan stew."

Nick laughed, catching her expression, "Hey, you just wait until you get hungry.  Then you won't mind it so much."  He went on to discuss the different things that one would eat when traveling on little or no money, until he eventually noticed Carla's head nodding with sleep.  "Okay, I think that concludes the lesson for now.  Try and get some rest.  We won’t get to Belleville until almost evening anyway."

Nick helped her find a secure place to curl up without worrying about rolling off the catwalk, and before long she was fast asleep.  While she slept, he took a worn map book from his knapsack and spread it carefully on the train's top.  He pressed the sides down to keep them from flapping in the wind and pulled out a small bound book with the different train routes for the Greater Northwest Railroad Company printed inside.  With a pencil Nick chartered out the course to their destination.  They would pass through several towns before they reached the city of Belleville, but the train had no stops planned before then so they had a few hours’ ride ahead of them.

From time to time Nick glanced over at Carla, but she seemed to be sleeping peacefully despite the swaying and rumbling of the train.  It wasn’t usually easy for first-timers to sleep on the catwalk; the excitement of their morning preparations and the trek up the bluff to the jumping point for the train must have worn her out.  That's another mark in her favor, Nick thought.  Despite all her greenness, she takes to this whole business like a pro.

Nick had never had a permanent companion in his travels, not since he was younger and had journeyed the country with his band in comfort—back then they’d purchased tickets and ridden inside trains, not on top of them.  Instead, he’d teamed up with random strangers and made friends on the road, and they’d traveled together only as far as their mutual paths led them until they reached their destinations and parted ways.  Without a friend at one’s side, the life of a railroad boy could be lonely, even if one did occasionally run into old friends on the road from time to time.  Nick decided he would enjoy traveling the country with Carla.  The two of them seemed to get along well, and they’d already proven that they could make good money playing together.  Who knew how long their partnership would last, but Nick experienced a strange sense of comfort in knowing that for the foreseeable future he had a companion and wouldn’t have to travel the roads alone.

V (Arriving in Belleville)

It was the change in the train’s momentum that roused her first, but Carla dismissed it and tried to return to the dream she’d been having about a very large cherry pie.  She was about to request that it be served a la mode when a hand touched her shoulder and she heard Nick’s voice.  “Hey.  Carl, hey.  Wake up.”  Her eyes opened, and she squinted at the orange rays of the sun setting right in her face.  Before Carla could forget that she wasn’t allowed to speak, Nick pulled her to a standing position and said, “We’re almost in Belleville.  Come on, we’ve gotta get off this train.”

She followed him carefully along the catwalk, noticing that the other “travelers” were preparing to disembark as well.  In the distance, she noticed a large railroad station, which was the reason that their train was decelerating.  When they reached the end of the boxcar, she watched how Nick climbed down its small ladder then copied him, carefully lowering herself onto the narrow hitch between the two cars.  Carla’s heart pounded.  She looked down and saw that although the train was slowing, the individual planks of the train tracks below were still whirring by so quickly that they blurred together.  One wrong step would be enough for the wind to cast her off balance and under the metal giant.

“Don’t worry, you got it,” Nick said and gave her hand a comforting squeeze as she stood beside him.  “When it becomes safe to do so, we’re gonna jump.  It’s not too far; just make sure you jump hard enough to get past the rails and onto the grass, okay?”

Carla nodded and held onto the ladder beside her for balance as the train began to pitch about more violently as it slowed.  Her newly cropped hair was blown about by the wind fiercely whistling past her ears, and she was grateful for its short length.  While they waited for the moment to leap, she tried to think about safe, peaceful things like the cherry pie she’d been dreaming of earlier.  And then Nick’s voice was in her ear.  “Ready?  As soon as you get to your feet, run.  Don’t stop until I tell you to, got that?  One… two… three!”

It seemed to Carla like Nick hit the ground running.  Her legs, however, buckled beneath her and she struggled to her feet.  With his free hand, Nick grabbed her by the elbow.  “Come on, can’t stop!”  Carla heard shouts from behind them, but they ran and ran until her sides ached and her feet felt heavy.  Several times she staggered and nearly tripped, but Nick’s steadying hand was always there to support her.  They kept going until they were well clear of the train yard and had reached the outer limits of the city.  “All—all right, we’re clear,” Nick announced.

“It’s... okay for me... to talk... yeah?” Carla panted, her hands on her knees.  The pack she wore felt like a dead weight when earlier she’d barely noticed the load, and she had a stitch that blazed like hot fire in her side.  “What... was that?  ...Why’d we... run?”

“Bulls,” Nick breathed.  “Hold on... I’ll explain.”  He reached into his bag and pulled out a canister.  After unscrewing the cap and taking a swig of water, Nick passed it to Carla.  He gave her another minute to catch her breath and then said, “Come on… I’ll tell you on the way into town.  I know a place we can stay a while.”

On the way she received her next lesson: “Now by bulls, I don’t mean the animals with horns.  Bulls are what we call certain guys who work at train stations, and they are every bit as mean as their namesake.  Their job is to check the train for stowaways, free-riders like us, and when they catch us it’s not pretty.  A bull is just about the meanest cuss you’ll ever meet in your travels if you have the unfortunate luck of ever running into one.  They’re not afraid to bully you around—excuse the pun—and violence is their favorite weapon.  Bulls don’t just take the train fare you owe; they clean you of every single penny.  So we who travel the rails stay clear of the stations in bigger cities like Belleville, here.  The little dead-end towns, though, with stops that the train doesn’t regularly call at, those are safe.”

Carla listened, absorbing his words like a school lesson, and before long they arrived at a little house with battered shutters and buttercup yellow siding in desperate need of a new coat of paint.  Despite its worn condition, however, even in the fading light Carla could see that the house radiated a certain warmth that made it seem like a nice cozy little place.  She watched bemusedly as Nick stopped, set his hands on his hips, and bellowed loudly, “WHAT?  Nick Carter in town and Mrs. Randal don’t roll out the red carpet?!” He looked back at Carla and winked as the screened front door opened.

A gray little woman in a bright sun dress and apron stepped onto the porch.  "Nickolas Gene, that you?  Why you ain’t been to Belleville in ages!  How come you don’t write me, boy?"  She bustled down the front steps and pulled him into a big grandmotherly hug.  Carla giggled inside to see that by height this Mrs. Randal barely reached Nick’s chest.  “Now I do declare—you just don’t stop growing.  Who’s your friend?”

“This here’s Carl.  He’s mute; still hears everything, but can’t speak a word.  Sorry, Mrs. Randal, I know how much you love having folks to talk with, but at least he can listen.”  On cue Carla smiled apologetically and waved.  “Anyhow,” Nick continued, sobering a bit, “how you faring, ma’am?  I heard Mr. Randal passed on.  I’m real sorry, he was a swell guy.  Has the world been treating you well since then?”

“As well as can be in these hard times,” the woman’s bright smile faded a bit.  “But,” she beamed again, “Mr. Randal always took good care of me before he went to God, bless his dear soul.  Everything is paid off and secure, and he never was too trusting of those banks so we kept most of our money safe at home when the crash came.  Thanks to him, I don’t got the same problems as plenty of other folks—‘cept for old age,” she added, wrinkling her nose.  “If I were ten years younger, this house would be painted and pretty again, I tell you.”

"Well, maybe we can help you out then, ma’am.  The reason we’re visiting is because me and Carl are gonna be trying some gigs in town, but he needs to brush up on the piano still, and I know there’s no one better to ask than you—”

“Aw, shucks.”

“—so I was wondering, are you renting out that spare room of yours right now?  ‘Cause if we could lease some lodgings from you for a time, that would be just super, Mrs. Randal.  And, of course, we’d help around the house wherever you needed it.”

“Nicky, I’ve known you practically forever, boy!  While I gladly accept the help, you don’t expect me in good conscience to charge you or your friend a cent, do you?  Lease a room, how silly!”  She shook a finger at him before he could object.  “The room is yours for not a single penny.  Now, you and Carl just make yourselves at home.  You remember where the spare room is, right?  I’ll go and grab some extra blankets for your friend.  The extra cot is still in the corner.”  Already, she was walking into the house and beckoning for them to follow.

Carla looked around as they headed for their room and found the home as bright as its owner:  Yellow and white doilies brought color to the cozy parlor, and a piano stood glowing off to one side.  Down the hall their bedroom was warm and fresh, even though no one seemed to have lived in it for some time.  Mrs. Randal came in with a spare blanket and pillow.

“When’s the last time you two’ve had a bite to eat?” she asked.  “I’m sorry I don’t have nothing prepared just now, but I can scrounge you boys up a fried egg sandwich or two if you’d like.”

“That’d be greatly appreciated, ma’am,” Nick told her.  “Oh, and I’ll take the cot, Carl.  The bed’s too short for me,” he explained.

Carla nodded and put her bag by the bed.  As she unpacked a few of her things, she listened closely to the others’ conversation, trying to figure out how it was exactly that they knew each other, since the two didn’t appear to be related.

“Are you sure you don’t want anything for housing us, Mrs. Randal?” Nick unfolded the cot and took a seat on it.

“No, dear boy, I could never take anything from you!”

“But I have money this time,” he insisted.

Carla caught the incredibly earnest tone to his voice.  Never heard someone so eager to pay for something before, she mused.

“If you want to pay me back, we’ll do the same as last time, a’right?  You just keep sendin’ me them letters and telegraphs to keep me current on how you are and so’s I can write you back once in a while, too.  That’s all I need—to know that you’re doing fine.  Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ll fix up somethin’ to eat and let you both get settled.”

As soon as Mrs. Randal had shut the door behind her, Carla leaned over and whispered, “Wow.”

“Yeah,” Nick replied, “she’s great, huh?  I feel terrible, though, not being able to give her any money for all she does.  She’s incredibly generous, but I know for a fact that she takes on boarders whenever possible so she can live comfortably.”

“Are you... relations?”  Carla asked curiously.

“No, but she’s one of the closest things I got to family.  You see, one of my band mates grew up here in Belleville.  She was his music teacher, and whenever we were in town, he’d make us all drop by with him to visit her.  None of us complained, of course, ‘cause she makes the best pancakes you can imagine.  Well, when the band split and the boys left me, it was right here in Belleville.  So I came to the Randals—after working off my buddy’s tab at the diner.”

Carla laughed.  “No money?”

“I was absolutely broke.  Before that I’d been getting by because the band covered all my expenses, but when we broke up I got nothing.  Had nowhere to go, no one to turn to, but Mr. and Mrs. R took me in even though they’d only met me a few short times before.”

“You had no family at all?”  Carla was surprised.

“No.  My band was the closest I had to that back then.”

She didn’t know what to say to that.  The only family Nick had... left him?  She felt his pain; Carla knew what it felt like to be unwanted.

“Anyway, at that time Mr. Randal was still alive, and he was the one who first told me about traveling the rails.  I had a great time staying here with them, but I knew I couldn’t just depend on them forever.  So I improved my music skills under Mrs. Randal’s care and hit the road... or the train tracks, whatever.  They gave me a little bit of money to make it on my own and never asked for a thing from me in return.”

Carla felt her eyes watering.  “That—that’s so good of them.  I had no idea when you said your band dumped you that you were all alone in the world.”  She sniffled, “Gosh, I’m sorry for being nosy.  I pretty much just made you tell me your life story, didn’t I?”

Nick gave her a strange look.  “Why are you sorry?  It’s not nosy of you to want to know what’s going on in a situation that affects you.  And why’s that got to make you cry anyway?”

“It’s just that... you had no one to turn to and they took you in.  Then I had nowhere to go and you were nice enough to let me come along...” she was really tearing up now.

“Oh, God,” Nick rose from the cot.  “You’re honestly going to cry, aren’t you?  Don’t cry, I hate it when girls cry!" he whispered in alarm.  She saw him turn away with his hands on his face in what was almost feigned horror.

VI (Piano Lessons in Melancholy)

“Well, I might as well finish telling you the basics of riding the rails,” Nick said the next morning.  “But, geeze, does it take you so long to dress?  How much longer do I have to sit here facing this wall?” he asked testily.

“Yes, it takes me this long,” Carla replied in a low voice from somewhere behind him, “and I waited just as long while you changed.  That took way more time than it had to.”

“Hey, I gotta dress to impress today if I’m gonna go scouting out some gigs for us.  Anyway, hurry up.  I can smell Mrs. R’s trademark pancakes from here, and this yellow wallpaper only stays interesting for so long, you know.”

“Weren’t you going to finish telling me something?” Carla reminded him.

“Oh yeah, right.  Just two more things about hitching for now—tunnels and the Feds.  Aside from bulls, those are the main things you’ve got to watch out for, except that you run into these while you’re actually riding the train, not while you’re pulling into the station.”  She said something that he didn’t catch.  “What was that?” Nick asked.  “Speak up, will you?”

There was a footstep that sounded like Carla had taken a step closer. “If I speak up any louder, Mrs. Randal will hear a mute boy talking.  What I said was—did you just say the Feds?”

“Oh.  Yeah, that’s what I said," he nodded.  "President Hoover’s got his men checking out trains for stowaways, or at least that’s what they say.  But don’t worry, I’ve personally never seen one and I’m a seasoned rider.  Hard to imagine a bunch of suits running along the catwalk chasing down hobos, isn’t it?” he laughed.  “And besides, they probably don’t have the guts to climb up on top of a train anyway.  So the Fed’s are something that it helps to know about, but you’ll probably never have to deal with on of them.  Tunnels on the other hand, those are dangerous.  Picture this, you’re riding the train and then everything goes pitch black.  Suddenly, you can’t breath.”

“Why not?”

“Because in a tunnel, the smoke from the engine’s got nowhere to go but backwards—right at you.  You come out on the other side black as night, all covered in soot; it’s a nightmare getting it all off.  Short tunnels are no trouble, but the long ones—don’t even think about risking it, you’ll suffocate to death.  Some guys try to brave it out by climbing down from the catwalk and riding it out in a boxcar, but they’re still breathing in a lungful of coal dust and come out coughing and gagging on the other side.  In those situations, I say play it safe and get off the damn train if possible.  Hey, are you done yet?!”

“Yes, I’ve been done.”

Nick turned around, “Well why didn’t you tell me sooner?  Pancakes, here I co—” He stared at Carla.  "You got your suspenders on wrong again.”

“I do?” she looked at them, trying to figure out what the problem was.

“Yeah.”

“Again?”

“Yes, again,” he nodded.

“You mean, you couldn’t tell me yesterday?”

“I thought it was funny.  Come here...  I’ll fix ‘em for you.”  Nick waved her over to where he was sitting on the cot.  “Now, you’ve got them on in the right direction, if that makes any sense.  ‘Cause the part where they cross does go in the back, and the part where the straps are separate does go in the front, but,” he undid her suspenders and flipped them over, “the part of the clasp that opens and shuts goes outside the pants, and the flat part of the clasp goes in your pants against your body so it doesn’t poke at you.  Plus, it makes them easier to put on and take off.  No wonder you took so long getting ready.”  Once Nick finished adjusting Carla’s suspenders, he gave her the once over and pronounced her good to go.  “All set?”  She nodded and picked up something off the desk.  “What’s that?” Nick asked.

“Pen and notepad.  I figured that I can at least communicate with Mrs. Randal in some way if not verbally.”  Carla turned to head for the door.  Rather than getting up from the cot to follow, Nick grabbed her by the arm to stop her.

“Hold on.  Turn around again.  Something’s not right.”

Carla scrawled something on the notepad and held it in his face.  It said, “I’m waiting...”

“Just give me a moment, will you?”  Nick stared at her a minute longer and then realization dawned on him.  He pointed at her chest.  “I know what it is.  You’re flat, and yesterday you were, too.  That’s why you pass so well for a boy.  ...But what happened to your girl bits?—if you don’t mind me asking.  ‘Cause I know you had ‘em before; I mean, they were kind of hard to miss.  Where’d they go?”  He made a face as the possible reasons for her missing bust crossed his mind.  “Or maybe I don’t want to know...”

