Kiss And Blog (24 page)

S
UBJECT
: Y
OUR
OFFER

Dear Mr. Burke,

Thank you for your interest in my blog, as well as your offer of representation. I’m very interested in hearing more about your thoughts and ideas, and just what kind of project you have in mind. Hardcover? Paperback? Podcast?

Please feel free to contact me at your earliest convenience.

Sincerely,

Eleanor Rigby

Twenty-five

It’s been two days. Two days since my mom tricked me into seeing Rey. Two days since Sloane revealed herself to be an even worse person than even I could have imagined. Two days since my dad called and asked if I’d, “Please just take a day or two to think about making a brief appearance in
ACT II,
season two, before you say no and hang up without giving it any real thought.” Two days since Rey left a message, seconds after discovering I’d fled out the back door, and asked (almost in a begging kind of way) for me to
please
call him back. Two days since I e-mailed that Calvin Burke guy who’s yet to e-mail me back.

Which also means it’s Christmas.

“Oh, Winter, thank you!” Autumn says, getting up to hug me, and looking truly psyched about the art book and the new set of acrylic paints I bought her the day before yesterday.

I trace my finger over the shiny glass beads on the bracelet she made (that matches the necklace she crafted for my birthday),
then I smile at my mom who really outdid herself this year by giving both Autumn and me our very own laptops.

“I thought you might be sick of sharing that tired old secondhand computer.” She shrugged, her eyes showing just how pleased she is that we’re happy.

And then while we’re busy polishing off the remaining bits of our family’s version of a traditional Christmas breakfast, consisting of free-range egg white omelets, tofu scramble, organic strawberries, whole grain muffins, and two pots of shade-grown coffee, my mom looks at us both and drops a bomb. “Winter, Autumn,” she says, eyes fixed and unwavering. “I want you both to know that I’m planning to close the café for several weeks for renovations.” She takes a sip of her coffee and watches us carefully.

Autumn and I both stare at her, our eyes wide. “Are you serious?” we ask.

She takes a sip of fresh-squeezed, organic, heavy-on-the- pulp orange juice, and nods. “Dave has already drawn up the plans. We’re taking over the space next door, so I can expand the number of tables and still have enough room for a small stage for readings, and concerts and such. And if everything goes as planned, we should start knocking down walls the day after New Year’s.”

“But, how different is it going to be?” I ask, feeling kind of put off by all this. I mean, my mom’s always been kind of stuck in the seventies, not to mention stuck in her ideas. And words like
makeover
and
renovation
have never been part of her everyday vocabulary (unless of course she’s talking about the government). But looking at her now, I mean really looking at her, I suddenly realize that things have been changing for quite some time, only I’ve been too self-absorbed and wrapped up in my own dramas to really stop and take notice.

But now I can see how her lips are shining with something that looks a little more substantial than her usual, haphazard
swipe of Burt’s Bees Balm, and how she no longer smells like a freshly squeezed batch of patchouli oil, but instead of something lighter, more floral, with just the tiniest hint of citrus. And if I’m not mistaken, she might even have added a little product to her hair, because now that I’m looking at it, I can see how her curls are much softer, and way more defined and separated (as opposed to her usual spray of frizz). I mean, don’t get me wrong, she’s still my granola-chomping, tree-hugging, hairy-legged mom. She’s just a better groomed, slightly renovated version.

And then I wonder if it’s because of Dave. I mean, it’s like she and Autumn and Dave have become this little family unit, going to the Winter Art Festival, attending First Thursday Art Walk, heck, they even took a trip to L.A. to check out the new Getty Villa Museum. And where was I while all of this family bonding was taking place? I was hunkered down in my room, bed curtain drawn, doing my very best to avoid any and all human contact.

“So, because New Year’s is all about saying good-bye to the old and ringing in the new, I thought we’d start clearing out the space a little early, and just throw ourselves a big old party! Just a big huge bash where we can move away from the past and just really revel in the coming new year, what do you think?” She looks at us excitedly.

Um, since when does she use words like
revel
and
bash?
And when did she look forward to “moving away from the past”? I mean, she’s usually hanging on to the past with both hands, and it’s like a brutal game of tug-of-war to get her to let go!
But I don’t say any of that. Instead, I just go, “Um, sounds okay, I guess.” And even though I’m fully aware of how it actually sounds far better than just “okay,” this is a whole lot of change in a short period of time, and it’s going to take a little longer than five minutes for me to adjust.

But as always, the ever excited, open-to-everything Autumn just starts jumping up and down in her seat, with her
usual uninhibited display of energy. “Cool! Can I invite everyone?” she asks hopefully.

And when I look at her, I realize how she means just exactly that. Like she truly believes that everyone in her whole freaking school, staff members and custodians included, is her friend.

So, of course, my mom goes, “Invite anyone you want! The more the merrier! In fact, I forgot to mention this, but Rey and his band have agreed to provide the entertainment. Which, by the way, I hear you’re very much missed on backup these days, young lady,” she says, winking at me and smiling.

Um, since when does my mom wink ? Or make any kind of cutesy facial expressions for that matter?

And then suddenly I realize—this is the
Mom
part of the birthday wish. And even though I’d originally only hoped for a slightly modified version, once again, my lack of specificity lead me to this—a complete and total overhaul!

And just as I’m about to mumble the same lame excuse for the totally valid and completely logical reason as to why I’ve been an absentee backup singer, the doorbell rings.

And as my mom gets up to answer it, Autumn and I decide to split the last muffin.

Then just as I pop a big ol’ piece into my mouth, I hear my mom go, “Oh, Dave!”

And when she comes back into the room, she’s wearing a beautiful conflict-free diamond engagement ring.

