by Rachel Cohn
Liam said, “A,” and Kayla’s parents chimed in with the same word: “Outstanding.” Their heads were facing Liam, and I was standing behind them, so they couldn’t see me. I frisked out my thumb and mouthed, “Aaayyy,” like I was the Fonz. Liam smirked at me. What a suck-up. Kayla’s dad said, “Think you can pass on some of this enthusiasm for college to our daughter?” Her mom added, “Oh Jesus Christ, good luck.”
“Fat chance is right” came Kayla’s voice as she bounded up the stairs and into the living room. She was wearing a pink leotard with armpit stains and pink tights and pink ballet slippers. Her face was a little sweaty as she entered the room, this pint-sized pink ballet fairy towing behind her lumberjack Karl the bodyguard, who was wheezing as he reached the third floor. Kayla gave each parent a peck on the cheek and then perched herself right in Liam’s lap and wrapped her arms around his neck. She gave him a peck on his reddened cheeks. I knew it, I knew it, I knew it—there was something going on between them. Certainly Kayla’s parents and Karl didn’t seem surprised by the show of affection.
Kayla said, “I need a shower. Grandma said dinner will be ready in twenty.” She turned to me. “You’re having Sunday dinner with us, right?”
“Sure, thanks,” I said. If Liam and Kayla were all PDA through dinner, I wouldn’t have to worry about consuming too many cals—I’d surely spontaneously chuck them all before the meal was over.
“C’mon with me, talk to me while I’m in the shower, ’kay?” Kayla said to me. Maybe it was a relic of being an only child, but Kayla was one of those people who hated to be alone; she had to have someone with her at all times. Since Jules was tending to her own life and not her boss’s that Sunday, I was the anointed company-keeper.
I followed Kayla to her bedroom, which was decked out in framed gold and platinum record displays, framed magazine covers of Kayla, and the largest king-sized bed I’d ever seen, draped in a rich gold-colored duvet. At her bedside were pictures of herself, Lucky, and Trina, plus pictures of herself with Karl and Liam, but not one of herself with her parents. She had a waist-high stack of books next to her bed.
Kayla blasted Eminem from the stereo, rapping about little boy and girl groups, how he’d been “sent here to destroy you”; Kayla giggled. She was dancing to the rhythm as she talked to me from the bathroom, throwing her dirty clothes from behind the partially closed door. She said, “Do interference with the parentals for me, wouldja? Just talk about . . . God, I don’t know what, just do lots of talking, okay? Anything to keep them from going on the ‘You Need to Go to College’ rant.”
I couldn’t hold it back any longer; I said, “So are you and Liam a couple?”
Kayla popped her head from behind the door. “I don’t think so! He’s like a brother. He’s like Charles to me. I love him to death, but no . . . NO!”
She turned on the shower, so I don’t think she heard me say, “But he likes you.”
She said she didn’t like him that way . . . and yet: She sat next to Liam at dinner, and she kept refilling his water glass without him asking. Her dad said, “Kayla darling, any boyfriend we should know about?” and Karl’s bushy eyebrow raised under all those creases of forehead when Kayla said, “Daddy, you know I don’t have time for that. And we all know I’m saving myself for Liam.” Everyone around the table except me laughed, like there was some big joke I wasn’t in on.
Her mom said, “Don’t you have some wine for this meal?” and Kayla said, “Oh no, Mommy, I don’t keep alcohol in the house,” and I think Karl and Liam almost choked on their mashed potatoes right there.
Kayla’s dad said, “What about that Dean Marconi? Isn’t he at Yale now?”
Kayla rolled her eyes. “Yeah, he’s a Yale man, but I do believe he hasn’t determined whether he has a preference for the ladies.”
“Really!” everyone else at the table said.
Kayla’s mom said, “You know, Kayla, there’s a wonderful young man in my feminist theory class this semester. He’s a world-class cello player, from India I believe. He probably wouldn’t even know who you are! What do you think, a fix-up?”
Now I almost spit out my string beans. Something like the total male population in America fantasized about Kayla, and yet her mom thought she’d be doing her daughter a favor by fixing her up with a guy who wouldn’t be prejudiced against Kayla, tragic sex symbol. Yeah, that poor chump.
