A Charmed Life

by Jenny B. Jones

  Jonathan’s face transforms as he holds his son. His parents move to either side of him. He looks to Dolly. “He’s going to be my everything.”

  Though it sounds a little dramatic to me, it seems to be just what she needs to hear. Dolly attempts a smile and nods her weary head.

  When the last box is packed away, Jonathan hugs Dolly. “Thank you. God brought Mason to you for a reason. Whatever that is, I’m grateful.”

  Jonathan holds his sleeping son, and together with his parents, disappears into the van, down the driveway, and out of Dolly’s life.

  The ride home is a quiet one. No radio. No talking. Just me and my mom silent with our own thoughts.

  It occurs to me that something was missing out at Dolly’s.

  “Where was the camera crew? Do they have the day off?”

  “I asked them to stay away. This was private.” Mom parks the Tahoe in the front of our house. “And it was nice while it lasted.”

  She gestures to two men in the yard, one of them wielding a large camera.

  Ignoring the Pile Driver of Dreams crew, I follow Mom onto the front porch and almost trip over a large UPS box.

  She leans over it. “To Bella Kirkwood.”

  Fun! “For me?” I pick it up and carry it with me into the house.

  Too big to be diamonds. To small to be a new Mercedes.

  I drop the box on the ugly orange couch in the living room.

  Peeling off tape with my nails, I lift the flaps. “It’s my dress!” I reach in and grab the red strapless piece of art. “It’s the one I wanted from Bergdorf ’s. Is this from Dad?” I didn’t even look at the return address.

  Mom picks up a small white card from the floor. She reads it, then passes it to me. “Not your dad.”

  Bella,

  Can’t wait to see you at prom. I hope this dress is just one of many things that will make the night perfect.

  Counting the days until I see you again,

  Hunter

  I run upstairs, clutching my fabulous new dress. Shutting my bedroom door, I rip off my clothes and ease the dress over my head. I stare into my full-length mirror and peel up the zipper.

  It’s perfect.

  I spin around the room a few times before breaking into a waltz with an invisible partner. Breathless from turning, I collapse onto my bed and call Hunter.

  He picks up on the fourth ring. “Hello?”

  “Simply amazing.”

  He laughs. “But enough about me. Tell me how you feel about the dress.”

  I run my hand over the smooth material. “Oh, Hunter. Thank you. I don’t know what to say.”

  “Don’t say anything. I’m just glad to make you happy.”

  “Happy? I’m delirious! I love the dress. And I love that you did this for me. But Hunter . . . it’s so expensive.”

  “Don’t even think about that. Just enjoy it.”

  I look at the skirt fanning around me. “I will. I don’t ever want to take it off.” Something beeps in the background. I hear voices in loud conversation. “Where are you?”

  “Um . . . at the hospital.”

  “What?” Here I am gushing about a dress and he’s in the hospital. “Are you okay? What’s wrong?”

  “It’s nothing. I came in this morning, and I’ll be out in a few hours.”

  “Please tell me what’s going on.”

  “Bella, forget about it.” His voice is weak, but stern. “Just a little flare-up with my stomach. You know the routine—more tests.”

  “Hunter, I realize this isn’t the time. But this weekend we are sitting down, and you are telling me every detail of your health situation. I want to know everything.”

  He draws a deep breath. “There’re are a few other things I want to talk to you about when I see you.”

  I think of Luke’s hand on mine this morning. Then I think of Hunter hugging me the last time we saw each other. Our long talks.

  This fabulous dress. If Hunter wants to discuss us getting back together . . . I believe I know what my answer will be.

  “Hunter, I have something to tell you too.”

  chapter thirty-four

  I know, Lindy. I’m really sorry I can’t be there to decorate today and tomorrow. I’m sure you will have plenty of help. I think it’s nice that Felicity got the helium for the balloons.” I watch the final passengers board the early morning flight to Las Vegas. “No, I don’t think she wants everyone to think you’re an incompetent, do-nothing class president who doesn’t know a streamer from a shrimp roll. Look, I have to go. I’ll see you Saturday night.”

  After a quick call to Hunter to check on his progress, I power off my phone and stick it in my bag.

  “The teenage years are difficult and trying ones,” Robbie says from across the aisle.

  Mom licks her finger and flips a magazine page. “Tell me about it.”

