Pop Princess (22 page)

Liam had followed me down to the beach, and the relief that positively flooded me when he wrapped his arms around me from behind was beyond comprehension. I turned around to face him, locked my hands around the small of his back. He leaned down and after all that silence, we at least had the perfect kiss, capped by moonlight shining onto the ocean. My heart was beating so fast I don't know how I lasted through that kiss, wondering what did he think of me, was this for real, when would I see him again? Why were we both incapable of speaking words to each other, about It, about Us, about anything?

Maybe the kiss wasn't so perfect.

Because for all that he caressed my hair and let me burrow my face in his neck, when he kissed me one last time before walking back up to the bus, somehow it felt like that last kiss on the beach had been a kiss-off.

I waited a few minutes until I heard the VW bus drive off, then I walked back up to the house. As I stepped inside, Cash barked at me like I was a stranger. I leaned down to pick him up, dying to pet him and slobber him with kisses, but he was having none of me. He sniffed me, then retreated to a corner and stared at me, accusing.

Dad looked up from his computer, did a once-over from my platinum blond hair to my skinnier-than-ever pop princess bod. He said, “Jesus Christ, I almost didn't recognize you.” When I would inspect my reflection in the full-length mirrors at my daily two-hour dance classes, I sometimes didn't recognize myself anymore: ribs sticking out on my tightened stomach, an elasticized face. Dad did not stand up to greet me, hug me, kiss me. “I thought you were coming tomorrow.”

“The plans changed.” Great to see you, too, Dad.

Mom came charging down the stairs. “Who was Cash barking at?” She stopped at the end of the stairs and also did the once-over on me. “Wonder, what a surprise! You look so . . . different!” Mom, you have no idea.

Charles came in behind me. Someone had obviously sprayed him with Jean Naté or some drugstore perfume before he'd walked in—whoa, the stench. But whoa, he was like four inches taller than the last time I'd seen him and he had this baby soul patch on his chin and silver cross earrings dangling below that lime green neon skullcap. Not even a hello from him. Charles looked me up and down and pronounced, “You look fake.” His shitkicker boots barely missed pounding my bare feet as Charles raced right by me, past Mom at the stairs, up to his room. Door slam.

When I went to my room and turned on the bedroom lamp, through the side window I saw Henry—with much shorter hair, I think—sitting at the computer by his dimly lit bedroom window across the way. Oh! I thought, there's someone who will be nice to me! For a sec I dared hope that Opera Man might make an appearance through the windows, but Henry just looked surprised to see me standing at my window. Then he pulled down his window shade. I'd like to think he was possibly just looking at porn on his computer and didn't want me to see, but I do believe that in fact the boy next door had just decisively dissed me.

Welcome home, Wonder!

There's no place like home.
Thank God. I couldn't leave fast enough.

I was still groggy when I went downstairs the next morning. Mom and Dad were sitting at the kitchen table, waiting for me.

“Good afternoon,” Dad said. “I guess your record company doesn't mind if you sleep till noon.”

Wide awake now, and p.o.'d! “Actually, Dad, they have me up every morning by six to work out and then I've usually got twelve-hour-plus days filled with pesky little things like vocal practice and rehearsals and appearances and interviews and photo shoots. It's called a job. At least someone in this family has one.”

Low blow, I know. But when I looked around the house and saw the new washing machine and dryer, the repaired living room ceiling, the new storm-proof windowpanes, all long-overdue upgrades financed by my recent earnings, I was not about to take Dad's shit.

Dad struck back with, “The G.E.D. was yesterday. You didn't even have the decency to tell me you didn't plan to take the test! What are you gonna do, sing and dance your way through life? How long do you think this current lifestyle of yours can last?”

Mom stood up from the table. “Enough, you two!” She looked like she was about to cry. She faced Dad. “I thought we agreed not to start this again. Wonder will take the test when she's ready. Her career is obviously thriving—she doesn't need us to tell her what to do. Just be grateful she didn't pull a Kayla and threaten to legally emancipate herself from her parents. Just look at Wonder: She's fine on her own—maybe better off without us.” Her eyes were a little teary as she turned to me. “Wonder, can I make you some eggs?”