“Well I really ‘don’t want to know’ where your head is right now,” Carla told him.  “But if you must know, my chest is bound incredibly tightly like a sprained ankle.  It’s all wrapped up in a cloth bandage, except on a much larger scale.”  Nick tried to picture it for a moment as she continued.  “Now, if you’ll excuse me, my notepad and I have some pancakes to attend to.”

...

As Carla finished warming up at the piano, Mrs. Randal walked in the front door with a stack of mail, which she set on the coffee table, and then took a seat beside Carla on the piano bench.  “Well,” the woman began, “Since Nick’s out to town, he asked me to start in on your lesson.  I s’pose, though, that today’ll be more of a memory jogger than a real lesson ‘cause he says you’ve had lessons before and just need some refreshin’, that right?”  Carla nodded, and Mrs. Randal reached into a nearby desk drawer and pulled out a sheaf of music, handing it to her.  “Well, here is some o’ my older sheet music.  Recognize any of it?”

Carla shuffled through the songs, separating the ones she knew.  Mrs. Randal nodded approvingly, “Good taste, Carl, excellent taste!  So, let’s get started then, shall we?”  The woman opened a piece and set it on the piano’s music stand.  “Be a good boy, and play this one for me.  It was always one of my favorites.”  Mrs. Randal counted out the time, and then Carla began the opening bars of the song.

Music filled the parlor and she felt the sound swell beneath her hands.  The last time I played this song, Carla smiled sadly, my father was still alive…  And I could barely reach the floor pedals!  The humorous afterthought dispelled her melancholy and she played her heart out, observing the dynamics and continuing through the mistakes.  All the while, Mrs. Randal sat beside her, beaming and turning the sheet music’s pages.

As the day wore on, Carla played through many old pieces, and her skill was assessed by the old woman, who decided what would need to be taught over the course of their time together.  They’d just finished going through a handful of contemporary songs that Carla had never played before when Mrs. Randal declared, “A right modest one you are!  Nick said you only play ‘a bit,’ when it looks to me like you’re a well-schooled musician.  And you got a good natural talent in ya  to go with all that excellent instructin’ you got.  Now, now... boys needn’t blush.  We’ll leave that to the bashful brides, haha!  But I’ll just get one more word in before I quit embarrassing you, Carl.”

Mrs. Randal took Carla’s hands, turning over first one then the other.  “You have very nice hands, lad.  Refined, slender, like an artisan’s if you don’t mind me sayin’.  Even nicer than plenty o’ delicate young ladies’ hands,” the woman complimented with a wink.  “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll whip up something for us to drink.  You just play whatever it is so pleases you and then your lesson’ll be done for today.  And don’t get careless, y’hear?  ‘Cause I’ll be listening from the kitchen!"

With that, Mrs. Randal bustled off, leaving Carla to herself.  Making music had put the girl in a thoughtful, reminiscent mood and without the chatty old woman there to divert her, Carla’s mind began to wander.  It was so wonderful to play the piano again.  Before performing with Nick, opportunities to play had been few and far between, but now she would get to play all the time.  The thought of it delighted her.  

For a while when growing up, it had seemed like she’d never be able to play music regularly again: after Carla’s father had passed away, her lessons had been discontinued and their family piano sold.  Occasionally, Carla would go to one of her cousins’ houses to play, but none of them lived particularly close by—not to mention that there’d been enough family gossip after her father’s “accident” that relations with the rest of the Miner family had grown rather strained and awkward.  As the economy got rougher, those relatives had moved away one-by-one and virtually cut off all contact with her family.  Carla hadn’t minded the snub so much at the time because she had her mother and a new step-father and a handful of siblings in her life, and that had been all the family she needed—besides her father, of course, whom she missed terribly.

But, you know, now they’re all gone too, said the queer little voice of melancholy inside her head, and you’re completely alone.  Once again, Carla was seized by a wave of sadness, this time even more intense as Mrs. Randal was not there to distract her from it.  It was true: her family didn’t want her anymore; there was no one in her life besides a couple of strangers.  Though just a moment ago the world had seemed like an exciting new adventure, all of a sudden it had become an incredibly lonely place.  What was she doing in this unfamiliar city trusting people she barely knew?  Dismayed by her train of thought, Carla’s hands dropped away from the piano and she stared at it forlornly.

At the abrupt silence, Mrs. Randal’s voice piped up from the kitchen.  “Why don’t I hear you playing, Carl?  You’ll not get any lemonade if you shirk on your lesson!” the old woman teased.

Her playful banter brought a tiny smile to Carla’s face.  You’re not alone, the girl firmly reminded herself.  You have Nick, who’s definitely not a stranger; he’s your friend!  And now you have Mrs. Randal, who’s going to help you play piano better and then you and Nick are going to go all over the country and play music for all sorts of people and never be alone.  Comforted by the idea, Carla’s foul mood was banished and she wondered what to play next.  She thought back to her old family piano, which had set her off on her negative tangent in the first place, and tried to recall the last song she’d ever played on it.  How did it go?  That one Daddy liked to hear...  She remembered it somewhere in the back of her mind.  That song, one the aspiring young pianist Carla had been trying to compose herself, was incomplete still but now it worked around in her brain, pushing itself to the surface.

Carla reached out and tested a chord.  Yes, that sounds right.  And she played.  She wasn’t sure how much later it was when she looked up to see Nick standing in the doorframe of the kitchen with a glass of lemonade.

...

Nick was looking at Carla intently—more intently than he ever had before—but when she stopped playing and looked up at him, his expression shifted and he was the same friendly Nick again.  “That was good,” was all he said.

Nick saw a question cross her face and, before Carla could reach for her notepad, he guessed what it was, answering, “Yeah, I found us some possible gigs.  You on that piano and me on my guitar, we’ll knock ‘em out, kid.  There’s enough small shows to keep us busy for almost a month—if Mrs. Randal won’t mind us staying that long, that is.”  He glanced over his shoulder into the kitchen.  “If you refuse to let me pay you, you old bird,” Nick teased affectionately, “at least let me give the outside of your house a new coat of paint or something.”

Once Carla had closed the piano and joined them in the kitchen, Nick went over his plan for the next few weeks.  “Carl, Mrs. Randal is going to brush you up on your techniques and such, and then we’ll start jamming together.  She’s a real master with musical improvisation.” They heard the woman make a humble sound of denial as she cooked away at the stove behind them.  “Oh, don’t deny it, Mrs. R.  After all, you’re the one who taught me all about making a song my own.”

Nick turned back to Carla and continued, “You’ve already proved that you can play, so it shouldn’t be long before she’s got you banging out the latest numbers and showed you the best way to learn new songs by ear.  That way, you can pick up hits on the road even without the sheet music.  There’s gonna be a string of venues we can play right through March, and by April we’ll have earned enough to hit the road.”  He rubbed his hands together in anticipation.  The two of them playing together, someday they would bring crowds to their knees.

Later that night as they were getting ready for bed after dinner, Nick sat on his cot, puzzling thoughtfully.  “Something the matter?” he heard Carla whisper.

He reached for his pajamas.  “Yeah, I was just wondering, what’s that song you were playing earlier?  The one when I walked into the room?  I’ve been trying to figure out if I ever heard it before, but I don’t think so.  You make that up yourself?”

“Oh, that.  I guess so.  It’s just something that’s been floating around in my head for forever, I guess.”  She went quiet for a moment and then added hesitantly, “I think I wrote it right before my father died.”

Over the next few weeks, while they practiced, performed, earned money—even while they painted Mrs. Randal’s house—it still lingered in Nick’s memory, that song and the way Carla had looked when she played it.  Like she was baring a bit of her soul.

VII (April Showers, Girls and Sours)

“Hey, mister!” Carla called from the alleyway as the man stepped out the side door of the shop.

The aproned clerk looked up from his broom.  “Whatcha want, kiddo?”

Carla stepped forward, clutching her cap in her hands, and turned big, earnest eyes on him.  “Please, mister, ain’t there anythin’ I can help out with?” If she lowered the pitch of her voice just slightly, Carla knew that she sounded like a boy whose voice had not yet broken.  “Anythin’ at all?  I got no money, but we’re needin’ groceries real bad at home.  I’m a top-notch assistant and willin’ t’work hard.  Please, mister?”

“Well...” the clerk looked down at his broom and then handed it to Carl.  “Here take this, I guess.  There’s not much you can do round here, but sweep up real good, kid, and I’ll find something for you to do, boxes to break down and the like.  What do you folks need at home?”

“Really?  Gee, thanks, mister!  Ma says she been achin’ for some coffee and were runnin’ low on toothpaste and...”

A few hours later, Carla left the grocery store, carrying a paper bag of supplies as she walked to the Apollo City Hotel, where she and Nick were staying.  The sky had darkened while she’d been working, and it looked like they were in for a spell of rain.  She quickened her step, not wanting to be caught outside without an umbrella.  Carla’s thoughts were distracted with Belleville and Mrs. Randal, both of which she missed nearly as much as she did her siblings back home.  Nick had warned her when they started traveling together that they couldn’t ever stay in one place for long, that they must always be on the lookout for the next opportunity.  This was the life of the drifter, after all, and Carla knew that he was right.  They had to keep moving.  Besides, it would have been an abuse of the old woman’s kindness to stay any longer.  But at least they’d repaid Mrs. Randal somewhat before parting—not only by painting her house and doing general yard work, but also by stuffing some of their music earnings into the well-hidden coffee can that the woman used for her savings.

Since Belleville, the two had passed through several cities and over into the next state entirely, working the various gigs for whatever pay was to be had.  Word was getting around about the young duo—the playful guitarist with the face of an angel but a devil’s grin, who could make up a song off the top of his head, and the silent pianist boy whose lively playing could set any piano on fire.

About a block away from the hotel Carla’s musing was disrupted by a large, fat raindrop, which plunked down wetly on her shoulder, followed by another and another.  She looked up at the sky just as the rain came pouring down and broke into a mad dash home, hoping to save her bag of groceries.  The last thing she needed was to have all the little packages of food provisions she’d worked so hard for get soaked.  Once she was safely sheltered in the lobby, Carla stamped her feet on the entry mat and checked that all of the food was fine.  A packet of soda crackers had gotten a bit smashed but otherwise her things were all right.

When Carla got to the front desk, the elderly clerk greeted her with, “Quite a shower out there, eh?”  Carla only responded with a thin smile and the clerk realized, “Oh, you’re the mute lad, ain’t ya?  Well, as I was sayin’, it’s pouring like from a big bucket out there.  Looks like you got indoors just in time, eh?  At least April showers bring May flowers ‘cause we sure do need some flowers around here.  If Treno this ain’t the grayest most somber city I ever been in, then I don’t know where is.  Some call Chicago pretty gray but them folks ain’t never been to...”  Carla stood there awkwardly as the old man rattled on, when finally he said, “Here now, you and that other fellow are in room 308, right?  Got some mail for you.”

He handed over a slim enveloped addressed to “C. Miner” in handwriting that Carla recognized as her mother’s.  She wanted to hurry off and read the letter, but the elderly man stopped her.  Afraid that he wanted to keep chatting, Carla hung back hesitantly.  But all the clerk said was “Buy a newspaper, lad?  Only two cents, and it’s got the latest story about the Lindbergh kidnapping, sad story that one.  They call it ‘The Crime of the Century,’ you know.”  Carla fished two pennies out of her pocket and handed them over before the clerk could started chatting again, grabbed the newspaper, and headed for the elevator.

Juggling the paper and bag of groceries, she tore open the letter from her mother excitedly and began to read in the elevator on her way up to the third-floor room she and Nick currently inhabited.  There was no mention in the message of whether her step-father Paul had found a job yet, but there were plenty of details on the latest hijinks of her little brothers and sisters.  Carla read the letter twice and then clutched it to her breast, smiling gently. How she cherished this link to her home!

The idea of writing her mother she’d gotten from Nick and Mrs. Randal, of course.  If they could keep in touch with letters and telegrams, then why not Carla and her family?  She had sent the first telegram, uncertain of whether or not there’d be a reply, but wiring along a bit of her income for the support of her younger siblings had helped to make her mother a gracious correspondent.  Money talked, and in these days it went a long way.

“Hey, open up,” Carla called when she reached her and Nick’s hotel door.  She had to stuff her letter into the grocery bag to free a hand for knocking.  “Nick, you in there?”

No answer.  Carla set down the paper bag, searched through her pockets for the room key, and let herself in.  There was a note waiting on the double bed.

Carl.  Went out to mingle a bit.  Worked some more on a song.  Check it out, will ya?  Don’t wait up for me.  – Nick.

“Figures,” she muttered, balling up the paper and tossing it in the trash.  She couldn’t exactly blame Nick for not inviting her along.  After all, it was hard to make small talk with the natives as a mute.  The problem was that he’d called her Carl again, which irked Carla in a way that she didn’t know quite how to explain to him—so he kept on doing it, oblivious.  Nick still didn’t trust Carla not to reveal the fact that she was actually a girl, except when she went out to do odd jobs at grocery stores and the like, so they’d kept up the pretense that she couldn’t speak.  Sure, Carla could understand that it was necessary for their cover, but Nick had gotten so into the habit that he called her Carl even when she was in “girl mode,” as he dubbed it.

“Girl mode” was when Carla, tired of dressing as a dusty, dirty boy all the time put on one of the two dresses she hadn’t pawned off, which she kept tucked away in the bottom of her knapsack along with a pair of pantyhose and a few modest hair barrettes.  She had also kept a pair of pink satin harem slippers, prettily decorated with rhinestones and bits of lace, which Nick teased her about endlessly.  “You should’ve sold them, you can’t wear those!” he’d laughed.  “They would be worn clean through after just one day out on the road.”  But Carla kept them anyway for a touch of femininity when Nick drove her up the wall calling her Carl, Carl, Carl and as a reminder of the days when she’d had a father who loved her and would buy her pretty things.

After putting her letter aside to be answered later, the paper on the desk to be read, and the supplies from the grocery store away in their places, Carla reached for Nick’s guitar on the side of the bed.  There was a sheet of paper there beside it, and it contained some lyrics and chords for one of Nick’s new songs.  Carla had heard him playing it earlier and hummed the melody, trying to pick out a few lines on the guitar.  She was learning to play slowly.  Before they’d left Belleville Mrs. Randal had started to teach her, and since then Nick had taken over the lessons.

“It’s got a catchy tune,” Carla admitted after strumming through a few chords.  She continued humming it as she returned the guitar to its place then went about the bare hotel room, tidying up their home.  It wasn’t late yet, but Carla wondered whether Nick would indeed be out so late that she needn’t wait for him, as he’d written.  She hoped that he had an umbrella because the rain was indeed a true April shower that would soak him to the bone.

Eventually Carla decided to eat a light cold supper and browse the paper.  The Lindbergh kidnapping, which received a full cover-page spread, was the heartbreaking story of American hero Aviator Charles Lindbergh, the very one who’d flown all the way from New York to Paris, whose infant son had been kidnapped from his New Jersey home.  The baby was still missing and the reward for returning little Charles Jr. home to his family had reached a dizzying $75,000!  Carla could not even begin to imagine such a huge sum of money, but if anything like that were to happen to one of her little brothers or sisters, she knew that she would pay any amount to get them back.

After dinner Carla did laundry, washing her clothes in the bathtub, before settling down at the desk to reply to the note from her mother.

Dear Mom,

Got your last letter and I’m glad to hear that things are great at home, or at least as great as they can be anyway...

She stopped there, wondering what to write about.  She couldn’t talk about Nick because her mother had no clue about Carla’s current lifestyle and traveling companion, and she couldn’t ask about Paul, though she really wanted to, because her mother’s reply would be cold and reserved.  She sighed.  As usual, they would stick to safe topics like the weather and her siblings.  Before Carla could touch her pen to the paper again, however, there came the sound of a key turning in the lock.  She heard a young woman’s giggle.

“Oh, you’re so funny!” cried the first person to walk into the room, a female about Carla’s age.  The lady was dressed for a night out, wearing flashy high heels with metallic stitching and white gloves up to her elbows.  She was trying to dash drops of water from her fashionable Hollywood-style wave of loose curls, and the beaded capelet about her shoulders was lightly rain-soaked.  “I don’t know how we ever—” she stopped abruptly, seeing Carla at the writing desk.  “Oh.  Who’s this?”

