by Rachel Cohn
Liam said, “I have better things to do. I have an anthropology paper I’m working on. And I’ve been to a Kayla party before, and ‘fun’ isn’t the word I’d choose to describe them. What was Kayla drinking, anyway?”
“Why do you care?”
“I don’t. I’m just trying to gauge the level of hangover tomorrow and whether I should spend the rest of spring break at my mom’s upstate.”
I sat down on his bed and unzipped the side of the tight black dress just a little—ah, nice deep breath. My head was getting a wee bit woozy. “What does your mom do? Are your parents divorced?”
Liam reached his arms out, like to lift me back up. “Pop princess, I did not invite you in here. Don’t make yourself comfortable.”
I ignored his outstretched arms and looked at the pictures on the wall over his twin bed. The room was minimally furnished—just a bed, a dresser, and a desk; obviously Liam didn’t truly live here—but the pictures showed that at least he was a part of this household. There were some skater and punk band stickers, an Abbey Road picture of the Beatles, a photo of—the Go-Go’s?—waving from water skis, and there was a quote painted in green on the wall: “Baby we were born to run”—Bruce Springsteen. The stickers were surrounded by a little family assemblage of tacked-on pix: Karl and what must have been Liam’s mom holding a baby Liam in front of a marquee that read “Aerosmith SOLD OUT”; an age tenish Liam and Karl at the Eiffel Tower; Liam with a mullet haircut and a T-shirt that said “Hudson Falls HS Swim Team” standing next to Karl on London Bridge; then a current-incarnation Liam and Karl holding up Kayla in front of the Leaning Tower of Pisa with what looked like a pack of screaming preteen girls behind them; and . . . a little photo booth snapshot of Lucky and Kayla, taken when they were both about fourteen years old—my sister still had her braces on—two years before Lucky died.
“How come you have a picture of my sister in here?” I said. “You didn’t even know her.”
“If I tell you, will you leave?”
“Maybe. Probably.” Liam didn’t need to know that my body’s personal need to use the bathroom would in fact win out over his personal need for me to leave his room.
“Looking at that picture makes me believe in the Kayla that existed before, who just loved to sing, pure and simple, who had genuine friends who loved her. Makes me feel like there’s hope for Kayla.”
“You like Kayla!”
“You promised you’d leave. And yeah, I tolerate Kayla okay; she’s the fourth pop princess Dad has worked for and she may be the most tyrannical but she’s also the smartest—”
“No, you like-like her!” I said, but I didn’t say it all accusing, I said it all sultry and deep as I stood up to walk out. I turned around and stood against his closed door for a sec and tried to zipper the dress back up, but the zipper jammed and I was too Cosmo-spacey to get it right. “Help me, please!” I said to Liam, exasperated that he was just standing there watching when he could have made himself useful.
He hesitated but then stepped over, practically right in my face. He played with the zipper till he got it up. Then his eyes honed in on my cleavage. “That’s some dress you’ve got on there, pop princess,” he said.
“Don’t call me that, it’s rude.”
“Okay, Kayla Junior.”
Grrrrrrrrrr . . . . . . . .
“You like-like Kayla,” I teased again.
“Do not,” he said.
“Do too.”
“Want me to prove to you how much I don’t?” He pinned his arms on either side of my shoulders so I was pressed against the back of the door. Then he leaned his body against mine, his legs pressed into my legs; I felt major warmth and a feeling of uh-oh spreading through my body. I closed my eyes without thinking—not that I was capable of thinking at that moment—and then his lips were on mine, oh wow, nice. Somewhere in that lip lock I mumbled, “What are you doing?” and his mouth only left mine for a sec to mumble back, “Proving to you I don’t like Kayla.” I let him kiss me for a minute more—okay, maybe two or three minutes more—ohmygawd he was the best kisser, yes there was tongue and it wasn’t sloppy like Doug Chase, his was subtle and sweet and sigh he just smelled so good and his lips were so soft even with the stubble on his chin against my cheek. He let go for a sec to take a breath and in that moment I managed to shimmy myself underneath his arms and away from his Lee press-on lips before the urge to just completely jump his bones took over. I said, “Aren’t you just proving to me the opposite?”
