Messy (10 page)

Brooke refilled her glass of almond milk and slid back onto the brushed metal stool. The Berlin family kitchen was like a showpiece from a brochure, with Granny Smith
apple–colored subway tile on the walls under the cabinets, white granite countertops, and modern metal furniture that complemented both the stainless-steel appliances and Brick’s dizzying array of gadgets. They had an exotic coffeemaker whose nozzles and protuberances made it look like a Hindu deity; a machine that only existed to halve giant things, like butternut squashes or watermelons; a jar opener, a somewhat sarcastic gift from Brick’s new trainer; and about ten things she knew Brick had bought from infomercials, including something called the Bacon Genie. The refrigerator was covered in calendars and diet plans, because Brick tried almost every fad diet known to man, including one that mandated eating nothing but homemade Fig Newtons. Brooke liked hanging out in the kitchen while the cook was on break before dinner, mostly because she enjoyed imagining herself as a young Gwyneth Paltrow, possessed of unforeseen culinary talents that would delight and amaze her soon-to-be-legions of fans, should she ever learn how to turn on the stove.

Today she didn’t take any joy in imagining herself truffle-hunting with Mario Batali, though, because she was there waiting for Brick. He’d told her he wanted to talk, and it
had
to be about the blog, which she had
maybe
sort of forgotten to mention to him. Well, that wasn’t strictly true. She had in passing expressed an interest in online self-publishing, and used the word
empire
, and Brick had made approving noises that she’d decided to
consider a full endorsement. In truth, though, bringing it up while he was trying to grate a Pure Protein bar over his granola was a strategic move: It absolved her of any perceived lies of omission, but it also virtually guaranteed he hadn’t heard or absorbed the words and therefore he wouldn’t say anything to her that she didn’t want to hear. Like her least favorite word,
No
.

Brooke nervously snuck a Soft Batch cookie out of the bag tucked away on the shelf by her knees and shoved it into her mouth. This conversation might not go as smoothly as that one had. It hadn’t even occurred to Brooke until Max said something that maybe the blog’s candor was a problem—that the observations about Moxie Stilts, however funny and accurate, would mess up Brick’s project in development or make him an enemy he didn’t want. Brooke hated it when her father was mad at her, not least because he had a bad habit of coming up with punishments that he considered creative and groundbreaking and Brooke considered social homicide.

Her phone buzzed. It was an alert letting her know she had five more comments on the blog. That made thirty today. On Day One. Surely Brick couldn’t be upset if her blog turned into a raging success.

“Brookie,” her father’s voice boomed, on cue. “Are you in there? It’s time for us to have that talk.”

Brick bounded into the room (there was no door, but he had an energetic way of bursting through empty space, as if he were always two seconds away from yelling, “Ta-da!”).
Opening the fridge, he grabbed a milk carton and a pre-portioned Ziploc bag that contained fresh berries, some powder, what looked like lawn clippings, and a melon baller–size scoop of peanut butter, all of which he scraped into the blender.

“How was school today?” he asked.

“Fumf,” Brooke said, through a mouthful of cookie that stubbornly wasn’t getting any smaller.

“Having a healthy snack, I hope,” he said, pulsing the blender.

Brooke closed her eyes, chewed hard, and swallowed. “Took too big a bite of bran–acai berry muffin,” she lied. “It was just so delicious.”

Brick beamed and poured his smoothie into a glass. “Honey, I could talk about the mighty acai berry all day, but let’s not beat around the bush,” he said. “Caroline Goldberg showed me your blog.”

Brooke took a deep breath and decided to meet his eyes. “I should have told you about it,” she began.

“I also got a call from Travis Stilts telling me that Moxie is furious and doesn’t feel she can work on
Kamikaze Dad
under the circumstances.”

Brooke snorted before she could help herself. “Maybe she should’ve thought of that before she basically gave the entire room a lap dance.”

“That is true,” Brick said. “But it doesn’t change the fact that what you do reflects on me.”

Her phone buzzed. Brooke chanced a peek. Fifty
comments. She swallowed her excitement and tried to focus on defusing the matter at hand.

“You’re right, Daddy, and I didn’t think about that,” Brooke said, then took another deep breath and launched into her prepared speech. “But you have to understand, I can’t sit idly by while my peers grapple with the trappings of fame. As a uniquely well-adjusted child of the industry, thanks to your sterling parental efforts, I think it’s my duty to shine the light of truth on their struggles. It might heal them, and, more important, help others.”