“That’s my buddy Carl, the mute one I mentioned to you earlier,” Nick entered the room behind her.  “That means he can’t talk so don’t try getting a response outta him, honey.  Carl, this is Patricia.  I met her down at the café.”

“Stole me away from my friends is what he did.  We were having just a grand old time when this charming fellow strolled in and charmed me off my feet.  The girls were terribly sad that I had to go.  Anyhow, it’s a pleasure to meet you, Carl-darling.”  Patricia held out her gloved hand daintily for Carla to shake.  “Nicky here’s been a real sweetheart, said he would show me some of his music.”

“Yup, so don’t mind us, Carl.  We’ll try not to bother you.”

“Oh, but first,” Patricia fished around in her little purse and pulled out a few wrapped candies, “would you fancy a sour?”

“Carl’s seventeen, not ten year’s old,” Nick reminded her, but Patricia insisted.  Carla stuck out her hand awkwardly and accepted the candies, which the young woman dropped into her palm.  Nodding her thanks, Carla turned back to her letter except now she couldn’t concentrate.  Patricia was one of those pretty types that Nick always seemed to run into, no matter where they went.  Her face was powdered, her lips rouged, and she wore dangly earrings that swayed when she tittered at Nick’s jokes.  Carla could hear them behind her, sitting on the bed and chatting amiably.  

“Well, my little brothers always enjoy when I give them sours; I don’t see why Carl wouldn’t, as well.  All boys like sours.  Besides,” Patricia’s voice dropped to a whisper, “your friend’s kinda a runt; he doesn’t even have any facial hair.  Are you sure he’s seventeen?”

Nick laughed and hastily began strumming his guitar, asking the young lady to pick a song in order to change the subject.  He substituted words as he sang, changing some of the lines to include Patricia’s name.  This made her giggle, and even though Carla tried to block them from her concentration, after a few songs she heard a thump as the guitar was put off to the side.  She gripped her pen tightly at the hushed murmurs behind her, and after that the two fell silent, their words replaced with the smacking sound of lips joined together.

Get a grip and just ignore them, Carla told herself, unwrapping a sour candy and jamming it into her mouth.  The tartness made her lips pucker and her eyes water, yet it only distracted her for a moment before her attention was drawn back to the situation behind her.  She tried closing her eyes to faze Nick and Patricia out, but a vision of them going at each other beat incessantly into Carla’s mind.  Their kissing intensified; she could hear them heavily breathing, the ruffle of hands moving along clothes, the moans as bodies pressed up against each other.  She shut her eyes more tightly, but the image only became extra vivid in her imagination.

Carla stood up suddenly, unable to bear it, and left the room taking care not to slam the door as she would have liked.  She took her stationary and pen with her, sighing to herself over the two who barely registered her presence—much less her departure.  Argh! It’s like I don’t even exist! Carla fumed in the hallway, chomping down angrily on the sour in her mouth.  It broke with a satisfying crack.

“Maybe in Nick’s eyes I don’t,” she said, irritated, “not as a girl, anyway.”  Carla sat down with her back to the hotel door, knees propped up to balance the writing pad with the letter to her mother.  Why am I so upset?  It’s not like he’s ever mean to me... I just dislike being treated like a throw rug is all.

“‘We’ll try not to bother you,’” she repeated, bowing her head to the paper at her knees.  The letter sat there, unfinished; Carla couldn’t bring herself to finish it.  Her mind was occupied with the goings-on inside the hotel room.  She couldn’t hear a thing through the door but wondered whether she’d have to reconsider sleeping in that bed tonight.  If she tried to write a letter now, it would probably come out like:  “Dear Mom, I travel around the country with a guy who treats me like a boy and calls me ‘Carl,’ and now he’s frenching in our hotel room with some beautiful girl he just met and it’s awful.  P.S. I chopped off all my hair for money.”

Without warning the door was pulled open, and Carla fell backwards before she could stop herself.  Looking up, she saw a pair of bare feet as Patricia stalked out of the room and stopped in the hallway to sneer at her.  “That friend of yours is a real cad,” the young woman declared.  “I don’t know how you can stand him.”

Carla wrote a large question mark on her notepad and held it up to the girl.  “Humph!” was all she got in reply.  With her nose in the air, Patricia marched down the hallway, struggling to pull on her pumps and walk away at the same time.

“Ca—rl!” From inside the room, Nick’s anguished cry somehow managed to make the name sound like two syllables.

“What happened?” Carla walked in and set her letter on the desk.  She saw that the bed sheets were slightly rumpled and Nick stood in the doorway to the bathroom with his shirt unbuttoned and his hair messy.

He brandished a pair of nylons at her and shook them in her face.  “Your laundry.  Patricia went into the bathroom to freshen up and saw the clothes drying.  You left your girl things out, Carl.  Pantyhose.  Pantyhose!!! She thought that another girl had already been in here with me!"

Carla burst out laughing but somehow her companion failed to see the humor in the situation.

VIII: (A Rising Star)

May was the month that Carla first got flowers.

Shocked, she looked down at the bouquet being presented to her, up into the warm smiling face of the young man, and back again at the flowers.  They were an elegant arrangement of peach roses and ivory carnations, tied neatly with a silk ribbon, and the gentleman in question was quite possibly the biggest heartthrob she had ever met.  “Brian…” Carla breathed, “I don’t know what to say.”

It had all started after the pantyhose incident, when Carla decided that she was through hanging around the hotel room like a lonely puppy waiting for Nick to come home every night.  Just because she was a small town girl didn’t mean that she did not know how to go out and have a good time in the big city.  And, boy, were the two of them in a big city—they had just arrived in Chicago, the Windy City, and were rooming in an apartment hotel right next to the Uptown district, which was well known for its night life pleasures.  They were surrounded by tall terra cotta office buildings, movie palaces, amusement centers and restaurants, college boys and boys who didn’t go to college, and a seemingly never-ending stream of young ladies in gay hats.  Here in Uptown, the squalor and Depression back home seemed like a lifetime away to Carla.  She decided that if Nick could spend his nights out painting the town red, then she was going to enjoy herself as well, and that meant shedding her male guise and going out to interact with human beings other than her stage partner.

Although Carla had originally donned male clothing for its ease of wear while traveling and to help her get odd jobs that were unavailable to girls, it seemed silly to keep up the ruse that she was a mute boy when she and Nick weren’t out on the rails.  Unless they were on stage, there was no need to pretend to be a boy here in Chicago, and with all the money they were making together Carla was considering giving up her side job as an errand boy, as well.

And that’s exactly what she said to Nick as she announced her intentions to cast aside her trousers and suspenders for the time being: “I want to wear skirts and floral prints again, Nick!  And pretty shoes, even if they are impractical and bound to fall apart after one good trek in the woods.  I mean, it’s not like I can’t afford it; you and I have been doing well lately.  With all the shows we’ve been playing, not only can we afford to stay in a nice room like this one, but I can afford to send money back home to my family and splurge on myself for a change.”

“So I’m sorry to tell you this, but you’re just going to have to find some place else to romance your dates, Nick—because I’m not going to pretend to be a boy any longer.  From here on out, it’s pretty much all ‘girl mode’ all the time,” she warned.  “Well, except whenever we check into a new hotel because I don’t want to look like a floozy,” she added hastily.  “Or when we play gigs, of course.”

“That’s good, ‘cause I’m sure folks would be a bit confused if the mute piano boy they came to hear play was suddenly a girl,” Nick commented dryly.  He sighed, “Well, I knew it was gonna come to this sooner or later, living with a girl.  Would almost say it wasn’t worth the hassle, putting up with a female roommate, but playing with you has been landing me bigger gigs than ever and I’m pretty loathe to go back to my old life of bouncing around one-star motels—” he broke off with a grin and clapped Carla on the arm.  “Hey, for Chrissake I’m just kidding!”

“So you don’t mind?”

“Nah, it’s fine.  Besides, wasn’t chopping off your hair and pretending to be a fellow your idea in the first place?  I don’t care if you wanna go back to being a girl as long as we’re not on the road.  Do what you like!” he laughed.  “Anyway,” Nick turned away to grab his coat, “was that all you wanted to tell me?”

“Uh…” Carla hesitated for a moment, “Yeah!  Yeah, I guess that’s all.  Have fun on your date tonight.”  As soon as Nick was out of the room, she sat down on the bed and let out a deep breath.  “Phew…”

There had been something else, of course, but Carla wasn’t quite sure how to bring it up.  After all, she wasn’t even sure yet whether it would come to anything, so there was no point in telling Nick until she knew for certain:  The other half of her plan to become independent and stop moping around while Nick went out every night, was to go out and perform as a soloist.  Carla wanted to show the world that she wasn’t just Nick Carter’s sidekick but a force all her own to be reckoned with.

“I suppose that I can tell him later, if it turns into a big thing,” Carla decided as she pulled out her newly purchased girl clothes and got dressed.  She rolled on a pair of nylons, adjusted a navy blue hat over her short dark hair, and dabbed on a bit of rouge before heading out and hailing a taxi.  That night she was scheduled to make her solo debut at an amateur showcase—not as Nick Carter’s mute sidekick Carl, but as Carla Carter, a new arrival to the Chicago music scene.  She had decided to combine her and Nick’s names when signing up for the showcase not only because it sounded catchier but also because, however improbable the possibility, Carla still worried that news might eventually get back to her family.  Performing in nightclubs and lounges was not quite proper for a young lady, after all, so many female performers went by a stage name.

As she arrived at the theatre where the showcase was being held, Carla began to feel terribly nervous.  Backstage was abustle with singers and dancers, and it was strange not to have Nick there guiding her through the sea of people.  It would be Carla’s first time playing professionally without him by her side.  She felt the absence of his comforting presence, and everywhere she looked, Carla expected to see Nick standing there with that encouraging grin of his.

All of a sudden, she began to wonder what had compelled her to try performing solo.  After all, she and Nick were a team and had been doing really well professionally, so why did she need to try and do this on her own?  There were plenty of other outlets by which Carla could express her femininity.   Her whole body went cold when finally she heard her name called, and she stepped out on stage to polite applause, trying not to tremble.  /Get a grip, Carla!  You’ve done this plenty of times before,/ she told herself and sat down at the piano.  /Just because he isn’t here, you can’t become a nervous wreck and fall to bits!/   Perhaps that was why Carla needed to perform solo: perhaps she needed to prove to herself that she could do something without Nick.  She was grateful for all of his help over the past couple of months, but she wanted to show that she had grown enough to stand on her own.

With the lights shining brightly down on her Carla couldn’t quite tell how many faces were out in the dark audience.  But she could smell the mingled aromas of perfume and cigar smoke, and she could hear the faintest of sounds like ice cubes jostling as someone set down a tumbler.  Placing her hands on the keys of the piano, Carla felt that familiar warmth and confidence begin to spread through her and smiled.  She opened with a roaring upbeat song that made the audience clap along.  “You’re on my mind, you’re in my heart… It doesn’t matter where we are.  We’ll be all right, even if we’re miles apart…”

Carla sang three songs that night and ended her set to enthusiastic applause.  The response from the crowd was so positive that she felt encouraged to come back and try performing solo some more.  She returned to play at the amateur showcase several times, and before long Carla was being approached by several proprietors of local nightclubs out scouting for new talent, who handed her their business cards and asked her to come perform at their venues.  And that was how “Carla Carter” made her debut as a gifted new artist on the Chicago music scene.

Over the dizzying next couple of weeks, several notable things happened: The Lindbergh baby was found dead, causing Carla to cry for three days straight; Amelia Earhart became the first woman to fly solo across the Atlantic Ocean, winning several distinguished medals and awards; and Carla Carter was quickly turning into one of the most talked about new artists in Chicago, so that every small-scale venue in the city had to have her.  It seemed to Carla that one day nobody had known her and the next everybody did, and now she was receiving more offers than she knew what to do with.  Of course, Carla was nowhere near as popular as the duo “Nick and Carl,” who were very much in demand for larger gigs, but still, for an unknown musician who had just barely hit the scene, Carla’s music was garnering quite a bit of attention.

Unfortunately, the change had come about so suddenly that she hadn’t found a way to break the news to Nick before she was so popular that she was ashamed to admit that she had been keeping it from him.  Also, Carla was unsure of how he would feel that she had been playing without him, not to mention using his name to do it, so in the meantime she tried to keep Nick from finding out by limiting her performances to smaller gigs.  These locations were too minor for the better established duo Nick and Carl to play at, and the longer she kept Nick Carter and Carla Carter from crossing paths, the better.

But Carla wasn’t sure how much longer she could keep the whole thing under wraps.  After all, she was already beginning to receive offers from more well-known locations, and she wondered what she would do if asked to perform at the same venue as both Carl Miner and Carla Carter.  Or what if a fan of “Nick and Carl” were to go to a Carla Carter show and recognize her face or name and connect the dots?  Carla realized in hindsight that she shouldn’t have made her stage name so obvious, yet she hadn’t imagined at the time that she would reach this level of popularity so soon.

 “So deep in thought!” Nick interrupted with a clap on her shoulder as she sat chewing a pencil to bits, puzzling over what to do about her current predicament.  “Please tell me you’re gonna get away from that desk and go out and have some fun tonight, Carl?”

“S’pose I might,” Carla said with a shrug.  Actually, she was scheduled to play at a club that evening but was trying to figure out a good way to break the news about ‘Carla Carter’ to Nick before the show.  “Maybe I’ll go check out a movie, heard there’s a new horror film playing.  What about you, got a date lined up or is it lady hunting for you tonight?”  Since they primarily held rehearsal in the day, Nick spent most of his nights out with a beautiful girl on his arm unless they had a performance lined up—and even then there was usually some dainty miss in the audience smiling prettily and batting her eyelashes at him.

“Actually,” Nick laughed, “I’m on a hunt of a different kind tonight.”

“Oh?” she turned to him and raised an eyebrow.

“Well, I was talking to a buddy of mine, and you’ll never guess who he tells me is going to be playing here in Chicago on an unannounced stop of his tour this weekend…” he paused, letting the suspense build.

“Come on, tell me!”

Nick struck a pose, like a dashing crooner holding a microphone close to his mouth, and said, “Brian Littrell.”

Carla’s pencil dropped.  “What!  Really, Brian Littrell?  The same Brian Litrell who’s topped the charts with his beautiful crooning for three years straight, whose dashing looks and angelic voice have lifted the sad hearts of girls across the nation from their Depression woes with his promises of love?”  She clutched her hands to her breast with a faraway, dreamy look in her eyes.

“I see you’re familiar with him then,” Nick observed wryly.

“Am I ever!  Did you know they say that his natural approach and comforting melodies have him on track to become the most popular vocalist of the decade?!” she exclaimed then stopped.  “But what do you mean by hunting?”

“Well, apparently that unannounced stop he’s playing this weekend is going to be held in a secret venue, you know—one of those real intimate shows where he can connect with the fans—but even though it’s a big secret, tickets have long been sold out.  So my buddy and I are gonna hit up the town, work our connections, and see if we can’t hunt down a couple of tickets to the show after all.  Would you like a ticket, too, if I can get an extra one?”

“Oh boy, would I!  Sure!”

“All right, then I’ll try to snag one for you, too.  Try not to get your hopes up, but I’m feeling pretty confident about this one,” Nick said with a wink as he shrugged into a coat.  “All right, I’m off.  Oh, and try not to stay out too late tonight, Carl—I do want you to go out and have fun, but try to get enough sleep ‘cause you’ve been looking a bit drawn at rehearsals lately.  It takes a real man like myself to live such a depraved late-night lifestyle, you know,” he said with a wink.

As soon as the door had shut behind him, Carla leapt up from her seat to get dressed for her performance.  Glancing in the mirror, she realized that Nick was right—she did look a bit tired and worn.  Carla decided that she should cut back on shows, especially now that she was receiving offers to play at better-paying venues.  Tonight, for instance, would be the highest-paying gig she had ever accepted, a supper club over in the busy Loop district, where she would play for the audience while they wined and dined before the band came in for the after-supper dancing.  Fortunately, she could perform there without worrying about Nick finding out: Carla knew that her partner would stay far away from this particular dance hall, as he had once been thrown out by the owner for romancing the man’s daughter.  