And I left his room and had that pee. Then I stood against the bathroom door for a good long while, taking deep breaths, promising myself I would not barge back into Liam’s room to make even more of a fool of myself. Though the thought of attempting to steal more action with him did occur. Yikes, I wouldn’t have minded making out with the Liam stranger all night long in that dark cavern room of his and forget about my coming-out party downstairs!
But with what little self-respect I had left, I headed back downstairs, thinking maybe it was time for me to crash before I got into more trouble, when the loud music from the living room zipped off mid-lyric, “Start a love train, a lov—” and Kayla yelled: “WHO THE HELL IS SMOKING DOPE IN HERE?” The air was indeed rife with smoke; it seemed everyone had a cigarette in their hand, even the dancers, who you would think wouldn’t smoke. The smell was nasty but had, admittedly, just turned a little more pleasant and less pungent.
Cop Judy stomped to a love seat where a girl I recognized as being the gyrating thong-bikini girl in like five different hip-hop videos was about to pass a bong to Freddy. Judy lifted the girl by her collar and dragged her downstairs, where we heard the door slam behind her. I’m looking at Kayla thinking, You care about a little dope when I’ve lost count of how many vodka tonics you’ve downed this evening? Damn, she needed a rule sheet for her house parties.
Then the loud music turned back on just as suddenly—“a love train, a love train . . .”—and chatter and dancing picked right back up as if Kayla had never laid down the law, but I needed a break and some fresh air. I repeated to myself: You are not going to crush on Liam, you are not going to crush on Liam. It was just a random make-out incident—the last thing this “Kayla Junior” needed was to start liking a guy who clearly had a thing for Kayla, whether he knew it or not.
The large space in the living room could barely contain the thick cigarette smoke whirling around, and despite my three Cosmos of the evening, cigarette smoking was not a vice I intended to join in on. Kayla’s assistant Jules saw me wheezing and motioned for me to follow her out the balcony door for some fresh air. I stepped onto an outdoor patio that offered an illuminated skyline of Manhattan, which, with a full moon hanging off in the distance, appeared to be a legion of twinkling skyscrapers.
“Wow,” I said to Jules, admiring the view.
“One of the benefits of living in Brooklyn,” Kayla said, walking out after me. I could smell the hard alcohol on her breath even from a distance.
Freddy Porter joined us on the balcony. “Kayla’s just trying to be hip, doin’ the Brooklyn thang,” he teased.
Kayla snapped at him, “Watch it, or you’re on your way out the door too.”
A very loud hiccup emanating from my body distracted Freddy and Kayla’s hostile looks. Freddy stood beside me and playfully hit my back to stop the hiccups. Kayla rolled her eyes and turned to Jules. “Uh-oh, the hit man’s found new prey”—she adopted a tone like she was a slurring commentator on the Discovery Channel—“let’s go inside and watch the species from a discreet distance, shall we, Jules?” Freddy flipped the bird at Kayla. She flipped it back. From the large glass balcony doors, I saw Kayla trounce off to her bedroom, Jules in tow, and slam the door shut.
Then . . . was that Freddy’s hand passing down my back, my spine, to—I spun around. “Hey, watch it!” I said. But I was giggling, too.
Freddy grabbed my hand. “C’mon, let’s dance. Maybe we can have some fun now—I do believe your baby-sitter Kayla is o
fficially smashed and retired for the evening. Jules has got her locked up for the night, I’m sure.” Without Kayla standing at my side to nod yes or no to this request on my time and space, I just followed Freddy. My slurring brain was telling me, Hee hee, Wonder, you’re DRUNK and you were just gettin’ SOME and aww that mirror is so pretty and WOW your boobs are like totally spilling out of Kayla’s dress, Go Wonder! Go Wonder!
Freddy led me back inside and tucked me into a discreet corner behind a large ficus tree. I stepped out just a little—wouldn’t it have been nice if Liam had decided to join this party and seen the Freddy Porter putting the moves on me? Freddy put his arms around my waist. A slow song was playing—was it “Love T.K.O.” by Teddy Pendergrass, Lucky’s fave slow song? I could hardly pay attention. Freddy was grinding into me real close and that face that millions of girls adored was leaning into mine and . . . gross, his breath smelled like cigarettes and beer and Doritos and . . . ewwww, major stank!