She finished this by leaning slightly forward, her hands spread on the countertop as if drawn there by the intensity of her do-gooder message. If there was one thing Brooke Berlin could do, it was monologue.

“This town only likes brutal honesty when it’s behind people’s backs,” Brick said, sipping his smoothie. “You should have prepared me. I didn’t like hearing about this from Caroline. And I didn’t like even having to consider apologizing to Travis Stilts. That man was an athlete, and he accepted a canned-biscuit endorsement! Do you know how many calories are in those things?”

“I know, Daddy. I’m sorry.”

“Luckily, Travis Stilts is a desperate washed-up baseball player who just let his daughter parade half-naked in front of most of Hollywood,” Brick continued. “Who is he to question our integrity? I have three People’s Choice awards. How’s
that
for integrity?”

Brooke nodded vigorously, with a twinge of relief, as
Brick took another swig of his shake. If Brick was speechifying, it meant he wasn’t brainstorming an elaborate punishment.

“So, instead of trying to make amends, I told him I had no interest in doing business with someone who is more interested in what
my
child is doing than his own,” Brick said, after he swallowed.

“Also, I didn’t lie,” Brooke jumped in. “She
did
all that stuff. I was just telling the truth.”

“Exactly,” Brick said. “And it got me to thinking, there are worse things in the world than being known for someone who does not stand for baloney. Plus, you saved me a fortune in a contract buyout, since we don’t want
Kamikaze Dad
associated with someone who doesn’t wear pants.”

“That’s… great,” Brooke offered.

“It can be a killer to get a reputation as someone who won’t play the game of sweeping the ugly stuff under the rug,” Brick said. He reached over and took her hand. “But I will not be killed. Instead we will battle for the truth. For justice. Sunshine, your writing is going to take the town by storm! No, the world! This could be huge!”

Brooke winced as a Brick gestured dramatically and took her arm with him. “Well, I’d rather simply be an example to others,” she said, casting her eyes down modestly, “but of course if fame should come…”

“My daughter, an essayist!” Brick continued, as if he hadn’t even heard her. “A freedom fighter!”

“That’s true,” Brooke said, feeling herself glow. “I don’t like to use the word
heroic
, but…”

“Who’s heroic?” Molly asked, bouncing into the kitchen and grabbing a Naked juice from the fridge.

“Your sister,” Brick said. “She has an Internet blog!”

“It’s just called a blog, Daddy,” Brooke said.

“Ah, yes, the blog,” Molly said. “It has like seventy comments now.”

“It does?” Brooke squeaked. “I mean, it does. Of course it does.”

“I sent it to all my buddies at the gym, and the guys who mix my bronzer,” Brick said. “You would not
believe
their client list. You’re going to be huge! A star who’s a scholar!” He raised his smoothie glass. “To Brookie. Celebrity role model of our time.”

Molly did a near-perfect spit-take of her juice. Brooke’s phone buzzed. Seventy-five. She felt a frisson of excitement shoot through her veins.

“I’ll drink to that,” Brooke sang, with a confident, radiant smile.

“SCOOT OVER.
You are not going to believe this.”

Max looked up from her lunch table at the lush Colby-Randall outdoor cafeteria and squinted into the glare. Either she was getting sunstroke, or Brooke Berlin was towering over her, waving that infernal iPad like she was signaling to a plane.
Has she had that thing surgically attached?

When nobody moved, Brooke thwacked Teddy’s shoulder with her hip and squeezed onto the small bench. “I’m serious, this is way more important than your taco salad,” she said, shoving Teddy’s lunch off to the left. “Also, I don’t know how you can eat that.”

“With a fork,” Teddy responded mildly, taking a bite. Across from him, Molly reached over to scoop some for herself.

“Are you…
having lunch
with us?” Max asked, before she could help herself. Working for Brooke was about the limit of what she could handle in terms of changing the status quo.

Brooke furrowed her brow. “No,” she said. “This is business. Max, your last couple entries got us into the big time. Look.”

She shoved her iPad under Max’s nose. Her browser was on something called Site Meter, and it showed that they’d already gotten more than fifty thousand visitors over the past week.

Holy shit.