For the performance, Carla wore a stylish new dress in swathes of chiffon.  It was girly and excessive and just barely within her budget, and she loved it.  She felt glamorous, like a starlet in the movies.  In a dress like this, Carla could hardly remember her days of living in a crowded house overrun with siblings and being a normal girl who went to school in nice but ordinary clothes.  Viewing the elegant clubhouse surroundings as she played, from the crystal chandeliers above to the grand piano at her fingers, Carla was struck by the difference between her shabby former life and where she was now.  For just a second her smile faded and Carla’s voice faltered.  Compared to her old life she really was living on top of the world, but her family was still back there in that small town just trying to scrape by.  Sure, Carla helped them out with the money she wired back home, but was she doing enough for them?

Forcing a smile, she cleared her throat and put all her attention back into the show.  It would do no good to blow it in one of the nicest supper clubs around; she had to make a good impression if she wanted to keep her reputation as the best new musicians in Chicago.  After her set, the owner Mr. Raymond Bradbury, a well-groomed gentleman in his forties with dark pomade-styled hair, introduced the band and then escorted her over to the VIP room as the dancing began.

He offered his arm which she took and quickly began to extol on her virtues.  “Miss Carter, what a pleasure it was to have you play in my club tonight.  You know, they’re starting to say that anyone who’s anyone must have at their club the delightful gem Carla Carter, that mysterious new musician who’s quickly risen from the obscure piano bar scene.  I’m happy to be the first supper club on the Loop to be able to brag about having you here.”  

“Well, it was my pleasure to play for you, Mr. Bradbury.  Such an elegant club you have!” she gave him a warm smile, hoping this meant he would make her an offer to come play again.

“Why thank you.  And now, while I would so love to keep your talents all to myself, a guest who was dining here tonight was quite taken with your performance and requested a private audience.  Please say that you will humor the gentleman for a little while?”

Carla hesitated.  The request was completely unexpected, and she worried that “humoring a private audience” was a euphemism for a less than innocent meeting.  Mr. Bradbury seemed to detect her reluctance and gave her an encouraging smile.  “No need to worry, Miss Carter.  I can assure you that the gentleman in question is a man of the highest honor.  One of the waitstaff shall be here at the door should you have need of anything.”

“Well, it’s getting rather late, but I suppose a very brief meeting shouldn’t hurt.”  Carla smiled bravely.  She entered the VIP room, a stylishly furnished room overlooking the dance floor, and found a handsome well-dressed young man sitting at a table waiting for her.  She recognized him immediately.  “Oh my.”

The man rose from his seat and crossed the room to meet her, extending his hand.  “Miss Carter, it’s a pleasure to meet you.  Brian  Littrell.” 

IX: (Not-So-Secret Identity)

"I don't drink, thanks.  Just a water for me," Carla told the waiter with a wave of her hand.  Leaning closer to whisper across the small table to Brian, she confided, "You know, I used to think that Prohibition was pretty serious business, but here in the big city it's like it doesn't even exist."

"Very true," the young man admitted with an abashed smile that set Carla's heart beating faster.  She could scarcely believe that she was here meeting with the musician whose voice graced every radio across America, not to mention one of the dreamiest young men alive. Brian Littrell was classically handsome in a way that made a young lady feel all warm and fuzzy inside—from the boyish curl of his hair, to those warm eyes that promised to never break your heart and that well-sculpted jaw that begged a girl to reach out and curl her hand around it. 

The two of them were seated in the VIP room in large, comfy armchairs with a welcoming fire blazing in the hearth not too far away.  From their vantage point above the supper club's ballroom floor, they had a sweeping view of the couples below dancing cheek-to-cheek to the music of a posh tuxedoed band.  With his elegant clothes and relaxed manner, Brian looked like he was made for a place like this

"I'll just have an iced tea, please," Brian decided, dismissing the waiter.  "So, I'd start with pleasantries, Miss Carter, but the delighted yet slightly bewildered expression on your face tells me that you're dyin' to know the meaning of all this."

"Please, call me Carla.  And, yes, an explanation would be wonderful."

"Well, Carla," he began, "tonight was actually the second time I've heard you play this week.  And I was very impressed after the first performance, so I tried to ask around about you, but it seems that you're something of an enigma.  No one knows a thing about Carla Carter beyond the fact that you arrived in Chicago not too long ago a nobody, and now you're in line to become the next big hit.  No one knows who you are really, where you came from or what your story is.  So, I was curious—if you're so good, then how is it no one's heard of you before Chicago?"

"Oh… well, I—" caught off-guard and highly flattered that Brian had taken such interest in her, Carla fumbled for something to say.  At that moment, however, she was saved by the waiter returning with their drinks.  She took a sip from her glass to recover and when the waiter left gave Brian the speech she had prepared for a situation like this.  Smiling shyly, she told him, "Honestly, Brian, I'm not as mysterious as everyone seems to think I am. Just a small town girl who loves to play and came to Chicago to get my big break.  I'm thrilled that everything's been going so well for a big nobody like me."

"That sounds rehearsed," he grinned.  "How would a small-town girl who's never done this before be a seasoned performer on stage?  How would she know how to pick the right venues and work her connections, so that within just a month or so of arriving in the Windy City she was playing in a club like this?" his arm swept out, indicating their lavish surroundings.  "Listen, doll, I know your secret," Brian said and leaned close to whisper in Carla's ear, so close that his light brown hair brushed against her temple.  "The first time I saw you perform wasn't as Carla Carter, it was the other night at the Chez Paree and you were just the accompanist.  I know that you're the piano player running around with that hotshot Nick Carter, the one that everyone thinks is a boy."

She pulled back, her eyes widening in surprise.

"Hey, no need to look so alarmed," the young man chuckled, raising his hands in a friendly, reassuring manner, "I'm not gonna tell anyone."

"Then why bring it up at all?" Carla eyed him with a touch of suspicion.  "Are you planning to blackmail us or something?"

"Me?!" his chuckling dissolved into laughter.  "Blackmail?  No, I just wanted to talk to you about it.  That's it, I swear!" Brian stopped to take a sip of his iced tea before continuing.  "I think you've got a lotta talent, Carla.  Your piano playing is so moving and you got a lovely voice to boot.  It makes me wonder why somebody so gifted like you, is playing the Chico to Nick's Groucho—you know, the Marx brothers," he added, seeing that she didn't catch the reference.  "Gosh, don'tcha watch the pictures?"

"Occasionally.  Just can't say that I'm a big Marx fan."

Brian laughed again.

His laughter was like a ripple of sunshine across rolling fields of honey colored oats.  Warm and relaxing, it dispelled Carla's suspicions and made her want to open up to him.  Besides, who could ever suspect a sinister motive behind those angelic blue eyes of his?  "Okay, so if you really wanna know why I do what do… Well, I just like playing with Nick.  We've got a good thing going here.  I mean, you've seen us perform together, you have to have felt the spark.  …But," she continued slowly, "at the same time, I'll admit that I have been feeling the itch to play solo.  Chicago seemed like the perfect place to try it out."

"Judging by how far you've come already, I'd say that you made the right call."  Brian's smile was encouraging.  "Listen, the reason I asked Mr. Bradbury to arrange this meeting is because I wanna make you an offer.  I've got a show in two days, and I want you to come play.  Open for me, Carla, at The Blue Room on Sunday," he asked, grasping her hands gently in his and giving her his most charming and entreating look.

"Well…" she said slowly, "Nick and I don't have a show scheduled for this Sunday. But, I have to be upfront with you—not even Nick knows that I've been playing solo… and I haven't figured out how to break it to him yet."

"Really, and Nick doesn't suspect a thing?  I'd think it would be hard not to have heard about Carla Carter by now—which reminds me, I wanted to ask you about the name.  Are you two…?"

"Oh no, we're not relations or involved or anything like that.  I'm afraid I just wasn't very clever in picking a stage name for myself.  But to answer your other question, no, Nick doesn't have any idea what I've been doing in my spare time.  I'm sure you've heard that he's a bit of a playboy.  Entertaining lady friends keeps him quite busy these days."

"I'm sure you're not thrilled about that," Brian said with an inquiring look.

"Not terribly," Carla admitted, "but maybe not for the reason you're thinking. Nick and I are just friends.  It's just that it used to be about me and him playing shows to make enough money to get by.  Now that we don't have to worry about money anymore, he doesn't seem to care as much about the music either."

"I take it that's another reason why you started performing solo.  Okay, I get it.  But Carla, if you can be straight with me about all this, then why not with Nick?" Brian asked.

"I don't know… Maybe if I had told him right away, it would've been all right.  But this thing has gotten so big and out of hand that I feel like I've been keeping a huge secret from him.  I just don't know how to tell him at this point."

Brian rubbed his chin.  "Yeah, I see your point.  Hmmm… why don't you be upfront and tell him just like you told me?"  Brian gave her an encouraging smile.  "If I were Nick, I'd be happy for you that you're branching out and trying new things.  Why don't you give it a shot tomorrow, then come by and see me.  I'll be recording in the studio at this address," he said, handing her a business card.  "Feel free to drop by and let me know how it went."

...

"That last bit didn't sound very together.  Let's do it over again, from the key change."  Nick announced.

They were in the studio rehearsing for their show later that night and were trying to learn a few new songs.  This one, in particular, was a last minute addition that Carla wanted to include in the set because it had recently gotten very popular.  She had reworked the song into a guitar and piano arrangement, but the two of them were having some trouble getting the timing right.

"Sorry." Frustrated, Carla wiped her forearm across her brow.  "I can't seem to concentrate.  My mind is elsewhere."  She rifled through a few pages of sheet music, trying to find her place. 

"I know what's the matter.  That Brian Littrell's got you all distracted, huh."

"What?" Carla straightened in her seat.  How did Nick know?

"I hate to break it to you, Carl, but I wasn't able to get any tickets for his secret show.  My buddy and I ran all around town last night—guess our connections just aren't as good as we thought they were.  The concert is very hush-hush and nobody's forking over their tickets.  Sorry to disappoint you.  I know that I built your hopes up."

"Oh, well that's okay, Nick." This seemed as good an opportunity as any to tell him about her encounter with Brian the night before.  "Actually, to be honest—"

At that moment, however, the door to their studio creaked open, and a golden-haired young woman peeked her head in.  "Coo!" she exclaimed, opening the door wide.  Carla stopped mid-sentence, wondering who was interrupting them.  Nick had made it clear to the studio's staff that they were not to be disturbed during rehearsals.  It just wouldn't do to have someone walk in and hear the supposedly mute pianist speaking.

"Here you are, Nicky! Of course you would be in the very last studio.  I'm afraid I've interrupted quite a few other rehearsals trying to find you.  Now, I know you said you couldn't meet until later, but since you told me where you and your buddy practice I just had to tell my driver to swing by and see how you were doing.  Oh, is this Carl?"  The young lady rushed across the room and offered a dainty, gloved hand to Carla.

Bewildered, Carla looked at Nick. 

"Oh." Setting his guitar aside, he hurriedly rose to his feet.  "Carl, this is Miss Lillian Vance.  Lil, I've told you about my buddy, Carl."  He made a gesture at Carla and, realizing what it meant, Carla awkwardly took Lillian's hand.

"Oh yes," the young woman nodded fervently.  "I've heard ever so much about you. Nicky invited me to your show tonight at the Aragon Ballroom, and I can't wait!  It's terribly exciting.  Now, I'm sure you two have been working all morning, so I've come to steal Nicky away for a bit of fun.  You know, so that he's nice and relaxed for your big show tonight.  You boys work far too hard!"

Carla rose from the piano bench and nearly objected but Nick shot her a look, reminding her of her cover.

"Don't worry," he said, reading her thoughts. "We sound great, we're more than ready for tonight.  Except for that last song.  We'll nix that one and work on it some more later.  Promise."

It was quite unlike Nick to shirk on a rehearsal.  Despite the fact that he was turning into a notorious playboy, he still took their music quite seriously—or so Carla had thought. She didn't care that they had company in the studio and opened her mouth to object.

Quickly, Nick intercepted her and went to Lillian's side. "Be a doll and meet me outside, Lil.  I've gotta pack up my guitar, but I'll be out in just a minute."

Once she was out of the room, Carla started in on her partner immediately.  "Now, I know you're a real lady killer, Nick Carter, but this is a bit ridiculous.  You can't just abandon rehearsal for a romp on the town!"

"I know, I know.  I hate to run out like this but I'll explain everything later.  You gotta understand, I'm setting something up and this could be our big break."

"What are you talking about?"

"Like I said, I'll explain later.  See you tonight at the Aragon—oh, and take care of my guitar, will ya?" he asked, heading out the door.

"But—" As the door slammed shut behind him, Carla didn't know whether to put Nick's guitar away or maybe throw it on the floor, she was so annoyed with him.  She had finally gotten up the nerve to tell Nick about her solo shows and about Brian, and he had abandoned her and the rehearsal to go galavanting.  Carla wondered when had Nick's social life become more important to him than their music?  He was certainly beginning to live up to his reputation.  Not knowing what else to do, she went back to their hotel to change and to drop off Nick's guitar and then grabbed a street car to the address on the business card Brian had given her.

...

The posh Banner Records was leagues above any of the two-bit studios Carla and Nick had ever rehearsed in, and security was far from lax.  "Your name and business please, miss," said a stern-looking guard clutching a clipboard.  He was a big man with broad shoulders posted there to look imposing.  In his neatly pressed and starched uniform with shiny brass buttons and a big shiny badge, he seemed very, very official.

Carla had assumed that she would be able to walk right in and meet Brian, but that did not seem to be the case.  "Carla Carter," she told him.  "I came to see Brian Littrell, he's recording in the studio today."

"I can neither confirm nor deny that we have anybody by that name in the studio today," the guard said, then added, "If you don't have an appointment, I will have to ask you to leave the premises."  

Crestfallen, Carla sighed.  Of course security wasn't going to let her inside; in the grand scope of things she was just a nobody.  "No, I don't have an appointment," she admitted and was about to turn away when she had an idea.  "But Brian did give me this business card. He said to meet him here at this studio where he would be recording today."  She furnished the card, which the security guard took from her.

He read the card carefully and then picked up the desk phone and dialed, turning the rotary dial with great deliberation.  "This is Stenson.  I have a Miss Carla Carter here to see Mr. Littrell…  Yes, she has his business card and says she was instructed to meet him here… All right."  They waited for several minutes, during which time Carla guessed that they were figuring out what to do with her.  "Okay, thank you."  The man set the phone down and turned to Carla.  "Someone will be out shortly for you, Miss Carter."

A few minutes later, an aide came to escort Carla into the building.  "Right this way, please."  They went through a set of double doors and headed down a long corridor with shiny plaques and sconces lining the walls.  "You're Carla Carter, right?  I saw you once in a showcase at the Vic Theatre.  It was just an amateur showcase—you were easily the best performer there."

"Oh, thank you," Carla blushed.

The corridor branched off into another, which they headed down before stopping at a door, which the aide knocked on.  There was no answer, and the room turned out to be empty.  "He must be in the live room."  The aide indicated a door against the opposite wall with a glowing red light bulb above it.  "Mr. Littrell is in the studio there.  Hold on just a second, they're still recording.  Why don't you take a seat?"

Carla sank down onto a chaise, one of several comfy-looking pieces of furniture in the room, which seemed to be some sort of lounge that led into other rooms.  It was rather luxurious with a gleaming parquet floor, thick Turkish rugs, and tall brass lamps scattered about the room.

When the light finally switched off, the aide knocked on the door.  "Mr. Littrell?  Miss Carter has arrived."

Carla entered the room and found Brian sitting at a piano with microphones and some recording equipment that she didn't recognize placed around him.  His face lit up instantly when he saw her.  "Take five, guys," he said into what appeared to be a two-way intercom then rose from the piano and crossed the room to meet them.  "Carla! So glad that you could make it."  He warmly took her hand and then turned to the aide.  "Thank you.  Could you do me a favor and see if Lou's finished his meeting with Mr. Banner yet?  I really want him to meet Carla."