I needed another drink! I grabbed a half-filled cocktail glass from a nearby table—anything to get out of firing range of Freddy’s breath—and slurped the remaining drink down.
An antique grandfather clock standing next to us chimed two in the morning. The lights in the room were mostly either off or dimmed now, and couples were making out on the couches and love seats, beer bottles and heaping ashtrays scattered everywhere. And suddenly there was Freddy, all over me again, trying to dance with me, grinning. I wanted to yell GET OFF but my head was now literally spinning; I thought I was going to pass out. He grabbed me into a clench, and his wet lips came down on my neck. His hand actually grazed my breast but my head was spinning too much to shove him off. Thank God for Cop Judy, who came over, tapping—make that grabbing—Freddy on the shoulder and telling him, “Kayla said it’s time for you and your crew to go,” and even superstar Freddy knew not to protest Judy’s hard clench.
I don’t remember how I got out of that room, who was still there—whatever. I just know that when I found myself puking—and puking and puking—into the toilet upstairs, it was Liam holding my hair back.
Twenty-three
Pounding headache, pounding so hard dreams weren’t even coming into my sleep of the dead. So why was someone shaking me? Maybe they were whispering but my ears heard a shout—“WONDER! GET UP!”
I squinted my eyes open. Mercifully, the drapes were drawn so there was no sunlight to throw my headache into pure torture. I opened my eyes wider. Why was Liam standing over me? Where was I, anyway?
“Car’s waiting for you downstairs. Get up, pop princess.”
I threw the covers over my head. “No!” Wasn’t it like the law that after a night of partying you were supposed to be able to sleep well into the next afternoon? Hands on my waist now, shaking me again. Why, oh why? I hissed, “GO AWAY!”
“C’mon, get up!” The covers were pulled from my head and off my body. I looked down. I was wearing a large gray pinstriped pajama top that came halfway down my thighs. I reached for my ass—yup, undies still on; phew. No recollection whatsoever of changing into someone’s jammies before I crashed.
Liam was standing on a sleeping bag next to his bed. I was in his bed! His hair was all tousled and his hazel eyes were on full scowl. He handed my cosmetics bag to me, along with a new toothbrush. He pointed out the door, the door I remembered him pressing me against last night and me rather, uh, enjoying it. “I think you’ll remember where the bathroom is,” he said. He was wearing gray pinstriped pajama pants.
I hauled ass out of bed, all cumbersome and bloated, feeling like Mr. Snuffle-upagus from Sesame Street as I trudged my way to the bathroom. I saw my watch inside my cosmetics case: 7:15. Shit, the car to take me to the recording studio was supposed to come for me at 7! Hadn’t I just fallen asleep, anyway? And wasn’t the car supposed to pick me up at Mom and my place in the city? No time to think, had to get dressed and out.
I looked in the mirror—horror! My hair was stringy, my eyes all poofy. I tested my breath against my hand and it bounced back—so amazingly gross! Why were my clothes from yesterday, before the party, neatly folded on the toilet for me to change into? Do the math later, I told myself, just get going. I used the toilet, changed clothes, washed my hands and face, brushed my teeth (more like scoured them), twisted my hair up into a clip, and raced out of the bathroom.
Liam was standing outside his bedroom door. The door on the opposite end of the hall—Karl’s room—was shut.
“Thanks, whatever,” I whispered. We didn’t do anything I don’t remember last night, did we? No time to ask. Too scared to know the answer.
“8448,” Liam said. Right, and the dog barks at midnight. What was spy boy talking about? Before I could ask him to decipher his code, Liam stepped back inside his room and slammed his bedroom door shut. Ouch on my head! He did that on purpose. I cursed him out under my breath as I tippy-toed down the four flights of stairs before putting my shoes on at the ground floor. Nobody was awake on floors 1, 2, or 3, though there were some passed-out bodies lingering on the sofas in the living area on the third floor where Kayla’s party had been.
I stood inside at the front door. Security system! Aw man, the only way out would be either to trip the alarm and wake the household up, or wake up Karl the Sasquatch to help me. No, not that, please not that.