I went over and hugged her. “No thanks, Mom, I just ate a Power Bar in my room.”

“See!” Mom sputtered. “You don't need me.”

“Actually, Mom, I wouldn't mind some eggs at all, but I need to cut the cals to make up for what I ate yesterday.” I smoothed down her hair. Dad sat at the table, shaking his head, not making eye contact with me.

“CHARLES!” Mom yelled. “Get down here now, please!”

I'd already poured a mug of lukewarm coffee and added a Sweet 'n Low—what, fifty calories?—by the time Charles stomped into the kitchen. “What?” he grunted.

“Sit down,” Dad said. “Mom and I want to have a family discussion.”

“But where's Lucky? . . .” I let out automatically, before I realized what I'd said. I hadn't heard my parents convene a “family discussion” since long before she died. “Sorry,” I murmured.

A sad silence hung over us, until Dad spoke up. “We wanted to wait until Wonder was home so we could tell you three . . . pardon me, you two . . . at the same time. There's no easy way to say this, so I'll just say it. Mommy and I have decided to separate.”

If Mom and Dad were expecting whimpers and cries of shock and “No!” they were mistaken. “Good,” Charles pronounced. “You're both miserable.”

I said, hopefully, “Does that mean we're leaving Devonport?”

Mom said, “No. Dad will remain here.”

Charles said, “I'm staying here too.” Charles looked in my direction. “I like it here. Sorry.”

Mom continued, “I've started looking for a job back in Boston. Once I've got a new position, I'll get an apartment there. Charles, I figured you would want to stay here, but I hope and expect you'll spend some weekends and vacations with me in Boston.”

“Yeah,” Charles said. “That'd be cool.”

Dad finished off with, “We're not separating right away; we'll wait till Mom finds a job and is able to move.”

I said, “You could come on tour with me, Mom.”

Mom said, “No, Wonder. But thank you for asking. Letting you pursue this career was like opening Pandora's box. I regret encouraging you, but now that your career is ignited, there's no turning back. And I don't want to be the stage mom on the bus. I need to go back to Boston and get back into therapy and start my life over.”

I didn't repeat my offer, though I suspected she would have liked me to ask her again. Mom's Boston plan was the most sensible thing I'd heard from her in years.

And that was that. My parents' marriage was over.

After the “family discussion,” I
returned to my room. I sat in the window seat, looking out at the ocean, feeling blue about Mom and Dad, then feeling bluer that I truly must be a shallow girl if I was feeling sadder because I hadn't heard from Liam than I was about Mom and Dad's announcement. Was he not calling me because he thought I'd put the
hor
in
hormones
yesterday? What had I been thinking when I let that happen?

My cell phone ringer was set to its highest volume and the phone never left me, nestled in my pants pocket, yet I still bothered to check the voice mail every hour, even though there was no voice-mail message light flashing. It was nearly impossible that I would have missed his call.

I was putting on my running shoes to take a jog on the beach—payback time for yesterday's lobster roll and fries (and the bag of Oreos I snuck in my room last night) and the lack of dance rehearsal today—when Charles came into my room. A pretty, hippy-dippy-looking girl with long fine blond hair and a tiny frame under her wispy Indian sari-like outfit was attached to my brother's hand. My baby brother had a girlfriend! Charles said, “Amy, this is my sister. Wonder, Amy. Amy, Wonder.”

“Hey,” Amy said. She lifted her free hand in a wave to me. “I've, like, seen you on TV and stuff. You look different in person, like . . . bigger and all.”

Thanks, Amy. I added one-pound ankle weights to each of my legs and laced my sneakers tight.

Charles said, “We're going to the DQ. Wanna come?”

“I'm going for a run, but I'll walk with you for a few.” I followed them downstairs and outside the house.

When we were out on our street, Charles said, “So what do you think about Mom and Dad? It's about time, right? You know they've been sleeping in different bedrooms ever since Mom came back from New York.”