As soon as the aide was gone, Brian started in on business.  "Since you're here, I hope this means that you're accepting my offer then.  You'll open for me tomorrow night?"

Carla hesitated for just a second then smiled.  "Sure, Brian.  It would be a real honor and a pleasure to open for you."

"No, really, the pleasure's all mine," he replied in true gentlemanly fashion.  "So how did Nick take the news?  Okay I hope?"

"You know…" Again, just a moment's hesitation on her part.  And then she recalled how Nick had taken off from rehearsal to go play with little Miss Lillian Vance.  "I think he'll live."

"Why don't we have a seat in the lounge?" Brian suggested and escorted her back into the other room.

Before he could ask any more questions about Nick, there was a knock on the lounge door and in walked quite possibly the fattest man Carla had ever seen.  She didn't want to be rude, but it was difficult not to stare: he had huge jowls, several chins, and a rotund belly so big that it strained at the buttons of his enormous tailored suit vest.  His arms and legs were the size of huge ham hocks.  She wondered how anyone could possibly be so fat and also how much it must have cost for a suit big enough to clothe him. 

Brian introduced them.  "Carla, I'd like you to meet my manager Lou Pearlman.  Lou, this is Miss Carla Carter, the fantastic performer I was telling you about."

"A pleasure to meet you, Miss Carter.  Brian has told me we have a real starlet on our hands here.  I'm dying to hear you for myself."  He took her tiny hand in his massive pudgy one and gave it a squeeze.  As he looked at her with small beady eyes behind wire-frame glasses, his mouth twisted into a lop-sided smile.  Carla found that his palms were damp and sweaty.

"It's nice to meet you, too," she said, trying to beam back.

"Lou here has been with me since I was singing in my church choir back in Kentucky," Brian told her.  "Heard me in the balcony singing over the old church organ, and after the service he came up and asked me how would I like to be famous." As he recounted the story, Carla could hear Brian's voice slipping into a comfortable Southern drawl.

"I was in Lexington visiting my sister," Lou explained.  "And at that Sunday church service I truly heard an angel sing. I knew I had to sign Brian to my talent agency because that was a voice that America needed to hear.  And just a few short years later, I don't think there's anyone in this country who doesn't know about my boy."  He patted Brian on the back.

"Lou has the best connections; he knows all the people in the business.  I would never have gotten to where I am today if it weren't for him," Brian said humbly.

"You must be just as talented on the business end as Brian is at singing, Mr. Pearlman," Carla remarked.

"A starlet and a charmer!" Lou guffawed.

"So, why don't we show you around a bit."  Brian stood and opened the door to the studio.  "This is the live room.  Have you been in an electrical recording studio before, Carla?"

"No," she admitted.  "Just an acoustic one, and to be honest we never used it for recording, only as a practice space."

"Well, in an electrical studio you don't need to crowd around a big ol' phonograph to record.  You know which ones I'm talking about, right?  The one's with the giant horn that you've got to practically stick your whole face into as you sing.  Instead, we've got microphones here that take the sound from all the instruments and singers and send it electrically into the control room next door."

"Thanks to this new technology, phonographs are completely outdated," Lou remarked.  "They'll be obsolete in a year, two max."

Fascinated, Carla walked around the room examining the different instruments and microphones that were set up for recording there.  /So this is how the pros do it,/ she thought in awe.

"So, whaddaya say?" Brian asked. "Want to try it out?"

"Huh, really?" Carla's eyes grew wide.

He chuckled.  "We're just gonna record and play it back for you in the control room.  It's not like we'll be cutting any records or anything.  Not yet, anyway," he winked.

"Oh," Carla ducked her head in embarrassment.  "I know.  I don't mean to get so excited, it's just that I've never been recorded before—or even been in a studio this nice!  Nick and I could never afford to..."  She trailed off, noticing that Lou was eyeing her curiously with his beady eyes.

"Well go on then!" Brian encouraged.  "Take a seat at the piano, no need to be shy.  How about you do a song or two, then maybe we could do one together?"

"I'll take that as my cue to get out of your way," Lou said, bowing.  "I'll be in the lounge, poring over some paperwork.  Let me know when you two are finished."

Once he squeezed his way out the door, Brian showed Carla how everything worked and then he too left to go to the control room.  She sat there alone at the piano, trying to decided what song to play as she waited for his signal.  It would have to be something she knew by heart because it would be mortifying to mess up on a song in front of him.

Brian's voice came on over an intercom, "Okay, whenever you're ready."

Carla began the intro, pressing the piano's ivory keys lightly and airily, and then sang.  "All of me, why not take all of me... Can't you see that I'm no good without you?"  Her voice filled the room, intertwining with and floating on top of the piano line.

When the last note died away, Brian's voice came on again.  "You sounded great.  How did you like that?"

"I—I'm not sure," she admitted.  "It's different.  Good, but different.  Did you really just record me?"

"Sure did, you can listen to it in a bit here.  Why don't you do another for me?  Oh, and the control guys have a few suggestions," he said and passed on their comments on how to project her voice and use the microphone for the best recording quality.  After the second song, Brian returned to the live room and joined her at the piano.  "Do you know this one?" he asked, adjusting a second microphone so that it was pointed at him.  "I'll play.  See if you recognize it and join in."

You must remember this
A kiss is still a kiss, a sigh is still a sigh
The fundamental things apply
As time goes by

Smiling, Carla took over the next verse. 

And when two lovers woo
They still say, "I love you"
On that you can rely
No matter what the future brings
As time goes by...

As Brian played, occasionally he reached across her to playfully hit the notes at the end of the piano.  His demeanor was one that Carla could only describe as flirtatious, although she was surprised to be the object of his attentions.  She responded by wrinkling her nose at him and giving him a cheeky grin.  By the time the song ended, the two were smiling widely at each other.

"I love that song," she enthused.

"I thought you might."

A voice chimed in on the intercom.  "Will there be any others for you today, Brian?" asked one of the recording staff.  "Not to rush you, but today's only a half-day for the studio."

"Ooh, what time is it?" Carla asked suddenly.  She had completely lost track of the time and wasn't sure how much longer she had until she was supposed to be at the Aragon for her and Nick's pre-performance preparations.

"Four o'clock," Brian said, checking his watch.  "Do you have to go so soon?"  He seemed disappointed.

"I can stay maybe a little bit longer.  We have a show tonight at the Aragon Ballroom."

"Not too shabby.  Well, if you'll follow me, I'll show you the control room."  He pressed a button for the intercom. "Be right over there, boys."

They found Lou sitting in the lounge with a cocktail, reviewing what looked like contracts and official letters.  He joined them, and the three of them entered the control room where two staff members were sitting in front of an array of machinery.

The men played back Carla's first song over the loudspeaker, and her jaw nearly hit the floor.  "Why, that's me!"  They also played the last song that she and Brian had done together, which had Lou nodding in approval.

When it was over, Brian was beaming.  "I know you're short on time so I'll save the other recording for Lou to listen to afterward.  But what do you think, Lou?" he turned to his manager.  "Did I ever find a gem to open for me tomorrow, or what?"

"A real canary," the portly man agreed.  "I can't wait to see her on stage."

"Thank you, Mr. Pearlman."  Glancing anxiously at the clock, Carla added, "I hate to depart so suddenly, but I'm afraid I have a prior engagement for the evening.  Nice to meet you all, gentleman."

"I'll show you out," Brian said and offered his arm.  As they walked back down the corridor to the front lobby, he asked, "So, tomorrow, can you be at the Blue Room around noon?  Do you know how to get there?"

"Yes, it's actually quite close to where I'm staying," she replied.

"You'll check in with the proprietor, Mr. Dunaway.  You should have plenty of time to practice and then relax before the show, which is at 7PM."

"That sounds great."  The arrived at the lobby, where the severe-looking security guard looked as imposing as ever.  Carla gave Brian's arm a squeeze.  "I can't thank you enough for showing me around today.  I'll see you tomorrow then."

"Break a leg tonight.  I'm sure you guys will do great."

In a much better mood than she had arrived in, Carla took a street car back to the hotel to change for her and Nick's show.  Little did she suspect the disaster looming on the horizon.

X: (It Gets a Little Windier)

Lillian Vance was a frivolous girl, and frivolous girls were just the type that Nick usually went for because they were fun and tended to be easy.  Still, Lillian made Nick nervous.  She was the daughter of Edmund Vance, music tycoon and the owner of Vance Records, a powerful man who had built his record label from the ground up during the Roaring Twenties and managed to keep it afloat during the Not-So-Roaring Thirties.  Nick had met Lillian by accident while trying to get in the good graces of Edmund Vance, and now with a record deal for him and Carla so close he had to be careful not to do anything to make her unhappy.

Unfortunately for Nick, Lillian did not seem to be tiring of his company as was usually the case with frivolous girls.  The two of them had been on more dates than he could count, and Nick was worried that any day now she would ask him to "go steady."  He quite enjoyed his bachelor lifestyle and knew that he had to find some way to break things off gently with Lillian without also jeopardizing his chances of recording with Vance Records.

Nick sat puzzling over the situation in the Vance family's Rolls Royce Phantom as Lillian chattered mindlessly beside him.  They were on their way back to the city following a long afternoon on Lake Michigan.  Lillian had declared it a fine day to take a boat out, but Nick had discovered, however, that what Lillian really meant was that it was a fine day for her to sit with a parasol waving her handkerchief while Nick did all the rowing.  He was now red across the back of his neck and ears, and his shoulders felt quite stiff. 

It was nearly time for him to head to the Aragon when Lillian declared that she wanted to go for a drive.  Nick decided that he could humor her for a bit longer.  At least Lillian had a driver so he could sit back and relax while someone else did all the work.  The two of them got cozy in the back seat as the chauffeur took them along a winding drive that followed the lakeshore.  It was a comfortable ride as the Rolls Royce had a custom-made interior crafted by one of the best stagecoach outfitters, boasting rich leather trim, spacious seats, and luxury wood paneling. 

As they drove alongside the sparkling lake, Lillian chattered on about the Chicago elite, relaying gossip about people that Nick didn't know and couldn't care less about.

"Did you know, Mr. Palmer actually convinced the city to build this whole drive along the lake to increase the value of his mansion?  He thinks that when the road's done, people will move from South Side out here.  Who'd want to live out here anyway?  It might be fun to take a drive along the lake shore, but it's not at all fashionable."  She babbled as Nick stared idly out the window on the seat beside her.

 "Oh, I wish we could just enjoy this weather forever!" she enthused.  Lillian scooted from her side of the plush leather seat to sit closer to Nick and clutch his arm as she looked up with him with misty blue eyes.

"Didn't you have just so much fun on the lake?" she asked.

"Yeah fun," Nick agreed with somewhat less enthusiasm.

 "I had a wonderful time today, Nicky!  Now what say we go get something to eat?"

"Aw, Lil, you know I can't.  I have to get to the Aragon for my show."  More than anything, he was anxious to get back to Carla to explain his defection from rehearsal that morning.  If his pianist was in a grumpy mood for the performance, she might not put on her best performance.  Nick knew that Mr. Vance was going to be sitting in on the show tonight and that they had to be at their best.

"Nicky, you work so hard.  You've got to get out and have some fun!" she chirped, clutching his arm again.  "All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy."

"All right, you win," he sighed.  "No time for dinner but we'll drive around for another half hour.  And then I really do have to get back."

He steeled himself for another thirty minutes of trivial banner and at the end of it, Lillian dropped a comment that caught him off guard.  "We've gone on a few dates now and had a swell time.  I think you should ask me to go steady, Nicky," she said demurely.

"What?" Going steady did not bode well for his bachelor lifestyle.  He laughed it off.

"You heard me, I want you to ask me to go steady."

"Well, aren't you just a forward little cookie?" Nick teased.  "But you shouldn't settle for a ragamuffin like me, Lil.  You're a nice girl and I'm a lowly traveling musician who hasn't even made his big break.  Sure, we might go on a few dates and have a laugh but your father-not to mention all the rest of society-expects you to be courted by someone a little less rough around the edges."

Lillian smiled at him slowly, "No need to be secretive with me, Nicky.  You think I don't know all about you and who you are?  I know nearly every good-looking eligible bachelor that's worth knowing in this country, which is why I've set my sights on you."

Surprised Nick sat back in his seat.  "It's like that now, is it?" he replied frostily.  He thought carefully about the implications of what she had just told him, his jaw set firmly as he weighed his options.  "Listen, how about we talk about this later, like after my show?"

"Oh poo, stop worrying about that silly little show.  I'll explain to Daddy that something came up so you couldn't make it tonight, and he'll listen to you play some other time.  You know he'd give me anything I wanted.  If that's a record deal for you, then so be it-once you and I start going steady, that is," she added convincingly.

"Lil..." Nick was at a loss for words.  "You're a doll, really.  And I like spending time with you, but I don't want a record deal just because I'm dating you.  I want it to be because your father actually thinks my and Carl's music is good.  I'm not the type of guy who likes to be handed everything on a silver platter, y'know?"

Lillian's eyes narrowed.  "Oh? And what does that make me then?  Are you calling me spoiled, huh?"  Her pretty face twisted into a dark look.  "You're such a hypocrite, Nick Carter.  You say you don't want things handed to you, yet it's all right for you to string me along so daddy will give you a record deal."

"It's not like that at all," Nick protested.

"Well how is it then?" Lillian demanded, hands on her hips.

"Oh, you know, I think you're really swell-"

"Baloney!  This was all just one big pretence to you, wasn't it?  You're such a cad, Nick Carter!  Get out of my car, right this instant." Her golden curls began to tremble with fury. 

"Don't be ridiculous, Lil.  You know it wasn't like that."

"Get out of my face!"

"Come on, you're asking me to get out of a moving vehicle."

"You know what I mean.  Matthews," she shrieked to the driver, "stop the car!"  The man had been politely pretending not to listen but now with a nod began to slow the vehicle.

"But we're in the middle of nowhere," Nick protested.  "You said it yourself, this road's not even done being built yet."

"I don't care."  She crossed her arms, turned her head to the side, and said not a single word more to him.  The Rolls Royce pulled over to the side of the road and deposited Nick there, showering him with dust as it drove away.

Nick coughed and threw an arm over his face.  When the dust settled, he found himself on a dusty lane with no sign of how to get back to the city.  "Dammit, Carter, now you've gone and done it..."  He wondered how he was ever going to make it back in time for the show.

...

It was half past eight when Nick arrived at the Aragon Ballroom, dusty and worn.  Some band he didn't recognize was playing on stage, and Carla was nowhere in sight.

"I'm sorry, sir, but we maintain a strict dress code here," said the coat check, who appeared at his elbow.  "You're going to have to come back with a dinner jacket."  He sniffled pompously and added, "And perhaps a bath."

"I need to see your boss," Nick told him.  "Tell him Carter's here."

The coat check gave a low whistle and dropped the airs.  "So you're Carter, eh?  Sure you wanna see the boss right now?  He's in a rage over you."

"Just take me to him, will you?"

The man led Nick through a side door and down a dark, narrow corridor to the back of the theater and the smoky office of one Mr. C.J. Winderly, owner of the Aragorn Ballroom as well as a number of successful clubs and gambling houses.  When Nick was allowed in, he entered with his head low and his hands clasped beseechingly.  "C.J., I am so sorry about tonight."

"You!  You dare show your face here?" the owner demanded gruffly.  He was red in the face and so angry that he had already chomped to bits the fat cigar that protruded from the corner of his mouth.  "Lousy bum!"

From clear across the room, Nick thought he could see spittle fly as the owner yelled. "You gotta understand it wasn't intentional.  I got stranded at Lake Michigan, C.J., and-"

"No!  You do not get to call me that.  C.J. is only reserved for people on my good side.  Do you know how much money you cost me?  I don't want to hear no excuses, you good for nothing son of a bitch."

Nick didn't know how to respond, so he simply stood with his head down, scrutinizing the fine gold threading that ran through the office's forest green carpet, as his ears turned red with shame.

Winderley wasn't done with him yet.  "Never in all my years have I been so sorely abused.  You leave me without an act on a Saturday night?  Just one dumb kid on a piano.  No one's going to have fun.  What is he, like fifteen?  And the kids's useless cause he can't talk."

