Catch a Rising Star (7 page)

“I’ll definitely count on you to be my watchdogs. I do not want to backslide or turn out to be a big jerk like Rachel Savage—like
that’s really her real name anyway. Who has a name like ‘Savage’?”

“Fred from
The Wonder Years.
And his brother Ben from
Boy Meets World
.”

A couple of good points. Still I’m just stubborn enough to maintain my opinion. “Well, they don’t have a sister named Rachel.”
I’m almost positive of that fact—er—theory.

Rachel plays in a rival soap and was up for the same Emmy I was that year. Neither of us won, but she went on to beat me out
of the Soap Opera Award for Best Actress that year. She gloated in the bathroom later. Which I thought showed her utter lack
of class. Laini and Dancy, who were there as my guests, saw the whole exchange and totally agreed with me. No class. None
whatsoever. But since she’s such a fabulous actress, not many people see through that fakey sweet façade of hers—and those
of us who do know better than to bring attention to it. That would just make us look jealous, which we sooo aren’t.

Dancy gives me a smart little nod. “All right. Then that’s our code word.
Savage
.”

“Huh?”

“You know. If you do something diva-ish or just not like you, I’ll say something like, ‘Stop acting so Savage.’ And you’ll
know what I mean but no one else will, except Laini, so you won’t be embarrassed.”

Reluctantly, I give her a nod. I mean it’s not going to happen. I’ve grown a lot since then. But whatever will give her peace
of mind. “Well, I guess that would work.”

“Okay, good. I’ll let Laini know the code.”

I can already tell Miss Code Word is expecting to be using the “Savage” decoy a lot. Sheesh. She must really have faith in
me.

During the next four weeks while I’m recovering, industry buzz starts to circulate about the impending return of Felicia Fontaine.
I’ve been featured in
Soap Opera Digest
and
Soap Opera Weekly
and have been scheduled to appear on
The View
. I wonder which of the ladies will still be around to do the interview. They must really think Felicia’s return will be a
splash.

I haven’t started filming my scenes yet since it’ll take another month to finish wrapping up my on-screen husband Rudolph’s
current relationship. I don’t think they’re killing her off. I’ve heard through the grapevine (i.e., Freddie) that she will
be sailing away on a yacht—despite the fact that
Legacy
is supposedly set in a Midwestern town, not a seaport—but whatever floats their boat (pun intended) works for me. Just get
her out of there so I can come back.

The really great news is that I’ve lost about ten of my twenty extra pounds. The bad news is that I’ve been starving myself
to do it, so I don’t have much energy. And because of this weight loss, Mom’s not at all happy with my two roommates. Go figure.
She doesn’t hesitate to share her displeasure as she stands in our living room glaring at us like she’s the principal and
we just ran the science teacher’s underwear up the flagpole. Don’t ask me why he didn’t have them on—this is only an example
of how scowly Mom is right now.

“Just look at her,” she says, giving them a dressing-down that I know so well. “You promised to take care of her and just
look. She’s too skinny, if you ask me.”

“Six weeks ago you said I was fat, Mother.”

Mom’s lungs pull in all the extra air from the room as she gasps. “I most certainly did not say you were fat.”

“Oh, you so did too.” I shoot my eyes over to Laini. “Didn’t she? That night they came for dinner?”

Laini looks sick. Like a deer hypnotized by headlights. Her eyes are wide with fright. She shakes her head as if to say, “If
you love me, leave me out of this.”

Fine,
I say back with my eyes.
Be a big fat chicken!

“I never, ever said you were fat,” Mom reiterates, obviously bolstered by Benedict Arnold’s silence. “I only asked about that
gym membership you weren’t using.”

I know, I know. I’m an ungrateful wretch of a daughter. But need I remind her that I never asked for the stupid membership?

“Is this how it’s going to be now that you’re on that show again?” she asks.

“How what’s going to be?” I try to stay calm, cool, and collected. Just like the
Mona Lisa
. Unshakable. I even give a little smile, but that backfires.

“You think this is funny?” Mom’s voice shakes a little. “Honestly, Tabitha. I don’t like this side of you at all. Maybe it’s
not a good idea for you to go back on television if it’s already affecting your personality for the worse. You’ll be missing
church soon and going to those wild parties.”