“And there have only been ten comments calling me a she-male stank ho,” Brooke said triumphantly. “The rest are all totally glowing. They want more insider dirt.”

“How is this happening?” Max asked.

“People with desk jobs like to procrastinate,” Brooke said gaily. “Plus, I posted several different links in the comments of one of Perez Hilton’s entries. I am brilliant.” She squinted at her tablet. “Also, according to this thing, Gawker and The Hollywood Reporter both linked to me.”

“Damn. It’s been, what, four days? You’re going viral,” Molly said.

Holy double-shit.

Max shoved her sandwich into her mouth to hide any of her potential facial expressions. Everything seemed to freeze. She was two parts terrified—what if Moxie Stilts
did
sue them?—and one part exhilarated. She’d
done
it.
She’d put words out there and people were reading them, and
liking
it, and she hadn’t spontaneously combusted. Maybe all those authors who used pen names were on to something.

“This is even better than I’d expected,” Brooke said. “Ari’s mom has already gotten three calls from casting directors and producers wondering if I’d like to come in and read for things.”

“Really?” Molly asked. “That fast?”

“Apparently, an attractive, articulate, well-groomed celebrity child with buzzworthy things to say is a desirable employee,” Brooke said, glowing. “I hope you’ll all acknowledge now that this idea was
genius
.”

She stood up and brushed off the back of her short printed Alice + Olivia skirt. “And Max, tick tock, I need your ideas for my next entry ASAP. Seriously,” she said in a low voice before scurrying off to her own, more centrally located lunch table. Jennifer Parker looked passionately annoyed. Arugula just looked right at Molly and scratched her nose with her middle finger. Apparently she was still bitter about losing out on Teddy.

Max’s legs felt rubbery. “I will pay you both a dollar if we can get through the rest of this lunch break without mentioning blogs or Brooke Berlin.”

“Sold,” Teddy said.

“I’m fine with that,” Molly agreed, taking a bite of her turkey sandwich. “Teddy has news, anyway.”

Teddy cracked his knuckles. “It’s seriously nothing,” he
said. “Bone entered Mental Hygienist into some kind of Facebook contest that MTV is having, that’s all. They’re looking for a theme song for some new reality show.”

“About teenage bullfighters,” Molly interjected.

“They’re saying it’s like
Laguna Beach
, but with a slightly higher potential for someone to get gored,” Teddy said. “Anyway, he entered us in the contest on the sly, but we made it into the semifinal round and now he thinks we’re going to win.”

“That rules!” Max crowed. “Maybe you
will
.”

“We absolutely won’t,” Teddy said. “MTV will never use a song called ‘Heat Me Up (Love Microwave).’ ”

“You don’t know. These
are
the people making a show about teen bullfighters,” Max pointed out.

Teddy snapped off a piece of his taco salad’s shell. “There are a lot of great unsigned bands in Los Angeles, and I am okay with the fact that Mental Hygienist is not one of them,” he said, scooping up some guacamole. “Bone has his hopes up, though. He told me yesterday that he really wants a Lamborghini.”

He stuck out his hand. “Now, give me my dollar,” he said. “That didn’t have anything to do with You Know Who.”

“Lord Voldemort?” Max asked, grinning.

“It wouldn’t be the first time she’s been called that,” Molly noted. “Probably not even this week. But lunch isn’t over yet.”

It was the only time all day Max got a break from the words
Brooke Berlin
. People whispered incessantly, fervently,
about Brooke’s blog. It took all Max’s inner fortitude to keep her poker face in place. She had just texted Molly that she was ditching the carnival meeting in favor of a nerve-soothing nap when—of course—her mother’s head poked out the door of the main office.

“Maxine! You are headed in the wrong direction.”

Max shuffled to a stop and reshouldered her backpack. “You mean, like, in a spiritual sense?”

“Cute. Mr. Kemp’s room is that way.”

“Mom, can’t I skip this one?” she pleaded. “I was up so late working with Brooke on her bl—um, biology.”

To keep her parents from asking questions, Max had told them she was tutoring Brooke in… well, everything. By the time her mother got wind that Brooke’s grades were exactly the same—and, in fact, not sufficiently bad to require tutoring (the great surprise about Brooke was her solid GPA)—this whole blogographer thing probably would be over and Max would have enough cash to get out of Dodge for the summer.