Pop Princess (26 page)

Somehow the pop princess had lapsed back into being a regular girl without even realizing it. The Boston accent was back wicked thick. So were the natural brunette hair color and the size-eight body and the four-times-a-week dance classes instead of the psychotic daily workout regimen and protein bar diet. And future pop princesses beware: A simple get-together for coffee with Trina Little could change your life. Not that I would ever let Dad know, but I was sneaking into classes with Trina at Boston University. The school thing started as a dare from Trina, who claimed I was full of it when I said I didn't need to go to college, and before I knew it I was enraptured in her history professor's lecture about how music had affected the course of the civil rights movement. Now the professor was up to the sexual revolution and my girl Janis Joplin was getting her freak on with the movement in San Francisco in the late '60s, and I was hooked. Every Tuesday and Thursday—at eight in the morning, no less—I was sitting next to Trina in that lecture hall, chugging caffeine and hanging on the professor's every word. And I wasn't just there cuz the professor had that tweedy, glasses 'n' frazzled hair intellectual look—very hot for a friggin'
teacher
—I was legitimately interested in what he had to say, though glad it was Trina and not me who had to write the final exam paper.

At BU, nobody recognized me as the “Bubble Gum Pop” girl. When I snuck into classes with Trina wearing a baseball cap and big ole sweats, I just looked like every other student there. It was great. There was no system of cliques I had to maneuver, no B-Kid backlash to overcome. Students there seemed to want to learn, to hang out, to grow. College was a world away from Devonport High.

The one place I was not safe from being the “Bubble Gum Pop” girl was the mall. I give full props to the middle school-age girls of the world. They can spot a pop princess, even one in sweats, no makeup, and natural hair color, from a level away at Claire's Accessories, and before you can say
text pager
a horde has swarmed you at the Danskin store, taking pictures with you and having you sign their sneakers, whose brand you were promoting six months earlier, and asking who is hotter: Will, Dean, or Freddy. Will, of course! And somehow, so long as no parent used those dreaded words
role model,
the experience counted as silly but fun. I oughta write a song about those girls!

Maybe my talent development was too little-too late for Pop Life Records, but I had come around to working on my own songs during my hiatus. Double-dared by Trina, I slipped into her songwriting class one day, a class that inspired me to take a look back at some of the songs Lucky had written. When I got over the shock of realizing, Huh, my sister wasn't that great a songwriter but her melodies were ace, I decided to try my hand at adapting her tunes for myself, a coauthoring project of sorts. Just an experiment.

Now here I was at Trina's favorite coffeehouse, poised to take the stage as “Anna Blake,” undercover pop princess, unrecognized by the stream of college students and neighborhood residents streaming into the cafe for Amateur Open Mike Night. Surrounded as I was by an assortment of comedians in suits and Jewel wanna-bes with guitars and cowboy boots, I believed it a safe bet that I would be the first performer at this coffee house who'd had a number one national phenomenon hit record.

Mom arrived at the coffee house exactly at eight, while I was biting my pinkie nail nervously. She took my hand from my mouth and placed it on my lap before wrapping me in a big hug. There's a light in Mom's eyes now that's been missing since my sister died—a faint light to be sure, but a light nonetheless. At least the switch is flicked to ON. Charles and I no longer find her in her room with the drapes shut and the TV going, with a blank stare on her face and tearstained cheeks. She's made some friends at the new law firm where she's gone back to work as a librarian, she's counting those Weight Watchers points, and she's not living her life through
Law & Order
and
ER
reruns. At least she's trying.

Charles and Henry trailed behind Mom and joined us at the table with Trina and Tig. Henry teased, “Well, this coffeehouse is no match for the Devonport High musical stage, but I think you'll do fine. If I fall asleep during your performance, just play a really loud note, that'll wake me up.”