Okay, that “wild party” comment elicits a genuine smirk from me, and my mother’s chest puffs out like she’s about to blow
venom. “Mom, I’m sorry. Seriously, I don’t think anything is funny.” Well,
Monty Python and the Holy Grail—
that’s funny. Oh, and of course all the episodes of
Friends
, especially the one where Phoebe first sings “Smelly Cat.” And the jellyfish episode. Oh! And that last scene in
A Christmas Story.
Where the Chinese staff tries to sing “Deck the Halls.”

Fa ra ra ra ra . . .

Anyway, I digress. The main point I’m trying to make is that I don’t think this is a laughing matter. “I’m sorry, Mother.
I wasn’t laughing.” How do I tell her I was shooting for serene but it didn’t work so well? Note to self: practice facial
expressions in mirror. Especially the expression of serenity as it apparently makes me look like I’m smirking.

“Mom, honestly. I’m sorry if I was rude, but I’m not at all too skinny. According to my scales I need to lose another ten
pounds at least.”

Mom gives me a once-over. “What size?”

“Huh?”

“What size are those jeans?”

This is outrageous. Why should I have to put up with this interference into my private life? I’m a grown woman for crying
out loud. Almost thirty years old. I don’t have to tell her what size I wear. But when she looks at me like that, I just—

“Eight.”

She gives another scowl and shakes her head. “And you want to lose another ten pounds?”

“I need to be at least a size six, preferably a four—since there’s no way my body is going to shrink to a two or a zero—but
I think the last ten pounds will get me to a four, and I can tone up the rest with Pilates.” And I’ll still be the fattest
female under fifty on the show.

“Listen to yourself. You’ll be downright sickly if you try to lose another pound. Be proud of those curves. Look at Marilyn
Monroe.”

“You mean the dead one?”

She scowls. “What about that one brunette? Kirstie Alley? She’s curvy—downright fat.”

I grin—can’t help it. “Not anymore. ‘One eight hundred call Jenny.’”

“What are you talking about? Oh!” Mom’s eyes go big. “That was her?”

“Um-hum.”

“She looks good, doesn’t she?”

Case in point.

I’m not arguing with her anymore. “Look, Ma, I’m an adult. If I think I should lose a few pounds, I have the right to do it
without you yelling at my friends or me.” I say that with all the respect I can muster. I don’t want to hurt my mom, but come
on… I’m an adult.

Her eyes narrow like she’s going to send me to my room, then she gives a huff. “Just don’t come crying to me when you’re all
skin and bones and the tabloids are having a field day.”

O-kay, how about I change the subject? “So, how are Dad and the twins?”

The twins being Michelle (whom we call Shelly) and Michael, my twenty-five-year-old siblings. Both live at home with our parents
and neither has a decent job.

Mom seems as willing as I am to let the subject of my independence drop. She gives a wave. “Michael just moved into an apartment
close to his college with two other students.”

“He did? No one told me he was moving out.”

Mom rubs her forehead the way she does when she’s stressed. “We didn’t want to believe it until we saw it materialize. You
know we’ve been through that song and dance before. But last night he moved his things.”

“Even that old record player with the eight track?”

Her face clouds. “Well, no. Not that. Or the eight track collection. But I told him if he doesn’t come get it in two weeks,
I’m putting it on the curb for the garbage truck to pick up.”

Sure she will. But I smile and nod. What’s it going to hurt to let her think I’m giving her the benefit of the doubt?

“Good for him for finally growing up. How’s Shelly? Did she get that job in Doctor Payne’s”—don’t go there, it’s been done
over and over and isn’t funny anymore—“office?”

“She did get the job. Right after he told her she’s pregnant.”

“
What?
”

A heavy sigh blasts from her chest. “Yep. I always thought if one of my daughters got pregnant out of wedlock it would be
…”

Okay, she stops herself, but was it really soon enough? I mean gee whiz already.

“Thanks a lot, Mom.”

“I’m sorry. It’s just that you were always the rebellious one—still are. Shelly’s always done exactly what we’ve expected
of her.”

“Obviously not
everything
,” I sass because I’m feeling a little bit raw over my character assassination. She thinks just because I’m independent and
don’t want my parents running my life at twenty-nine years old that I go around saying yes to anyone who wants to get me in
the sack? Well, I don’t.