"Where did Carl go, by the way?" Nick asked meekly.

"I told him to scram and to never show his face here again, and I want you to know the same thing applies to you.  I ain't having no no-shows here in my ballroom.  Every band is dying to play here and you two nobodies just screw me over like you own the place.  I can't believe it!"

"I'm sorry.  Please, you have to believe me that it wasn't intentional.  I did everything I could to get here."

"Get out of my office, kid.  Believe me when I say I'm tellin' everyone what a lousy and unreliable hack you are."

"But-"

"Get out!"  Winderley pulled the cigar out of his mouth and hurled it at Nick, narrowly missing his head by an inch.  Nick turned and fled out the door.  Outside the office, he nearly collided with a crowd of workers standing crushed together, eavesdropping on the confrontation.  They promptly scattered, and Nick had to grab one of them by the sleeve. 

"Hey, man, did you see Edmond Vance here tonight?"

The worker, a floorman, nodded.  "Mr. Vance didn't look too happy.  Looks like you're never gonna get another chance with him, kid."

Nick groaned.  Everything was a mess.  Somehow, he was going to have to find a way to apologize to both C.J.-or rather, Mr. Winderley-as well as Mr. Vance.  Not to mention that he still had to find Carla and see how she was doing, which probably wasn't too well, considering how he was feeling and he hadn't even been the one who had to sit through the disaster.

Nick hailed a taxi back to their hotel, but found no sign of Carla there.  She had left him a note on the coffee table though, a small scrap torn from the tablet Carla used when she wasn't supposed to talk.  It said simply How could you?

Nick went down to the lobby to talk to the doorman.  "Hey, man, can I bum a cigarette?"

"Sure thing."  The doorman pulled a thin, flat cigarette tin from inside his uniform coat and offered Nick one.

Nick leaned forward for the doorman to light it, drew a long puff, and then exhaled deeply.  He could feel the nicotine work its way through his system, calming his overwrought nerves.  "Have you seen my buddy Carl tonight?"

"You mean the one who likes to dress like a girl sometime?"

"Er... yeah."  Nick hoped the doorman was the only person who'd noticed.

"Sure did.  He came back a little earlier tonight, looking all torn up about something.  Left not too long after."

"Damn.  Did he say where he'd be going?"

"Nobody ever talks to me, boss.  I'm just the doorman."

Nick went outside to stand under the awnings and wait for Carla to come back.  He knew she was sorely put-out at him and had every right to be.  After all, from her perspective his actions that day were unforgiveable.  Just this morning he and Carla had been on the verge of securing a record deal and becoming one of the biggest acts in Chicago, and now...

Watching the smoke curl lazily from the end of his cigarette up into the awnings, Nick tried to figure out a way to clean up this mess.

XI: (Carla Carter)

Carla didn't return that night or the next morning.  Checking her room, Nick saw no sign that she had even stopped by for a clean change of clothing.  He found himself in need of a strong cup of coffee, so he staggered down to the corner diner where they often went for breakfast. On the way he received quite a few stares for his grizzly appearance.  His shirt was rumpled from passing out on the couch while waiting up for Carla late into the night, and his unshaven jaw bristled with stubble.

To his surprise, Nick found his partner there sitting at the counter and looking as fresh as a daisy.  She was in full female-mode, wearing a navy blue day dress with puffed sleeves, so Nick addressed her by her actual name though, truthfully, it felt strange on his tongue.  "Carla," he called, though she ignored him.  "I'll take a coffee," he told the waiter and slid onto the stool beside her.  "Where have you been?"

 "I don't want to talk to you."  She didn't spare him a glance.

"Just hear me out.  Last night-"

"Yes, I know what happened last night."  She was staring down at her plate of waffles, pointedly avoiding his gaze.  "I'm the one who had to sit there while everything turned to chaos around me, and I couldn't say a single thing because of this stupid act of ours.  I'm sick of it.  And I certainly don't want to see you right now."

Nick's coffee arrived and he gulped down a scorching mouthful.  "I know how things looked, but you have to give me a chance to explain."

"What's there to explain?"  Her voice sounded choked with emotion.  "It's obvious you were out having fun with little Miss What's-her-face and just plain forgot about me.  You left me hanging, Nick."

"No, I would never do that to you!" he burst out just a little too loudly.  People were looking in their direction.  "If you would just let me-" he began, but she interrupted.

"I don't want to hear it," she hissed.  "I've heard you using your stories and your lies on dozens of girls, so don't try to sweet talk me.  Just go away."

"Why don't you come with me back to the room and we can talk about it there?" Nick pleaded, conscious of the attention they were getting.

"Because I don't want to talk to you.  "

He put his hand on her elbow.  "Please, Carla-"

"No!" Carla finally looked up at him, her eyes flashing with an anger he had never seen there before.  She blinked heavily, fighting tears.  "Why can't you just leave me alone?"

"Is this guy bothering you, miss?" Asked another young man sitting at the counter.  He came over and stood at Carla's elbow.  "Listen, buddy.  Why don't you scram?  Can't you see the lady doesn't want to talk to you."  The other patrons of the diner were staring from Carla's outburst, and eyeing Nick with suspicion.  He knew that at that moment he looked rather like a ruffian and decided that it would be best to go home and make himself a bit more presentable before approaching her again.

"Fine," Nick said with a scowl.  "Listen, Carla, I'm sorry about last night, but I'm gonna fix this okay?"  He downed the rest of his coffee then slapped a nickel down on the counter and left, his hands in his pockets.  His mouth burned from the hot liquid, but he supposed he deserved it.

...

Step One: Cigars for Mr. Winderly

Step Two: Cigars for Mr. Vance

Step Three: ???

Step Four: Carla Forgives You --> Play awesome show --> Score record deal

Nick stared down at the list in his hand.  At least he had gotten the first two items out of the way.  After showering, shaving, and putting on a clean shirt, Nick's first stop had been to the finest cigar shop in all of Chicago, where he had requested a box each for Mr. Vance and Mr. Winderly.  He knew the two men shared an appreciation for fine cigars, so he had sent them the most expensive hand-rolled cigars he could afford along with a note of apology.  Nick planned to follow up with them later, after the two men had some time to enjoy their gifts and hopefully forgive him a little. 

It was step three that left him stumped about what to do.  How on earth was he going to get Carla to sit with him long enough for him to explain the misunderstanding?  Nick was still staring intently at the paper when he heard a deep, sultry woman's voice behind him.

"If you keep that up, your face is going to get stuck that way."  Nick recognized the voice and turned around, smiling just a little.  A stylish brunette stood before him, carrying shopping bags, and eyeing him with a bemused expression on her face.  "Long time no see, stranger," Miss Veronica Bradbury said in a low and husky voice that had always reminded Nick of the actress Greta Garbo.  He hadn't seen her since in weeks, not since her father Raymond Bradbury, the influential owner of a supper club on the Loop, had caught them in a somewhat compromised position-though truth be told, it was Veronica who had originally pursed Nick and not the other way around-and threatened Nick with physical harm.

"If I recall correctly, Ronnie, your old man told me to stay away from you or else I'd never work in this town again," he said, stuffing his list in his pocket.

"Ah, well he's not here right now, is he?  What daddy don't know won't kill ya," she winked.  "Besides, if what I hear about last night is true, it doesn't matter anyway, does it?  I hear you skipped out on a show at the Aragon and now ol' C.J. is trashing your reputation to anyone who will listen."

Nick tried to act nonchalant.  "I'll admit he's not my biggest fan right now, but I'm working to get back on his good side."

"Well, in the meantime," Veronica said, shifting her shopping bags, "while your reputation is tarnished you might as well have lunch with me and tell me all about how you got yourself in this mess.  Plus, I hear you and Lillian Vance aren't an item anymore, and you simply must tell me all about it, darling."

"How does word travel so fast?"  He groaned in exasperation.

"Let's go, Romeo.  I want to hear the whole story..."

Veronica got them a private corner booth at a nearby restaurant and over lunch, Nick recounted the events of the last twenty-four hours.  "And then the driver took off and Lillian left me out on Lake Shore Drive.  I had to hike all the way back to town," he finished.

"No!" Veronica gasped.  "What a harpy!  I can't believe it-well, actually, I can absolutely believe it because it sounds just like that Lillian Vance.  I don't know what you ever saw in her."

Nick shrugged.  "In the beginning, she wasn't so bad.  But by the time she started getting real clingy, Mr. Vance was showing interest in mine and Carl's music, and I couldn't break things off with her without risking our shot at a record deal."

"You know, that's so like you.  The moment daddy threatened your precious music career, you backed off from me like a cat from a wet spray!  You're just all about the music," she said with a pout.

"Oh come on," Nick laughed, "you've got beaus coming out of your ears, no need to mourn the loss of my attentions."

"True," she admitted with a coy smile.  "Though, you know, that reminds me-the whole reason I'm out shopping today is because I needed a little retail therapy after one of them backed out of our date for tonight.  Now I'm glad I ran into you because wouldn't you know it, I've got two tickets to that secret Brian Littrell show.  Why don't you come with me?  I suppose I could ask one of my many beaus, but since you're so crazy about music you might as well go."

"Really?" In light of all of his problems, Nick had completely forgotten about Brian Littrell's secret show, to which he had been trying to get tickets.  And then he had a thought: "Say... I don't suppose you've got a third ticket for my buddy Carl?  He's pretty cheesed off with me about last night, but if I could get him a ticket to the show, I dare say that would get me back on his good side."

"Oh.  Sorry, Nick, I've only got two tickets."  Veronica looked thoughtful.  "But, you know, it's going to be at the Blue Room.  If your buddy shows up at the door, I dare say I could talk the event organizer into letting him in.  He owes me a favor."

"Really?  That would be great, Ronnie, thank you.  I'll stop by my place and see if Carl's there, maybe leave him a note."

"Okay, why don't you do that and I'll head home, drop these bags off and get ready.  Meet me there a little before 7?"

...

Nick arrived at the Blue Room just as the doors were opening.  The marquee for the secret show advertised a performance by the unknown band "Thomas Coulton and Co."  Still, there were many people who had figured out the true headliner, and they were waiting in line, hoping to get in without a ticket.  Veronica seemed to have just arrived as well and she greeted him with a kiss on each cheek.  "Where's your friend?" she asked. 

"No sign of him," Nick admitted with disappointment.  "Looks like he's still mad about yesterday.  This morning he didn't even want to talk to me, and now he's avoiding me."

"Didn't want to talk?  I thought your friend was a mute?" Veronica asked curiously.

"Oh yeah, well, y'know-I mean talk by writing on his notepad like he how he usually talks to me," Nick covered.  "Anyway, it looks like this plan was a bust."

Veronica thought for a moment then said, "Well, I'm sure we could get an autograph or something for your friend.  You think that would get you back on his good side?"

Nick's eyes lit up.  "That's not a bad idea.  All right, let's try that."

"Then it's settled.  Shall we head in?  I think the opening act's about to come on."  She led him to the front of the line where she greeted a man holding a clipboard with a kiss on each cheek, as she had Nick.

"Ronnie, you're looking lovely this evening," the man said, pulling back a red velvet rope to let them through.

"Thank you."  She stepped through the doorway as the people still waiting in line protested, and introduced the two.  "Nick, this is my friend I was telling you about, Dick Spencer.  Dickie, this is the rather infamous Nick Carter." 

The man offered his hand with a grin.  "Pleasure to meet you.  I hear you nearly shut down the Aragon last night.  I bet Mr. Winderly completely blew his top!"

"Something like that."  Nick shook his hand and then went in ahead of Veronica while she and Dick chatted.  The room had a very intimate feel.  It was a small private show, with parties seated at individual tables that were lit by candles.  Nick doubted that many of the ticketless people waiting in line would actually be allowed in as most of the tables were already occupied.  An usher led him to a small table for two, somewhat hidden in the corner for privacy-most likely because the original ticketholder was supposed to be on a date-but with a good, clear view of the stage.  They would be able to see Brian perfectly, and Nick regretted not finding Carla all the more because he knew how much she would've liked to be there.

Veronica joined him shortly after with a smile.  "Dick is pretty sure he can get us in to meet Brian after the show for an autograph."

"That's great."  Nick rose and pulled out her chair for her.  "Thanks for all your help, Ronnie.  Hopefully my buddy will forgive me for what happened."

The lights began to dim for the opening performer, and Ronnie remarked, "Well, I know the opening act is going to be good.  Dick says it's Carla Carter.  Have you heard of her?  She's just the bees knees!"

"Who?" At that moment, a spotlight shone on stage and a young woman came out from behind the curtain.  She wore an evening gown made of filmy chiffon that seemed to float against her skin as she moved across the stage to the ornate grand piano that stood ready for her.  Nick recognized her at once.

"Carla Carter," Veronica whispered.  "She played at daddy's supper club the other night, fantastic voice and a real kitten on the keys.  Makes sense that she would open for Brian.  Oh, shhhhhh, just hear her for yourself."  She shushed Nick even though he had already fallen silent.

He couldn't believe that it was Carla.  The sound of her playing was unmistakable, but Nick had never seen her like this before.  She looked so different, every bit as elegant and stylish as the woman sitting beside him, and yet she was the same Carla that he knew, the same Carla whom he teased and terrorized and considered among his closest friends.  Her hair was curly from growing out and Nick wondered how he hadn't noticed that she no longer looked like a boy anymore.  With the lights shining down on her at the piano, she was absolutely glowing.  He was mesmerized.

Nick barely heard anything Ronnie said the rest of the night, barely even noticed Brian's performance because his mind was racing.  How long had this been going on?  Why didn't Carla tell him?  What was she doing performing without him-and as a girl?!  And, even more importantly, why was he so astonished?  Could it be because he had honestly thought all those nights he was out socializing and meeting girls that Carla was at home waiting quietly for him?  And since when had she gotten so good?  Sure, he'd noticed that her piano was sounding great in their recent performances together, but tonight her playing along with her singing-Carla came off as a seasoned pro.  What was it Veronica had said?  "Makes sense that she would open for Brian."  Of course. Carla was just that good, and apparently everyone in Chicago knew it.

She came back on stage during Brian's encore to sing with him.  They played at the piano together, laughing and looking like the best of friends.  Nick saw the way that Brian's eyes smoldered when he looked at Carla and his fists curled. 

XII: (Blown Out of Chicago)

Carla carefully opened the door to their hotel suite, intending to tip-toe quietly to her bedroom so as not to wake Nick. There were so many things to discuss with her partner that she did not want to get into until she'd had a full night's sleep. He was there waiting for her in the living room, however, pacing back and forth and looking like he'd worn a footpath in the carpet. Nick seemed less like the unshaven, depraved individual who had confronted her this morning and more like himself, except that his usual smile was missing.

"Oh, you're awake." Carla was holding a pretty bouquet of peach roses and ivory carnations given to her by Brian, which she set down on the sideboard. She started to undo the belt of her long top-coat but stopped, remembering the chiffon evening gown she was wearing underneath. "I thought you'd be in bed by now."

 "Well I've been waiting up for you. You didn't come home last night, remember? And I haven't seen you all day so I was worried. What's with the flowers?"

The last question was such a non sequitur that it threw Carla off-guard. "Those? Oh, well, I met this charming fellow, and we hit it off so well that he bought me flowers," she fibbed.

"You mean the guy from the diner this morning?" Nick said, arching his eyebrows. He was still pacing. "The one who told me to scram?"

Confused where he was going with the question, Carla decided to go along with it. "Yes, him. We were out on a date, which is why I'm home so late. We caught a picture at the--" And then she saw the calculating look in Nick's eyes, and her entire story of how she had gotten the flowers flew out the window. "Of course, why didn't I realize..." Carla smacked a hand to her forehead. "You were at Brian's show."

"I was," Nick said simply.

Carla froze, feeling a rush of dread course through her body. "Which means that you saw me play."

"I did."

"Oh, uh... Surprise?" She found Nick's cool demeanor incredibly unnerving; it was tough to gage his reaction.  "I've been meaning to tell you."

He stopped pacing. "Really, when? After you got an article printed about you in the papers? How long has this been going on?"

"Since we got to Chicago or thereabouts," she said meekly. "But you weren't supposed to find out like this, Nick. I really was going to tell you. Are you mad?"