Between commuting to Boston for classes twice a week, finishing out his senior year at Devonport High, and holding down a part-time job to help pay for college, Henry hasn't kept up his Schwarzenegger workout routine, but even with his rapidly atrophying muscles, the boy's gotten some mad confidence happening. It's cute when it's not directed at all the science geek girls who trail after him at the end of his class at BU as I stand right there outside the classroom waiting for him. His new mad confidence could almost make me break my no-men vow, but we're not there yet. For now, I'm settling for baby steps, holding his hand while we take long walks along the Charles River, snuggling up against him in his car while we wait for it to warm up. At some point soon, this friendship is going to have to graduate a level; there is heat between us now that will have to be acted on, but I know he won't make the first move. I owe it to him.

I almost didn't hear the Amateur Night emcee call “Anna Blake” to the stage, I was so lost in another trance stare with Henry, this stare of anticipation and of I've known you practically since I was born, how did you suddenly get to be so interesting?

I stepped up onto the stage platform and looked out into the crowd as the folks from my table hollered high for me. Why was I so much more nervous about sitting on a stool, a guitar in hand, in front of maybe a few dozen people, than I ever had been about lip-synching and gyrating half-naked in arenas with thousands in its audience? This whole scene was so intimate. Yikes!
Now
I was getting stage fright?

I looked over at Trina; her eyes were wide, like,
Go on, start now . . . NOW!
Was I frozen on the stage? Why all the painful silence? Oh, because the crowd was expecting a performance, not some faux Anna Blake chick staring back at them like Bambi in the headlights. Trina nodded at me.
Sing,
she mouthed. I looked up at the ceiling, focused my mind on the mantra that had carried me through frazzled opening number nerves during the Kayla tour: big blob of light, big blob of light. Yes, good, my hands were moving on the guitar, strumming the few chords Trina had taught me. I opened my mouth, reminded myself, Relax, relax, relax. The song had to come, a new take on Lucky's song “I'm Ready,” the first song I had sung to Tig back in Devonport a million years ago. I whispered into the mike, “This is a song my sister and I kinda wrote together. It's called, ‘I'm Ready (Except I'm Not).' ” Whew, polite laughter—solid gold.

And I sang, folk-sweet:

I barely knew you, but I just knew

I wanted you, and I wanted you to want me too

I didn't think, so we just did

But you wanted us, wanted It, to stay hid

Cuz you didn't believe in us, or in me

I didn't understand then, there was another she

I'm telling you, I'm Ready

Except I'm Not

(Tempo change, hard strum on the guitar, moving into a wail, watch out Alanis . . .)

And now I want It back

My time, my heart, my longing

Cuz I said I'm Ready

But I'm not!

Sweat was coming down my cheeks by the time I finished the song. To my surprise and extreme relief, the audience burst into major applause. I grinned like Ferris Bueller's best friend and stepped off the stage and walked back to my seat.

Mom, Charles, and Henry all congratulated me, but it was Trina's opinion I wanted, not Mom's “What was
that
song about, Wonder?” Trina got on her
American Idol
judge face and said, “Songwriter—maybe; helluva voice—yes! I mean, you could sing before, but now! Hard to believe that's the same voice that made a cute pop demo little more than a year ago. You just get better and better. There's feeling and phrasing to go along with that voice—it's a totally new ball game for you.”

Tig said, “Exactly! C'mon, Wonder, what's there to think about, now's not the time to drop out. You
have
to let me shop another deal for you—you're ready!”

Trina gestured the “shoosh” sign with her hand at Tig. “Except she's not,” Trina said. “Do you ever actually listen to lyrics, Tig?”

“What's the rush?” I asked. As a songwriter, I had a long way to go. Was I supposed to rhyme? Or focus on the story? Or on the melody and the way it fits the lyrics? Just how does a catchy chorus spring out of thin air and onto the page and then into song? Maybe . . . sigh . . . practice, patience, time, and . . .
grr . . .
some official schooling would help.