“Yes, well, that’s obvious, isn’t it? At least with you I always knew what to expect.”

“You did?”

She gives me a rueful smile. “Yes, exactly the opposite of what we told you to do.”

Ouch. Let it go, Tabby. Just let it go. “How far along is Shelly?”

“Two months.”

“How did this happen?”

Mom gives me the look, and my face goes hot. “You know what I mean.”

She heaves a sigh. “We hardly know anything about this Drew fellow. Apparently, he’s some sort of actor or model or something
unstable like that.”

Because actor must equate with unstable. I’m slightly offended.

I mean, isn’t it enough that she insults me to my face on a regular basis? Must she also do it subconsciously? I’m this close
to speaking up in my defense and the defense of all responsible working actors, but then I decide, why even bother? Why waste
my mojo on an attitude that is never going to change? “Is Shelly getting married to this guy?”

Mom’s frown deepens. “Turns out her boyfriend already has another girlfriend. And he’s chosen to run off with the one he didn’t
get pregnant.”

I feel a gasp coming on, and I’m too shocked to suppress it. “Is Shelly ever going to get it together and stop screwing up
her life?”

Mom gives me a stern look, and I know I’ve crossed a line at the mere hint of disapproval of my sister.

“Be careful of the beam in your own eye, young lady.”

Sigh. I guess out-of-wedlock babies must be a splinter in my sister’s eye while my obvious need to drop a few pounds is a
beam.

“Okay, Ma. Didn’t mean to criticize.” By pointing out the obvious. “How’s Daddy?”

“He isn’t feeling well. The doctor insists he needs to lose weight, but he’s having a terrible time sticking to a diet.” Her
face twists with worry. “I find food wrappers all over the house. The man is hiding food from me. Isn’t that odd?”

“It’s an addiction, Mom. You have to help him. Not harp on him.”

As soon as the words leave my mouth, I regret it. Mom’s face crumples. “So now I shouldn’t worry about fat around his heart?
I don’t do anything right, do I?”

I know how she feels. And yes, she might be a little melodramatic at the moment, but apparently she’s having a bit of a hard
day. My heart goes out to her. You know, everyone has a right to be comforted on days like this.

I walk across the room and put my arms around her slim body. She melts into me, this strong woman I’ve pulled against my whole
life. I feel terrible that I’ve popped off with my opinion and hurt her deeply. “I’m sorry, Mom. Of course you should be concerned
about Dad. Make him do whatever the doctor says.”

I should just tape my mouth shut. Then it can’t do any damage.

c
an’t believe this!”

I totally can’t believe what I’m reading.

“What’s up?” Laini’s tiny feet pad into the living room at the sound of my outburst. Once again the apartment smells of great
baking. Tonight, Laini is trying her hand at apple turnovers, and I’m so glad because I really need something carb-laden to
take the edge off after reading the drivel in front of me.

“This script Julie had couriered over,” I say smacking the pages with the back of my hand. “It’s total garbage.”

“What do you mean? I thought Julie was a great writer.”

“She is!” Personality notwithstanding. “She’s got to be doing this on purpose.”

Laini hands me a small plate with a warm turnover. “Here, I’ll trade you. Let me read that while you try the recipe.”

“Deal. I’d rather eat anyway.”

I hand her the script and dive into the warm, fruity sweetness surrounded by baked dough. Laini should really be a baker.

When I look up from the turnover, Laini’s flipping through the pages, a frown creasing her brow. “Okay, where are your lines?”

“I don’t have any,” I say glumly and shove another bite in my mouth.

“You have a week’s worth of script and not one line?” She turns her incredulous gaze to mine. “That stinks.”

“Tell me about it.” I point to the script with my fork. “Look at page six.”

She turns a couple of pages and reads aloud. “Felicia’s eyes roll beneath her closed lids at the sound of her sister’s voice.”

“That’s all the acting I do all week. Otherwise, I just lay there and try not to laugh at the bad dialogue between the nurses.”

“So Felicia’s just been wrapped up in Legacy, Illinois, in the hospital where her sister works for three years?”

“I know…”

“It just seems like when they change the bandages, someone would have recognized her. Or what about her wedding ring?”