Kayla’s dad disagreed. “Bad idea, darling. It’s already a miserable open secret at the university about Kayla—each semester I get at least two or three panting young men feigning interest in my modern Jewish history class who invariably end up dropping the course when they learn I don’t intend to lecture on Kayla, Singing Superstar Who Could Have Gone to Harvard If She’d Wanted.”
Mrs. C said, “Oh enough of that, eat your roast beef.”
Kayla’s dad snapped, “Mother, once again you’ve made a meal that chooses to ignore that we are vegetarians.” And I’d thought the parents were just trying to leave more beef for Karl when they heaped their plates strictly with steamed veggies and mashed potatoes.
I said, “Kayla’s debut album was multiplatinum-certified! How many gold singles does she have? Didn’t you see the plaques in her room! Anyone can go to Harvard—they have an extension school that even I could go to if I wanted. But has anyone else at this table accomplished what Kayla has, all on her own? She has won how many Teen Choice awards? She works how many hours a day—like all of them? How many Harvard graduates could afford a house like this, take care of everyone the way Kayla does?”
Kayla beamed at me. “Yeah, Mom and Dad! That’s what I’m gonna tell Planned Parenthood when I send Jules to that auction to get back that Mercedes I bought you.” Kayla gestured at me with her forkful of mashed potatoes that I knew were on display for show and would never meet her mouth. “Wonder, perhaps you’d like my mom and dad to explain to you the logic by which a rusty Honda Civic that’s almost as old as you is a preferable vehicle to the brand-spanking-new Mercedes-Benz their daughter’s hard work bought them.”
Sister Wonder was in such good graces with Kayla for the duration of the meal, she didn’t even get a reprimand from her for digging into Mrs. C’s scrumptious pecan pie dessert.
Twenty-six
Later that night after dinner with Kayla’s parents, because I had slept through much of that afternoon, I was wide awake at 2 A.M. after everyone had gone to bed. Unlike my floor mate on the other side of the wall, I tried to be quiet, so I sat up in bed with a Discman on, thumbing through a magazine. At least I thought I was being quiet, but there was Liam standing at my door. I took the headphones off. “Yes?” I said.
“You’re singing out loud,” he said.
How many times had this very habit gotten me busted—hell, that’s how Tig had discovered me back at the DQ. I must sing really loud when I have those headphones on.
I said, “Sorry—maybe I’m not as good as Green Day or Pearl Jam or whatever you listen to—”
“I don’t listen to Pearl Jam!” he whisper-shouted at me like I’d just laid the supreme insult on him. He left my room and returned seconds later, kicking my bedroom door shut behind him. He sat next to me on my bed holding a notebook of CDs. He flipped through the plastic cover pages, passing through Ray Charles to Ella Fitzgerald to Elvis Costello to the Clash to Aaliyah to Dead Kennedys to . . . “Okay, I get it, no Pearl Jam!” I said.
He slammed the book shut. “Thank you.” He paused, gave me a hmm kinda look. “You sounded pretty good singing Janis Joplin across the wall. I wouldn’t have expected you to like her.”
I said, “Well, there’s a lot of things you wouldn’t know about me, seeing as how you’ve pegged me as this shallow pop princess without even getting to know me first.”
He raised an eyebrow at me slightly. “Oh, I think I’ve gotten to know you a little, wouldn’t you say?” He pressed his hand onto mine. Is that what he’d come in for—a booty call?
I grabbed my hand from him. “Last week, af
ter the party . . . we didn’t . . . you know?”
“No, we didn’t you know.” He actually gestured finger quotes when he said “you know.” “The only reason I was sleeping next to you in the morning was I wanted to make sure you didn’t puke in your sleep. People can die from that.” You sure know how to woo a girl, I thought to say. I felt my face flush deep. Liam added, “Still haven’t heard the words ‘Thanks, Liam from you.”
“Thank you? Someone had also changed my clothes! I did not fall asleep wearing that tight dress and I have no memory of changing into your pajamas.”
Liam leaned in toward me again. He whispered, “A fella’s gotta get some privileges when he’s saving the ass of the underage damsel in distress, no?” My eyes popped wide open. He let out a quiet laugh. “I’m teasing you. You changed yourself—pretty poorly, I might add—and you kept saying”—here Liam inserted a thick drunken Boston accent—“ ‘look the othuh way when ahm changin’. But it was all you. Give me some credit.” His hand reached for mine again.