A few amateur acts later, our group got up to head over to Mom's for birthday cake. I was the last out the door, halfway out the exit, Henry's index finger latched to the index finger on my left hand, when I felt someone grasp my right hand as I passed through the doorway. I let go of Henry, stepped back—what was that? The coffeehouse was lit with candles, so the room was very dark. I could hardly tell who the person was sitting alone at the back table but then I recognized the smell, the same smell as a certain green flannel shirt I treasured.

Liam.

I can't say that when
I recognized Liam in that coffee-house I had the same feeling as when I saw Doug Chase at the Dairy Queen so many lifetimes after we had hooked up, this feeling of Eh, you look major dumb and not at all attractive to me anymore, what had I been thinking lusting over you? No, with Liam I had that unfortunate old feeling of my heart sinking into my stomach, and that chemical, hormonal rage of wanting to straddle him on his chair, press my chest onto his, suck my lips on him and run my fingers through that mess of his hair and . . . Oh no, Wonder, not this all over again.

I sent the gang on their way to Mom's and told them I would meet back up with them soon, then I returned to Liam's table after the gang was safely down the street. “Hi” was all I could say. Could his timing possibly have been any worse? My thighs practically had a cell phone imprint on them from having had that phone in my pants pocket, waiting and hoping on random repeat for months and months for him to call me, to express a desire to see me. And only now was he here, when I was finally starting to feel, like, over It?

“Some song you performed there,” he said. “Dad told me I could find you here tonight, but he didn't say to look out for ‘Anna Blake.' I never heard a pop princess sing like that,
Anna.”

So over the sarcasm. “Is Karl back from his Harley adventure across Canada?” I asked. “He sent me a postcard from Calgary, said he would drop by if he came back through Boston, but he didn't say anything about sending you ahead of him.”

“He's back. Staying at my mom's.” Cute! Karl and his true love, together again.

“Does he have another security gig lined up?” Kayla had fired Karl at the end of the tour. One of the happiest days of his life, Karl said, right after the birth of The Punk and Nixon's resignation.

“Not yet, but you know those pop princesses, they grow on trees.”

“Oh!” I rolled my eyes, not teasing. “Enough with that! Say what you want about my so-called career but it helped my family through some lean times, allowed me to see something of the world, got me out of a town I hated—”

“You don't have to be so defensive; I know you worked hard. I'm sorry, I was out of line.” He waited for me to respond. When I didn't, he offered, “You look really great. Like a different person.”

“Who cares how I look?” He looked the same, all scruffy gorgeous, though the green spots in his hair were gone and he now sported a shag of chestnut hair and wire-rimmed glasses instead of contacts over his hazel eyes.

He said, “You seem kinda hostile. Was this a mistake for me to come here? Should I leave?”

I had positively no idea what to say to him. Since It, I had composed e-mails to him but never hit Send, had hundreds of conversations with him in my head, and now he was sitting before me, and my mouth just wasn't forming words. Why now?
It
happened in June; we were in December now. I could only shrug at him.

He said, “I don't know what you want me to say.”

What did I care anymore, truly? Now the words came, fast. “I want you to say you were crazy in love with me, that it wasn't all some big joke on me, that you knew I was so into you, you knew I wasn't ready for what happened even though I wanted it to happen, but you used me, it was Kayla you wanted and that feels like shit! Even pop princesses have feelings, Liam.” My voice had grown louder and people at tables nearby were staring.

Liam whistled. “That's a lot. Feel better now?”

“No.” A little, actually.

He covered his hand over mine on the table. Stop tingling, skin, stop! “Look, I got the bus parked out on the street, and it's hard to talk in here with all these people. Wanna take a ride, talk, whatever?”

I'm not falling for that one again, sucker! I couldn't help but laugh. “You've got to be kidding,” I said. I took my hand away, but my laugh had broken the tension.

He smiled. “Yeah, maybe not the best idea.”

I said, “Punk, why don't you say what you mean. Are you here because you want to fool around with me, or you want something more?”

Liam's hazel eyes looked downward at the candle on the table. “I dunno,” he mumbled. “What's ‘more'?” His eyes looked back up, into mine. I was shaking my head
no.
“No to which part?” he said.