"Mad? You mean mad that my partner has been performing without me behind my back, not to mention using my last name for it--no clue what compelled you to do that, by the way--and everyone knew about it except for me? Gee, I don't know. How do you think I feel?"

"Well when you put it that way..." Carla bit her lip. On the one hand, she felt guilty for keeping Nick in the dark all this time; on the other hand, it wasn't fair for him to turn something that made Carla so happy into a point of contention between them, especially when Nick had made mistakes as well. Holding on to that thought, Carla decided to fire back at him. "What were you doing at the show anyway? I thought you said that you couldn't get tickets."

He shrugged. "A friend of mine had tickets and invited me to go with her."

"Oh, isn't that swell." Carla rolled her eyes. "I'm sure the two of you had a real gay time, going off to a show that you know I was dying to see. I bet you didn't even spare one thought for little ol' me." Since Nick knew already about her performance, she shrugged off her coat and went to hang it in the closet, the gauzy chiffon of her evening gown swaying as she moved. She noted with satisfaction that seeing her filmy dress up close made Nick's eyes bulge.

"I tried to find you to invite you too, you know, but you were avoiding me. In fact, you were at the show yourself so what does it matter?"

"What does it matter?" Carla scoffed and said breezily, "That's so like you-to be out chasing skirts and having a good time when you and I are fighting, just like how you went out with Lillian when we were supposed to have a show. It seems to me that our partnership, our music is becoming less and less important to you, Nick. Are you surprised that I've been performing solo? With such a flaky partner, what do you expect?"

Nick's coolness disappeared and he looked agitated. Crossing the room to stand right in front of Carla, he grasped her by the shoulders. "I've already told you that I'm sorry about what happened yesterday. And don't you go giving me a hard time about skirt chasing, ‘cause I know that you've been flirting with Brian Littrell, okay? I saw the way he looked at you when you two were on stage together, and I'm sure he's the one who gave you those flowers."

"What's wrong with that?" Carla asked, confused by the tone in his voice. She had been pleasantly surprised and flattered by the attentions of the most famous crooner in all of America.

"He's way older than you, Carl! You're still seventeen, and he's what--twenty-three, twenty-four?"

"He's twenty-three, which is not at all old, and what's it to you, anyhow?" she demanded. With a toss of her shoulders, she shrugged off Nick's grasp and went to stand on the other side of the coffee table in order to put more distance between them. "I'm responsible for myself. Sure, when you first met me I was a little wet behind the ears, but that doesn't make me a child. I feel like I've really grown up over the past several months. Since when are you responsible for me?"

"Don't be ridiculous. Of course I'm responsible for you. If I hadn't been there to look after you, you never would've survived. In fact, you would never would've made it out of that town of yahoos you came from."

Carla made a sound of disbelief. "I think our time in Chicago has proved that for a yahoo I can make it just fine on my own, thank you very much. I've played in all sorts of venues without you, and now Brian has offered me a spot on his tour. Oh, and his manager Mr. Pearlman wants to sign me to his talent agency. He even says he can get me a recording deal!" She was still on the fence about whether to accept or not, but Nick didn't need to know that.

"You, go on tour with Littrell? I won't let you, Carl!" He threw his hands into the air in exasperation.

"You can't stop me!" she told him. "And you know what, I'm real sick of you calling me Carl all the time when we're not even on stage. It's like--"

Nick came charging around the coffee table, and before Carla knew what was happening one of his arms was around her, pulling her close. His other hand tilted her chin up slightly, and then his lips were on hers, kissing her with great urgency. Carla squirmed in Nick's grasp, but he only squeezed her more tightly, his hands curling into the soft fabric of her gown, and deepened the kiss. Frantically, she lifted her foot and with her free hand took hold of her beaded slipper, clubbing Nick in the back of the head with it just as his warm tongue brushed against hers. Nick staggered back and Carla fled to the opposite end of the room, brandishing her shoe at him. "What are you doing?!" she breathed. "Don't you ever try anything like that again!"

There was a creaking sound and both of them turned to see the front door ajar. "Is someone there?" Carla breathed. Silence.

"Close the damn door!" Nick told her. "Why'd you leave that thing open anyway?" He sat down heavily on the couch, slouching with his chin in his hands and his elbows resting on his knees.

"I thought I did close it..." She firmly shut the door and turned the lock then joined him on the couch, leaving a cushion's worth of space between them. They sat there in silence a good few minutes until Carla said finally, "What'd you even do that for?"

"I dunno." He shrugged. "To make you shut up, I guess."

Her mouth dropped open but she quickly recovered. "Well I would appreciate it if next time you tried a different tactic. I don't like being handled the way you handle all your other girls." He nodded, and they continued to sit there in stony silence. Carla felt a tension between them that she had never felt before. She didn't know if it was necessarily from the kiss or simply because this was the first serious row they'd ever had. Usually they got along quite well and rarely quarreled, so to fight like this felt strange.

It was Nick who broke the silence next. "Look, Carla," he said, emphasizing her name, "I know that I fouled things up in a big way, but not for the reasons that you think." He proceeded to recount the story of the record deal with Vance Records and his entanglement with Lillian. Once all the pieces of the story came together, Carla realized that Nick hadn't abandoned her after all, that it was one huge misunderstanding. "When I missed our show, I wasn't out having a good time," he explained. "I was stranded at Lake Michigan trying my darnedest to get back into the city. I feel really badly about missing the show and about letting you down. So, yes, I made some bad judgment calls along the way, especially in regards to Lillian, and ultimately it was my own fault for not making it to the show, but I never forget about you or our music. I hope you can forgive me."

Carla nodded. "Of course. I'm sorry for being so quick to judge you... and also for not telling you sooner about Carla Carter. I love performing together as ‘Nick and Carl.' I just wanted to see what it was like to stand on my own two feet; I wanted to find out if people could accept me for who I am, and not just as the mute sidekick of Nick Carter."

"Well, you're fantastic, in case you haven't figured it out yet." He sighed. "And now you're going on tour with the famous Brian Littrell..." Nick's voice sounded bitter.

"I don't see what you have against Brian when the other day you were so eager to go to his show. And to be honest, I haven't accepted the offer yet; I'm not even sure if I want to. I mean, this sounds like an amazing opportunity, but when I asked Mr. Pearlman about any other openings, he said he wasn't interested in a guitarist. I don't think I could go without you." If Carla had been looking at Nick instead of down at her hands, she would have seen the faintest of smiles curl up at the corner of his mouth. "Plus it's such a big change. I don't want our duo to split, do you?"

"Definitely not. I think we're great together. Come here," he said, putting his arm out. Carla scooted over on the couch and Nick put his arm around her in a hug. "If touring with Brian is really what you want, then I'll try my best to be gracious and not put up a fight, but I'm not going to be happy about it. Apart from being a great pianist, you're my friend, and I would feel pretty crummy if you left."

 "I don't think I would be very happy either if we separated. Tomorrow I'm supposed to meet with Mr. Pearlman to tell him my decision. As for Brian... " Carla sighed. "He's awfully charming, but I think it's a bit hasty for me to just take off across the country with someone I don't know." She missed the irony of her words. "I want to give Nick and Carl another try. I know that if the two of us keep at it, we'll get our big break."

"Nick and Carl, huh? What about Carla Carter?"

"I'm sure we can work something out." She smiled up at him. "Just don't call me a yahoo ever again."

...

The next day Carla caught the trolley uptown to the cafe where she and Lou Pearlman were supposed to meet. He was sitting at a booth with a cup of coffee waiting for her, a stack of files and contracts at his elbow. "Ah, Miss Carter, good to see you. Please, won't you take a seat? Coffee, tea?"

"No, I'm fine, thank you. I'd like to keep this brief, Mr. Pearlman. While I truly appreciate your offer to sign me to your talent agency, I'm afraid I must regretfully decline it and also Brian's offer to finish the tour with him. Chicago has been most kind to me, and I'd like to continue to try my luck here."

Pearlman's eyebrows arched slightly, but he made very little reaction otherwise. His huge ham fists didn't shake in the least as he grasped his coffee mug and took a long slow drink. "I'm quite surprised, Miss Carter. You seemed amicable to the idea yesterday night. May I ask what changed your mind overnight?"

"I didn't mean to sound overeager last night... It's true, I was more than a little excited after performing with Brian but I made no promises. In fact, I told him that I needed to think about it a bit more." Carla bit her lip. "I realize that this is a wonderful opportunity, and I don't mean to be ungrateful but I simply cannot go without my friend, the guitarist whom I spoke to you about. Since you've made it clear that you have no need of a guitarist on your tour, I must thank you for the offer and respectfully decline it."

"This is very unexpected, Miss Carter.  Brian, especially, was looking forward to having you on tour."

"I know, and I'm sorry." Carla produced an envelope addressed to Brian from her handbag and presented it to Mr. Pearlman. "Please give this letter to him for me. I understand if he's too busy to meet with me again before you leave for the next tour stop, but I hope this letter can explain to him my actions."

Pearlman took the letter from her and stared at it thoughtfully before tucking it away with his papers. "To turn down an offer like this, you must have something big lined up already. What are your future plans?  I daresay you and Nick Carter are in quite the pickle after that incident at the Aragon Ballroom the other night."

"Well, yes, there's that, but Nick is working on getting back in Mr. Winderley's good graces so I--" Carla stopped abruptly. "Wait, I never told you about Nick and me. How did you... Did Brian say something?"

"No, does Brian know as well?" Pearlman asked in surprise. "He never mentioned a word about you being the other half of ‘Nick and Carl.' I was able to deduce it on my own. You let slip about your partner the other day in the recording studio, which made me curious, so I did some digging."

"Then you understand why I can't go on tour with Brian, Mr. Pearlman. After all, I can't just abandon my partner."

"But you simply must if you know what's good for you." With a shrewd look he reached for one of the files in his stack and extracted several black-and-white photographs. Carla gasped when she saw that they had been taken the night before during her argument with Nick. One was of Nick grasping her by the shoulders, a heated expression on his face; the next photo showed them locked in a passionate kiss moments before Carla had been able to free herself by batting Nick on the head with her shoe. But there was no evidence of a struggle in the picture. Carla herself had to admit that in the photograph she appeared to be enjoying the kiss. "I had these developed this morning, Miss Carter. As you can see, these photos are very telling."

"Where did you get these?  How...?"

"In a big city like this you really musn't forget to lock your door behind you," Pearlman chided. "You never know what sort of characters might come by and open the door unnoticed, especially when you're in the middle of a passionate argue with your lover and not paying attention to your surroundings."

"My lover!" Carla choked out. "No, this is a misunderstanding. Nick and I aren't--this simply isn't what it looks like."

"Oh, really? I have a witness account that you two have been holing up together for some time now. Nick has a very loose reputation, and if it gets out that you two have been co-habiting, I'm afraid your reputation will be destroyed. Carla Carter, which I doubt is your real name, will never be able to work anywhere but cabaret revues and sleazy night clubs. As for Nick and Carl, well I'm sure that between Nick's actions at the Aragon and your own shocking behavior, Chicago will be so scandalized that you two will never play in this town again," he told her with a look of barely contained glee.

Carla could feel the blood pounding in her ears. "Are you... blackmailing me? You can't do this to us!"

"Actually, I can. I have more connections than you can imagine. I know people in every big city. I'll run you out of Chicago; I'll run you out of New York. You name it. You'll never be able to get a gig anywhere of quality. I will ruin you." Pearlman showed no compassion when tears formed in Carla's eyes and began to run down her cheeks. "Now, your other option is to forget about Nick Carter altogether and come on the road with me and Brian. Nick can go back to being a womanizing guitarist, and you can be famous. It'd be better for the both of you."

"Why are you doing this?" Carla whispered.

"Because whatever Brian wants, Brian gets. If this is how I have to do it, then this is what I'm going to do."

Pulling a handkerchief from her purse, she dabbed at the corner of her eyes. Carla could see no way out of this mess. She bowed her head and, body shaking, nodded in submission. "Fine, but at least let me say goodbye to Nick," she pleaded.

"While I'm drawing up the paperwork for your contract, my driver will take you back to your hotel to gather your things and say goodbye to him. I'll send along two of my assistants to make sure you don't try any funny business. Meet me at Banner Records in an hour, yes?"

The assistants turned out to be two burly-looking henchmen that Carla could only describe as thugs. One posted himself outside the entrance to Nick and Carla's building, while the other went around to the alleyway in the back. "You got fifteen minutes to pack and be back down here, or we's comin' upstairs to pack for you. The boss told us your room number," the henchman at the front entrance warned Carla, crossing his arms imperiously.

She rushed inside, ran stumbling up four flights of stairs-the building having no elevator-and burst into their hotel suite, startling her partner who had been tuning his guitar. "Nick, I--I messed up," she gasped. "Badly. I'm in soooo much trouble, and I don't know what to do!"

"Slow down." He rose and crossed the living room to her. "Tell me what's going on."

"It's Mr. Pearlman!" Carla said wildly. "He threatened me. He has photos."

"What kind of photos?"

"From last night when the door was open. He got photos of you-of you kissing me. And he knows that we've been living together. He says if I don't leave with him and Brian on tour today, he's going to tell everyone that we're lovers living in sin." Her cheeks burned.

"You and I both know that's not true," Nick reminded her.

"It's our word against his, and you know you have a reputation for being a womanizer. Between the photographs of  us, and the fact that he says he has a witness to prove we've been living together, we don't stand a chance. Mr. Pearlman says he'll expose us, ruin our reputations, use his connections to make sure we can never play here or anywhere ever again. I don't know what to do, Nick!" she cried.

"That bastard," Nick swore. He turned away from her and appeared to be thinking.

"Oh, this is all my fault!" Carla cried. She went to the sideboard where she'd placed Brian's flowers and flung them on the floor. "I never should've agreed to play that show with Brian. What was I thinking? Of course someone was going to figure out my identity."

Nick put up a hand to silence her. "Shut up for a second, will you?" He paced back and forth, chewing on his lip, as he worked out a plan. "Besides playing music," he said slowly, "there's only one other thing I know how to do, and that's run. Chicago is the railroad center of the nation; we can catch a train anywhere. We'll lay low for a bit, figure out what to do. The main thing is to get out of this city and away from Pearlman."

"But his henchmen are guarding the entrance," Carla told him. "They're not going to just let us waltz out of here."

"Then we'll have to leave another way. Change into some traveling clothes and pack your bag.  Be ready to go in ten minutes."

Carla went to her room and flung open the closet. When did I get so many clothes?! she wondered, looking at the different gowns, blouses, and skirts she had acquired during their time in Chicago. She'd made quite a bit of money performing as Carla Carter and had been using the money to build her wardrobe so she would have a variety of outfits to perform in. But there was no way she could take them with her now. With a groan Carla dug around the corner of the closet for her traveling pack, tossing aside an expensive pair of white glittery heels. It was a waste, really. She'd spent all that money and now she had to leave all her pretty things in Chicago.

It could be worse, she reminded herself. You and all these dresses could be forcibly dragged out of here by Mr. Pearlman's thugs. When she thought of it that way, Carla decided that her wardrobe wasn't worth it. She stripped off the blouse and skirt she was wearing, kicked them aside, and reached for a pair of trousers, shirt, and belt. There was no time to bind her torso so she shrugged on a coat to hide her chest and stuffed the bandage wrappings into the bottom of her pack along with the rest of her boy clothes. She didn't have much space left for any feminine articles of clothing, so she picked out a simple day dress and low slingback heels.

Going over to her bed, Carla reached under the mattress and fished out the coins and dollar bills she had stuffed under there. Altogether she had saved a little over ten dollars, after dress shopping and sending money back home to her family. She shoved the money into her pack and then went out to meet Nick. He was waiting for her in the living room, his guitar and traveling pack ready to go. Nick's bag was much larger than Carla's as he also had to carry their camping supplies.

"You ready?" he asked. She nodded and he went over to the window, sliding it open. "I figure we can use the fire escape. The alleyway is kind of narrow, so they shouldn't be able to see us from the street."

"But I saw one of the guys go around to the back of the building," Carla told him.