I could see the car waiting for me outside, the driver looking at his watch, annoyed. If he was annoyed, what would Tig be? Shit shit shit!
Oh. I punched 8448 into the security system, the light on the console turned green, and the door clicked open. Thank you, Liam! I un-curse you for your bedroom door slam!
I felt like a vampire when I stepped outside, the sun striking down on me so horrifically I thought my head would catch on fire. I covered my head with my arms and mumbled “Sorry” to the driver, who was holding the door of the Town Car open for me. I stepped inside. At least I could sleep on the way to the recording studio.
Think again.
Tig was sitting inside the car. He looked at his watch. “That’s twenty minutes you’ve kept us waiting,” he said. He looked into my squinting eyes. “WONDER!” he snapped, and my hands instinctively went to my ears to drown out his thundering voice. He took my hands from my ears and was kind enough to whisper, “Are you hungover? I don’t believe this! I thought you were smarter than that, thought you could hold your own with Kayla’s crowd.”
I untied the sweater wrapped over my waist and placed it against the car window for a pillow. I leaned my head down against its softness as the car moved along the rough potholed street. “Please don’t be mean, Tig,” I said.
“ ‘Mean’?” Tig said. “You didn’t just say that.”
I closed my eyes. Hopefully he wouldn’t mind if I took a nap while he chewed me out. I felt some papers land on my lap and I looked down. Song sheets. He wanted me to rehearse in the car! Noooooooooo!!!!!!!!!!!!!
“ ‘Mean’,” Tig repeated. “Me who arranged to pick you up here instead of at your mom’s so you could have your fun night with Kayla. Me who trusted you enough to give you the day and night off yesterday to spend with your pal Kayla when the record company is banging down my door for you to finish this record by, like, tomorrow. Mean old Tig.”
Rolling my eyes at him was not possible, as doing so might possibly have popped my eyeballs out of my headache-struck head. I sighed and looked at the song sheet; I’d rehearsed these songs a million times already, but he wasn’t going to let me off, he expected me to rehearse right now. I took a deep breath in preparation, surprised when my breath choked up on me. I sang, “You and me baby, we were meant to be.” Uh-oh. Bad bad bad. I hadn’t been smoking last night but apparently the vestiges of about two hundred secondhand cigarettes were on my voice. I coughed, then tried to suppress a second cough, but that just made me cough harder. Tig handed me a water bottle; I gulped down a few swigs and tried again: “You and me baby . . .” Okay, now I sounded worse.
Now it was Tig’s turn to lay his head on his car s
eat window. Make that bang his head on the window.
“You realize what this means?” he said.
“I’ll be okay!” I said, trying to sound cheerful in my raspy voice. I coughed again.
“No, your studio time today is ruined. I can’t let you record today sounding like that. And who is going to have to call the record company and make up the excuses? Me. ‘Oh yeah, sorry, Mr. VP, your newest sixteen-year-old sensation couldn’t make it to her recording session today because she’s hungover.’ No, don’t think that one will go over well.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. I knew I’d screwed up bad, but Tig’s words seemed harsh in comparison to the crime. Didn’t everybody get hungover at some time in their life? And anyway, if I was going to get the “I’m very disappointed in you” speech, shouldn’t that have been coming from, like, my dad, not my manager?
Tig tapped the shoulder of the driver and redirected him to drop me off at home instead of the studio. We rode in silence over the remaining journey, Tig sparing me a lecture until we reached the apartment building in the Theater District, a high-rise of corporate apartments from which a doorman was exiting the lobby to open the car door for me.
As I was about to get out, Tig held on to my arm to hold me back. He said, not all father-figure stern but just simple and all business, “Wonder, the car will be downstairs—HERE, not at Kayla’s—at seven A.M. tomorrow. You will be down here waiting for it, on time, awake, and in prime form. You will rest today and drink lots of hot liquids. I’ll cancel your dance rehearsal this evening.” I nodded, causing my head to feel like a dam was bursting through it.
Then Tig added, “And Wonder, I know you’re a kid and you have to act out every now and again—I understand that. But you’re a professional now; there are people depending on you. You don’t have the luxury to fool around that other kids your age have. That’s the price you pay for this career, for a record deal. So consider this strike one. And three strikes and you’re out.”