THE GOSPEL OF ELEANOR RIGBY

Sugar, We’re Going Down

Yesterday I finally answered Princess Pink’s urgent 911 call and allowed her to invite herself to my party. And then, just to keep up the appearance of friendship that never, ever faltered, just to banish any lingering suspicion I might have had about the sketchy intentions behind her sudden renewed interest in me—she told me a secret. Can you even believe it? So I guess it’s safe to assume that’s she’s not exactly a reader of this blog.

But I know the real reason she wants to come. And believe me, it has nothing to do with her getting suddenly sentimental and singing our made-up (slightly dirty) lyrics to “Auld Lang Syne” that we co- wrote in the seventh grade. Nope, the reason she wants to come is because Gift Bag will be there. Remember him? The one I so recklessly, foolishly gave away all those months ago? Well, now, apparently, Princess Pink plans to come to my party so that she can walk away with her very own Gift Bag. And hey, who am I to stop her from trying?

And so, The List:

21.  Rumor has it that P. P. exacted revenge on Last Name when she called his ex (who it turns out was not really his ex as
they were merely “on a break”) and sent her a photo of his retreating bare ass, captured on her camera phone as he headed for the shower. When Ex, who not only considered herself
not
single (she was
sure
they could work it out), but also as a sort of mentor to P. P., received the photo, she went absolutely, totally, and completely berserk. Chaos ensued, breakups occurred, recriminations were yelled, and all the cheerleaders from frosh/soph to varsity were completely divided. But as the holidays approached tempers softened, anger eased, and both original couples decided to forgive and forget as they tentatively, yet happily, reunited. With P. P. staying with Captain World just long enough to unwrap his (much hinted for) present, before dumping him via e-mail sometime during the early morning hours of December 26.

Good tidings to you, too!

Eleanor Rigby

Twenty-six

By Friday when I still haven’t heard from Mr. Calvin Burke, agent to the most glittering of literati, I’m so over myself, so sick of obsessively checking my e-mail, and rereading his original message over and over again, searching for hidden meanings in his words and punctuation choices, and wondering if it’s all been some kind of mistake, hoax, or even worse, just a foolish, impulsive offer that he now sincerely regrets ever making, that I begin to wonder if maybe, perhaps,
I
should be the one changing my mind.

I mean, obviously I’d chosen to move forward in a major fit of rage and vengeance. And I think we all know how you pretty much can’t find a worse time to make a life-defining decision. And even though it’s obvious that Sloane is a self-serving brat, and probably deserves to be exposed for the awful person that she truly is, there’s still this growing part of me that’s more than a little freaked by all this, because let’s face it, exposing Sloane also means exposing
me.

And who’s to say she won’t retaliate and tell a few of my own secrets?

So with my head feeling all foggy and bloated with the weight of all that, I decide to head over to the café and hang out for a while. I mean, I hadn’t been there since the day I heard Sloane plotting a hostile takeover on my number one crush (well, actually number two, right after Joaquin Phoenix). And as my mom has been so busy lately, with all the packing and moving and just trying to get everything ready for the big renovation and party, I figure the least I can do is show up, make some small talk, and maybe even pitch in and help.

But when I walk inside, I hardly recognize the place. Because even though it’s barely been a week, the whole entire space has been completely transformed. I mean, the floors have been stripped down to their final layer of concrete, and now with all the fixtures and furnishings gone, but with the antique chandeliers still hanging, it actually looks pretty cool. Kind of industrial chic, and not at all shabby like you might think. And since the walls have been stripped completely bare of all of their formerly down-home, shrine signage to dorky songs from the seventies, they’re now serving as these huge floor-to-ceiling canvases that are completely covered in a riot of color, making for the most amazing, continuous, wall-to- wall mural, that based on a limited amount of knowledge salvaged from long-ago childhood art classes, seems to be telling an epic tale of life, beauty, truth, creation, celebration, and rebirth.

And as I stand there gazing at it, trying to soak it all up and take it all in, the person who seems most likely to be responsible for all of this approaches me with a wet paintbrush that’s dripping a trail of cobalt blue, and inadvertently turning the concrete floor into a Jackson Pollock canvas.

“Hey,” I say, gazing from him to the still wet walls. “Is my mom around?”

But skinny smoker dude just shakes his head, and then nods toward the wall before us. “So? What do you think?” he asks, looking at me with his head cocked to the side, like he just might actually consider my completely amateur, perhaps even bogus, opinion.

I gaze at the swirls of color so vibrant they almost seem to be pulsating, then I look at him and go, “I don’t even know the right words. It’s completely amazing. But it’s more than that.” I stop and stare at the walls and shrug. “I just can’t believe how beautiful it is,” I finally say, looking at him in wonder.

He just nods.

“But . . . aren’t you kind of sad to know that in just five more days it’ll all be knocked down? Reduced to a pile of dust and memory?” I gaze back and forth, between the walls and him, trying to imagine the moment when all of this beauty he worked so hard to create will no longer exist.

But he just looks at me, squinting one eye and staring into mine. “Memories are the only things we really own, the only things that stay constant.” He shrugs. “Everything else becomes dust.”

And I just stand there, looking at him. And then I gaze once more at these incredible walls. And then I turn and head for the door.

Because I finally know what I have to do.

And just as I step outside, I turn back and poke my head in. “Um, I was just wondering, well, I don’t even know your real name,” I say, embarrassed to finally be admitting this.

But he just looks at me and nods. “George,” he says, turning back toward the wall, lifting his brush to continue his story.

F
ROM
: E
LEANOR
R
IGBY

T
O
: C
ALVIN
B
URKE

S
UBJECT
: Y
OUR OFFER

Dear Mr. Burke,

I regret to inform you that for personal reasons I cannot divulge at this time, I am no longer able to accept your offer. Though I do thank you for thinking of me, and wish you all the best in your future projects.