"Oh, don't worry. We're not going down; we're going up." He pushed his travel pack out the window first and then climbed through with his guitar. "Here, hand me your bag." Nick took Carla's pack and then gave her a hand out onto the fire escape. They were on the fifth floor, and the landing was very narrow and cramped with the both of them standing on it. It was a long drop down. Carla could just make out a black spot moving below, which turned out to be an alley cat slinking among the garbage bins. She shrank back against the wall and tried not to look down again.

Nick shouldered his bag and started climbing the ladder up to the roof ahead of her. As Carla reached for her own bag, she heard the voice of one of the henchmen calling from the hallway. "Eh! Your fifteen minutes is up, lady. Come on out." The doorknob rattled, and Carla hurried up the ladder after Nick. "I don't want no games. Mr. Pearlman said we has to be back at the studio by eleven. I'm giving you ‘til the count of three, and if you don't open this door, I'ma bust it down. One..." She was halfway up the ladder. "Two..." Almost to the top. "Three!" Carla heard the sound of crashing and then the splintering of wood as she climbed over the edge to the roof of the building.

"Come on!" Nick was waiting for her. He grabbed her hand and dragged her across the rooftop to the other end. The roof of the next building was about ten feet away and a five foot drop. "Gimme your bag." He hurled her pack and his onto the opposite rooftop and started to back away from the edge, giving himself room to jump.

"Are you crazy?!" Carla shrieked. "That's at least a fifty foot drop if we miss the jump."

"Well then don't miss. I've made wider jumps than this." Nick adjusted his guitar on his back, and without another word sprinted for the edge of the building.

Carla's heart was in her throat as she watched him take a flying leap and land hard on the next rooftop. She cringed to think what would have happened to Nick's guitar if he'd landed badly, or to him if he hadn't reached the other side at all. But he'd been able to clear the gap with plenty of room to spare, so Carla hoped that as long as she gave herself enough space for a running start, she could make it as well.

"You can do it!" Nick called to her.

She nodded and after a steeling breath took off. "Don't look down, don't look down," she chanted.  Just as Carla reached the edge of the building, she leapt and suddenly she was sailing over the open gap, the wind whistling past her body. She hit the ground hard and her knees buckled.

"I got you." Nick caught her before she collapsed and helped her to get steady on her feet again. "Come on. It'll take them a second to figure out we climbed up instead of down to the street. We can take the fire escape down on the other side of this building."

When the two of them made it safely down to the street, they hailed a taxi to just outside of Grand Central Station where they looked for the next train to depart. Sneaking amongst the waiting trains, their footsteps crunching lightly in the gravel, they tried their best to avoid detection. When they thought they had found the right train, Nick located an unlocked boxcar and together they slid the heavy door open. They clambered inside and shut the door behind them, closing themselves off in complete darkness.

"Think you remember how to do this?" Nick asked.

It had been over a month since they'd stowed away on a train, and Carla had grown accustomed to the comforts of the city and their hotel suite. She wasn't sure if she was ready to go back to a life of backpacking across fields and camping in the woods, but she didn't want to admit so to Nick. "I think so," she said. "Nick? I'm really sorry about this whole mess."

"Hey, don't worry about it. Believe me, it's not the first time I've had to flee a city like this--though I guess that's not a good thing," he added with a laugh.

The train's whistle sounded, and with a lurch it took off from the train station, gradually picking up speed. After a few minutes Nick opened the door a crack and peeked outside. The train was just pulling away from the city, which meant it was safe for them to climb up to the catwalk. Carla assisted Nick in sliding the door open wide, and then took off her traveling pack and set it on the floor. With Nick helping to boost her up and keep her from falling out of the moving train, Carla climbed onto the rooftop. She reached down to grab Nick's guitar and their bags, then offered her hand as Nick pulled himself up to join her. They were greeted by a few other stowaways as they settled in for the ride.

In the distance, Chicago was growing smaller and smaller as the train sped away. Nick put his arm around Carla and they said goodbye to the city where they had watched their dreams rise and fall.

XIII (June 1932)

Roughing it was hard after nearly two months of living in luxury. Carla had gotten used to wearing dresses and enjoying hot baths and pinning her hair up into little pincurls every night. As soon as they got far enough away from Chicago, she handed Nick a pair of shears and let him hack away as much of her curls as he could so she would look like a boy again.

"How does it look?" she asked, running her fingertips through the short hair at the back of her head. The feel of a cool breeze on her bare neck sent chills down her spine.

"You look like Carl again," Nick replied simply, and Carla wasn't sure if she detected disappointment in his voice or not. Then he jokingly added, "I think I might've given you a bald patch in the back, though."

As Nick and Carl once again, they traveled through several cities trying to find work, but their reputation had preceded them. Both the incident at the Aragorn Ballroom and the influence of Lou Pearlman meant that no venue of any caliber would let them perform. To Carla's dissatisfaction they ended up playing in a couple of speakeasies before retreating out to the countryside.

That was when Nick brought up farm work. "The best way to stay fed between gigs is to follow the food. It's hard work, but there's no shortage of farmers who need a hand and you can move around with the harvest." They took on odd jobs helping out on small farms that paid them in potatoes and eggs and whatever else was in their pantries. They were also provided with shelter to cover their heads at night, although usually it was a drafty barn or shed. When they could find better-paying work, it was usually on big harvests where they joined teams of field hands to cultivate acres of land. Although farm work didn't make much money, it kept their bellies full and helped to pass the time while Nick and Carla lay low waiting for everyone in the music scene to forget about their Chicago debacle.

...

The month was June, and as they walked through a cherry orchard to their next destination, Nick explained how to tell the difference between ripe and unripe cherries. "Now, you don't want to pick one that's not ripe yet, or you can crack your teeth pretty badly. Plus, they don't taste so great. Here, see these are good." He stripped some cherries off a tree as they passed by and shared a couple with Carla. The fresh fruit was bursting with dark juices, and Nick had to hold the cherries carefully as he ate to keep them from staining his front.

When he was done, he worked the pit around in his mouth and then spit, aiming at the nearest tree. It bounced off the skinny tree trunk, and he thrust his hands in the air declaring, "Two points!"

Carla laughed and copied him, shooting at a tree close to her. They walked along in this fashion for some time, eating ripe cherries off of trees and shooting out the pits until they had had their fill.

"Didya know, there are actually two kinds of cherry trees - the kind that makes fruit and the kind that just flowers," Nick told her. "Have you ever seen cherry blossoms flowering?" She shook her head, wiping her juice-stained hands on her dark pants. "Well, last year sometime around April I was over in D.C. and they have this area there right by the water called Tidal Basin. It's just filled with cherry blossom trees. In the springtime the trees have all these white and pink flowers, and when they fall, it looks like snow... It's one of the prettiest sights I've ever seen."

"That sounds lovely. Back home, we didn't have many flowers. It was my dad who kept the garden going when he was alive, but Mama doesn't have much of a green thumb, and Paul can't even keep the grass on our front lawn green."

Nick laughed for a second then looked at her seriously. "How is your family doing anyway? I never got to ask you about the last letter you got from them."

"Oh, they're all right. Mama says the money I made back in Chicago really helped to put food on the table, and my brothers and sisters seem to be doing fine."

"They must miss you a lot," he commented, watching her reaction. He saw her stiffen, but then she shrugged.

"Yeah, I guess so."

Nick didn't really understand why Carla worked so hard to support such a thankless bunch. He knew what it was like to have a family whose only goal seemed to be to suck his soul dry. She didn't seem to want to talk about it, though, so he moved on to a new topic. "Hey, did I ever tell you ‘bout that time..."

...

Carla was glad when Nick changed the subject. Her family had gotten used to the steady flow of money she'd been sending them, but when the cash flow dried up, she began to receive fewer and fewer letters from them. The last message had been extremely terse, stating that if Carla didn't have any money to send along then she had better not bother them, as Carla's pregnant mother was very busy trying to take care of a houseful of children.

Of course, Carla had never told Nick the whole truth about her family - the real nature of her father's death or that she'd been kicked out because she had become such a burden to them - and Carla was glad that Nick rarely broached the subject. He never talked about his own family. In fact, he didn't seem to have a family as the only person Carla ever saw him writing to was sweet Mrs. Randall from Belleville.

Now Nick was relating the story of a fruit-throwing fight with a stranger, involving an overripe crop and its very sticky consequences. She lifted her face to laugh at the punch line, glad that Nick was her friend - even if they did have an odd sort of relationship. After fleeing the city, they had gradually melded back into their old ways of Nick calling her Carl all the time and treating her like one of the boys, but there was no denying that she had been able to turn his head when she'd dressed and acted like a girl in Chicago. He had, after all, kissed her-even if it was just to "shut her up" and his reaction to Brian's advances had seemed tinged with jealousy.

Sometimes Carla wondered what would have happened if she hadn't stopped that kiss before it led anywhere. She tried picturing what it would be like if she and Nick were together, but it was hard to imagine. He didn't seem like the type who could stick to one relationship. After all, the ladies loved Nick, and Nick loved the ladies. Sometimes he would date two, three girls at a time. In the end, Carla decided things were better off the way they were, with the two of them as just friends, even if Nick did call her Carl when he didn't have to and treated her like she was just another fellow. After all, none of those girls got to spend as much time with him as she did.

"Hey, Carl," Nick interrupted her ruminations. "It's not just overripe fruit that makes a big mess, you know." Before she could catch on to his meaning, he'd taken a handful of cherries and smeared it across the front of her vest.

"Nick!" Carla shrieked hysterically.

"Oh-ho!" he cried out. "The mute boy screams like a girl!" Nick lifted her newsboy cap from her head and mashed a fat cherry into Carla's short, dark hair. "Tag, you're it!"

"I'm gonna get you for this!" she hollered, stripping the nearest branch and pelting cherries at his retreating figure. They chased each other through the orchard in a game of fruit tag, and when they finally came out the other side of the thicket of trees, both Carla and Nick were panting, messy, and covered in red and purple splotches.

"Stream," Nick wheezed, pointing to a brook in the distance.

"Race... you there," Carla gasped, hands on her knees.

"O... kay," he nodded, but neither of them moved. "Or-" puff "-how about we... walk?"

...

"You know, I think somebody's coming," Nick muttered, stepping in front of Carla to shield her from view. They were bathing in the riverbank clad only in woven boxer shorts, and Nick thought Carla's tightly bandaged chest would be noticeably peculiar were anyone to approach them.  He reached for their bags and handed her a shirt, which she buttoned on quickly.

Nick cupped his hands to his mouth and raised a shout at the cluster of trees trembling downstream. "HELLO! SOMEBODY THERE?"

"Hello!" called back a man several years older than Nick as he stepped into the clearing. The man had swarthy, olive-colored skin, dark curly hair, and a bushy beard. Two young women hid behind him, peeking around his arms at Nick and Carla on the riverbank. "I thought I heard someone talking over here..." The man walked closer and exclaimed suddenly, "Well, I'll be. Girls, this here is Nick Carter!"

Nick looked at him closely and then his face lit up. "Howard Dwaine! Well, Howie D, it's been a while!  Almost didn't recognize you there. You grew a beard since I saw you last." He heard the girls giggle at his lack of clothing and grabbed his garments off the shore.  "Oh, if you'll excuse me, I'll be getting dressed. This is my buddy Carl Miner," Nick motioned back at Carla, who'd already gotten out of the water and into some pants.  "He's a mute so he doesn't speak, but he can hear y'all just fine.  Carl, this is Howard Dorough.  He travels as a farm laborer, too."

Carla nodded at the man, who extended his hand. "Call me Howie.  These two here are my sisters, Caroline and Polly."  The entire lot shook hands around.

"I know you said before that you had some sisters my age, but this is the first time I've ever seen you with them," Nick noted as he and Carla grabbed their packs and followed Howie and the girls through the trees.

"This is the first time I've ever had them with me.  We've been traveling on foot ‘cause I'd be a fool to let them near the rails." Nick and Carla exchanged looks as Howie continued, "If I had any choice, though, they would still be back at home.  Unfortunately things got so bad that we needed them to work."

"That's the way of the world," Nick nodded with understanding.  "So, you guys camped around here?"

"Yeah, you should join us for the night.  We found a jungle somebody set up just along this path.  Good place, wide area with the stream running down to a pond below it.  We were just about to go fishing when I heard you," Howie said, leading them down a trail. "I swear your mouth is as big and loud as ever, Carter."

"Hey!" Before he could object, his attention was grabbed by the size of the jungle they entered.  Each traveler had added something to the clearing until it had become a well-established campsite. All the brush and loose dirt had been swept away, leaving plenty of room to pitch a tent. A worn straw broom leaned against a tree for sweeping. There was also a fire ring with stones piled all around it that was topped with a makeshift grate for cooking. Someone had even strung a line up between trees and left clothespins for hanging laundry. "Wow..."  Nick gave a low whistle.  "Quite a place you found here.  You and the girls camped down there?" he noticed where a couple of pup tents had been erected beneath the trees.  "Then Carl and I will take this end.  Come on, Carl.  Let's get settled so we can meet them at the pond for some fishing."

"We'll be right down that path," Howie indicated as he and his sisters grabbed a couple of fishing poles and headed down to the fishing pond.

...

"Oh!  Oh, you almost got it, Caroline! Come on, just give the rod a good pull. Th-there you go. Careful...  careful...  all right!" Carla looked over from her fishing spot further downriver to see Nick and Howie's sister reeling in a lively trout. She turned to Polly beside her, who was beaming happily.

"Wow, Carl, they got another one!" She had a bright smile and large, shining eyes. "They sure are pulling a lot in. Not as many as you, though! How do you do it?"

Carla smiled back and shrugged earnestly. She wasn't really catching any, but Howie's sister seemed to think she was the greatest angler in the world. Polly responded excitedly every time the rod dipped from a fish nibble and cheered with enthusiasm whenever one was caught. Over the girl's shoulder, Carla could see Nick and Caroline holding up their prize. Nick saw her watching them and called out, "Oy, Carl! I think we've got enough. Bring it in now, will you?"

Carla reeled in the line and grabbed her string of fish while Polly carried the fishing pole to where the others were sitting. Nick and Howie were on the shore with their pocket knives, scaling and gutting the fish to be cooked. Pulling out her own knife, Carla joined them while Howie's sisters watched, alternately grimacing in disgust and oohing and ahhing at the dexterity of the boys. After cleaning the fish, the group packed up and headed back to camp.

...

Nick stretched and rubbed his belly after a good supper of grilled trout. "Hey, how about some music?" he suggested.  Nick grabbed his guitar from the tent and handed it to Carla, whom he had been teaching a few songs.  "Here, you play, and me and Howie'll sing. It'll give you a chance to practice." Carla nodded and checked that the guitar was in tune.

"Now, my buddy is kinda new to playing the guitar, so cut him some slack," Nick told them. "But I think you'll like it.  He's a fast learner and pretty good. Ready, Carl?"

She nodded and began to play. As the night deepened and the stars grew brighter, a sense of peace settled over the camp. The girls sat with their brother on one side of the fire making moon eyes at the boys across from them. It was getting late when Polly jumped up, remembering that she'd left her hat back on the shore. "Can you come with me, Carl?"

Carla shrugged, setting down the guitar, and followed her through the brush.

"It's pretty late," Nick said once they had disappeared. "I think I'll turn in for the night."

As he put his guitar back into its case, Nick heard Howie say to himself, "You know, I don't remember her bringing a hat with her this morning."

Minutes later, the bushes shook wildly as Carla came tearing back to the campfire like a bat out of hell.  Polly followed not too far behind, though at a much more sedate pace, holding up her hands and shrugging.

Nick looked up, and Carla grabbed him by the arm, tugging him away to their side of the jungle. "Hey, what's wrong kid?" he asked.  "Stop it. You're practically yanking my arm out. What happened?" he stopped her in front of their tent, making sure that no one was around.

"She kissed me!" Carla hissed.

"Polly?" Nick was dumbfounded for a moment and then laughed.  Loudly.  He couldn't resist.  "Well, you gotta admit, Carl, you make a really pretty boy."

"Ugh!" She pushed him so hard that Nick hit the ground.  His bottom was quite sore for days after that.