I said, “Your dad is just across the hall—what are you doing!”
Liam leaned in closer still; my mouth felt like it was being drawn to his like a magnet, and I was powerless against that force. “Dad’s out. Kayla’s parents were driving her crazy so she decided to go out. She called Jules; they’re hitting the clubs in Manhattan about now.” Was that why he was moving in on me, because Kayla hadn’t bothered to invite either of us to go out with her?
I grabbed my hand back, pulled my face away to demagnetize where my lips desperately wanted to go. “You like Kayla. Don’t even try to deny it.”
“I don’t like Kayla that way. We’re just friends—we’re practically family.”
“You do too like her.”
“Trust me, she doesn’t like my kind.”
“That’s stupid—she’s not a snob. She wouldn’t care that you’re her bodyguard’s son, she wouldn’t hold it against you that you’re a college boy and not a celeb—”
“Maybe I like someone else,” Liam said. Then his lips were on mine again and I knew it was coming and I was hoping for it.
Still, I had some dignity before I went right back in. I pulled back and said, “What are you doing?” and he just said, “Getting you to shut up. God you look pretty without the makeup, without the pop princess clothes. . . .” and I put my mouth back on his to get him to shut up.
He stopped for a moment, got up to put a new disc into my Discman and attached the minispeakers to the machine, then turned out the lights and said, “Paul Weller, eighties British singer, bands like the Jam and Style Council, now he’s like this soul singer,” as some English guy who sounded sexier than Liam looked (annoying but true) started singing at a low decibel from the speakers. Liam lay down next to me; I felt his hands running through my hair, his nose feeling around my cheeks, then his lips on mine again, ah bliss, as we started to make out. And it was just that—making out, no urgent unzipping or unclasping, just hands wandering and lips touching, like some weird kind of soul kissing; it was so ridiculously nice. Except it only lasted about five songs, then he said, “I’m tired,” and I was too and we just fell asleep in my single bed, fully clothed, me snuggled tight against his long lean body.
In the morning when I woke up, he was gone, his CDs were gone, his stuff was gone from his room, and he hadn’t even left a note saying good-bye.
Twenty-seven
So did Liam like me? Or was he just using me as some kinky Kayla substitute? And why, oh why, not one phone call, no messages, nothing in the two weeks since he’d gone back up to Dartmouth? Was I a super-sized jerk for even hoping I would hear from him? And how many times had I listened to that Paul Weller CD he’d left in my Discman while replaying in my mind making out with Liam? Just listening to that Weller guy croon in my ears had the effect of making my body go all warm, my heart all fluttery, and my mind all racing, wondering if Liam was thinking of me like I was of him. Maybe he was flunking a Russian lit exam at Dartmouth right now because he was obsessing over whether or not he should call me.
“Wonder!”
I glanced at Kayla standing next to me. She grinned superwide and gestured with her hands toward the corners of her mouth—I was supposed to be smiling, not brooding, as industry executives stood between Kayla and me to have their pictures taken with us underneath a giant banner that proclaimed “WONDER!” We were at an industry function to promote the release of “Bubble Gum Pop” as my debut single, a showcase for radio and music channel programming executives, as well as promo and distribution executive types from the record company. As the occasion was in my honor, I was supposed to be a charming It girl and not obsessing over some granola punk in New Hampshire with whom I’d made out twice but who hadn’t bothered to acknowledge me since.
I, for one, had imagined that a record release promotion would involve a late night club, surely at least one disco ball hanging from the ceiling of the room, lots of hipster dudes attached to cell phones and rock journo chicks with short skirts and bad-ass leather boots. I certainly didn’t expect a Banana Republic-wearing corporate crowd who all seemed more interested in having their photos taken with Kayla before they tried to catch the 7:02 train back to Westchester than in meeting the junior pop princess, me. We were in a meeting room on the top floor of the record company’s offices, with a stunning view of Central Park, now in prime spring foliage, sporting lush green lawns and white-bloomed trees, the western dusk casting red shadows over the stately apartment buildings lining the park. Waiters wandered with hors d’oeuvres and glasses of champagne and wine, which Kayla and I were under strict orders from Tig not to touch in the presence of these people. Two waiters approached Kayla, their quaking trays revealing their excitement at being in the same room as her. But Kayla wasn’t eating—she was in freak-out mode over four pounds that had crept onto her body, and nobody was immune to her displeasure. On the car ride over, she had eyed the Power Bar that I was munching and snapped at me, “You could also stand to lose a pound or two, Wonder. That dress is awful tight on you.” That was my cue to wrap up the rest of the Power Bar and place it in my bag and out of her sight.