I was thinking that maybe he shouldn't be talking about the family dirt in front of Amy, but her face had no reaction, like she already knew much more about what was happening in the Blake household than I ever would.

I said, “Were Mom and Dad like this back in Cambridge? It's hard to remember what we were like . . . before. If Lucky were here, this never would have happened, she would be so upset. . . .”

Charles stopped walking and just looked at me, hard and mad. “Wrong. Lucky once told me Mom and Dad would be divorced before I went to high school, and they'd be happier for it. You act like you're the only person who knew Lucky, like you're the only person who misses her. You make me sick sometimes! You use the memory of Lucky like a crutch. She would have hated that. Why don't you just go off and take your run, Wonder Fake—I mean Blake.” He grabbed Amy's hand and stomped off, as I stood mute on the street, stunned.

What the hell was that about? I sprinted off toward the beach but didn't make it a quarter mile before I turned around and headed straight to the DQ. Charles and Amy were sitting at an outside table, sharing a sundae. I was grateful that I wouldn't have to go inside. I so wasn't up for a visit with my ex-DQ co-workers during this disaster “vacation.”

I said to Charles, “I don't understand what I did to you to make you so mad at me.” You'd think Amy might have realized Charles and I needed some alone time, but she stayed by his side and just looked down at the table, like
lalalalala.

Charles said, “Dude, you act like everything bad that happens in this family just happened to you. When Lucky died, you acted like it happened to you personally, that you were the only person who loved her so you were the only person who suffered. Guess what? I might miss her more than you. She was cool; she wasn't like . . . you.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“Well, for one thing, she wouldn't have sold out like you, she wouldn't have gotten so skinny you could barely recognize her, or dyed her hair a fake color, and she wouldn't have let herself appear in music videos half-naked, singing nonsense lyrics about nothing.”

“She was going to have the same career I have now!”

Charles's voice rose. “No she wasn't! She played guitar, she wrote her own songs, she had her own life going. She would never have let herself become some Kayla puppet. Lucky cared about the music, not the image. It's like you only think about
your
loss, instead of the life ahead of her that Lucky lost. Maybe I wasn't a fuckin' B-Kid with you and Lucky, but I knew her a lot better than you ever realized. You act like everything that was hard for you after she died was because of Lucky instead of because of you, because you just weren't strong enough to deal, even though Mom and Dad would have done anything for you.” Charles wiped at his eyes and took some deep breaths. For an about-to-turn-fifteen-year-old boy, almost crying in front of his sister and girlfriend at the DQ had to be some sore point of mortification.

Then it hit me, that in the three years since Lucky had died, we had never talked about her, not Charles and me, not Charles and me with Mom and Dad. We had just survived. And Charles was right—I did feel like Lucky's death was the greatest loss to me personally, and I'd never really thought about how much he loved her, how much he missed her. I didn't appreciate Charles bawling me out at Dairy Queen, but maybe he needed to vent, and if I was a good big sister like Lucky had been, I would be logical and calm instead of chewing him out in return.

I sat down on the bench opposite Charles and Amy. I took Charles's spoon from his hand and dug into the sundae and took a bite. Just tasting the soft-serve vanilla brought me back to my earlier life, wearing a DQ uniform and longing for escape. “Huh,” I said. “Anything else I've done to offend you that I don't know about?”

Amy offered, “Ever since your video came out and you've been in all those magazines and on TV, Charles gets picked on at school. But he's, like, bigger than most everyone there so it's never gone that far. But people sing back the ‘Bubble Gum Pop' lyrics to him in the cafeteria, they're all
'chew it, blow it, lick it, pop pop pop'
when he's passing by, and your house has been TP'd a couple times.”

“I'm so sorry, Charles,” I said. “And you still like this damn town?”

Charles shrugged, muttered “Yeah.” Amy put her arm around his shoulder.

I said, “So if I were Lucky right now, what would I do with my career?”

Charles said, “For starters, dump those lame-ass songs and put some clothes on when you're on TV. And do something worthwhile with your fame; I mean Lucky was killed by a drunk driver, there's gotta be some anti-drunk driving cause you could support. . . .”