At least there was one fun person at the reception: Will Nieves, South Coast hunk and my video buddy, who kissed my cheek on arrival and then gave up any attempt at being blasé upon sight of Kayla: “Worship you! I have all your records!” He turned back to me, said, “Love the dress.” I was wearing the tea rose-colored raw silk dress that had been Kayla’s gift to me from Bergdorf Goodman. It was tight on me, but not as much as Kayla said. I could breathe just fine. Even Karl, who never commented on those things, had told me I looked nice, like a “little lady.” I think that was Karl’s way of complimenting me for not choosing a basic slut outfit for my first official industry function.
Not like it mattered—all eyes were on Kayla. Folks said their polite hellos to me, then were fawning all over Kayla: “Love your work”; “You get more gorgeous by the day”; “If you keep selling records at the pace you’re on now, you’re going to need a full security detail to join Karl.” For someone who didn’t say much, Karl seemed to be known by everyone at the party. According to Kayla, Karl was the “Cadillac of security guys.” Then why was his son such a d-a-w-g?
Kayla took in all the sucking-up like the pro she was, smiled graciously, remembered every executive by name, remembered their kids’ names even, thanked them all for their support—“I’d be nowhere without you and the fans.” At least she wasn’t yet at the point of thanking Jesus every other sentence. She waited for the signal from Tig, then stepped up to the podium.
The crowd came to immediate attention when Kayla stepped onto a small stage that had been set up for us. She called me over, introduced me as “my friend, my almost-little sister, your next pop sensation, Wonder Blake.” Luckily I wasn’t expected to give a speech to the sea of adult faces. I just waved and said, “Hey, what’s up? Thanks to everyone for coming out here this evening, and thanks to everyone for your support
. I hope you like the record!” Dialogue provided by Tig. Simple, easy, natural—relief for me. Showcase events like this usually called for an artist to perform an acoustic set, to amaze the execs with an amazing voice or piano skill or whatever, but not in my case. Everyone knew that I was a last-minute substitute for Amanda Lindstrom, and that Pop Life Records was manufactured pop, so nobody expected me to belt out a few diva numbers. I was a product, and they just wanted to see what I looked like and whether I could deliver the package.
The guests offered polite applause, looked at their watches. I realized that what Tig had said was true—this video had only its first seconds to win or lose this audience. My left pinkie went straight to my mouth—not a mock Dr. Evil gesture, but a nail-biting habit from since I was a B-Kid. Behind the podium, Kayla kicked my ankle. My arm fell back down to my side.
I still hadn’t seen the video! Was I about to be exposed as the pop music scene’s biggest fraud—and in front of a swarm of industry players who could make or break my career? The lights dimmed, and I was relieved when all eyes shifted away from me to a screen that came down against the far wall of the conference room. I was starting to sweat buckets. Kayla grabbed my hand in support—was she expecting I could slip her a few fruity Mentos that she knew I stocked in my purse?
I’d seen myself on television during B-Kidz days a million times, but nothing prepared me for the Wonder Blake that appeared on screen now. That girl on the screen now seemed totally separate from the prim frock-attired one watching her video image, wanting to chew off her fingernails and dying to step through the crowd for a little one-on-one time with Karl to interrogate him: WHY HASN’T LIAM CALLED ME? The lip-synching video girl prancing around in her polka-dot jammies, cut in with the girl strolling the boardwalk hand in hand with Will Nieves and wearing a polka-dot bikini, was like a whole other creature I didn’t recognize. The audience in the conference room must have sensed the same thing, because the light chatter in the room completely died off, and distracted glances at the screen turned into intent stares. It almost didn’t matter how good my voice did or didn’t sound (for the record, it sounded good; not its best, but close)—the girl on the screen was breathing fire and life into the camera. I thought, Well, maybe I was a failure at high school, but apparently I am somewhat competent when a camera is placed before me.