  In a few minutes the plane taxis down the runway. Then with a lurch that never fails to make my stomach drop, we become one with the clouds, birds, and smog.

  Three Sprites, two Teen Vogues, and one iPod movie later, we touch down in Vegas. I look over at the boys, and they’re head-to-head asleep—Budge with his mouth wide open.

  “This is going to be so exciting.” Mom lifts Robbie’s suitcase from the conveyor at baggage claim.

  “Hey, it’s Dad!” Robbie scampers away from us and runs straight into Jake’s waiting arms. Jake sweeps him high in the air.

  “You guys ready to go to the hotel?” With Robbie on his shoulders,

  Jake wraps an arm around Mom. “It’s something else.”

  Yeah, the WWT hotel. Of all the cool places to stay in Vegas, we have to stay at the one dedicated to wrestling. Why not the ritzy Bellagio? Or the cool one that looks like Paris?

  Outside a stretch limo waits for us. Robbie and Budge ooh and ahh. Even though I’ve ridden in one many times, I can’t help but run my hands over the buttery leather seats.

  We all find a window to press our nose to as we drive through town. This Las Vegas place is unreal. It’s like we’re on a different planet.

  The limo glides to a stop at the hotel. We climb out and take in the sight before us.

  “It’s in the shape of a big wrestling ring.” Robbie’s head is cranked all the way back to get the full view.

  Jake escorts us to the front desk where we’re greeted by a staff of men and women in tight Lycra shorts and tank tops.

  “Welcome to the WWT hotel,” a pert blonde says. “After you get settled in your suite, we hope you’ll explore the Spit and Spandex Museum, the Rope Burn Buffet, as well as the Chop Drop Casino. And we also have a virtual gaming room where you can experience a computer generated wrestling match and know the thrill of having a karate chop to the larynx or your arms broken in two.”

  The guy beside her smiles. “And Clay Aiken will be performing in the Head-Butt Lounge tonight.”

  None of us move. We all just stare.

  “Okay, guys!” Jake hustles us away. “Let’s go see your rooms.”

  We ride the glass elevator to the fifteenth floor. Robbie holds his hands over his head and makes whooshing noises like he’s flying. Budge listens to his iPod and openly gawks at all the hot ladies in skimpy uniforms below.

  “Here you are.” Jake opens our door.

  We walk past the bathroom into a living room. On either side of us are two bedrooms. Per Pile Driver of Dreams rules, Jake and Mickey each have their own rooms on a private floor, so I pick out a bedroom for me and Mom.

  Peeking into the room, my jaw drops at the king-sized bed in the shape of a wrestling ring. Microphones hang over the bed in some sort of freakish attempt to be a chandelier. I think this might be tackier than my bedroom at Dad’s.

  I check the bathroom. Behind the door hang two velvety robes like a wrestler would wear after a match. The sink is a giant wrestling boot. I reach into my purse and click away with my phone. No one will ever believe this place without photographic proof.

  When I
rejoin the family in the living room, Mickey Patrick sits on the couch, his arm playfully crooked around Robbie’s neck. Is it weird that headlocks are an acceptable form of greeting in my family? Dogs sniff each other’s butts. Most people handshake. But us? We grab you in ways that make you think your neck is going to snap off.

  “Are you nervous?” Mom sits on the opposite couch next to Jake, her hand resting on his knee.

  He blows out a long breath. “It’s big stuff tonight. For the next two days, we’re paired with professional wrestlers from WWT and had just today to plot out a storyline and choreograph the wrestling matches. So this is the big leagues, you know? Tonight’s about pleasing the viewing audience for the votes, but tomorrow is about pleasing the judges from WWT.”

  Jake kisses Mom’s cheek. “I hate to duck out so soon, but I have to get back. Lots of work to be done yet.”

  “I need to go too.” Mickey stands up, his gaze averted. “I want to call and check on Dolly.”

  After dinner we have time to walk the strip before returning to the hotel. Al Gore would seriously not be pleased with this town’s electricity bill. As night falls, we walk back through the hotel and the clanging casino to the WWT arena.

  God, please let Jake win. And keep him safe. It would be really cool if he came through this without anything broken. Like his spine.

  An usher guides Mom, Budge, Robbie, and me to our seats near the floor. A camera across the room is trained on us, but I don’t care.

  I’ll be through with cameras by next week after the wrap-up show airs. Through with America occasionally seeing my face on TV and in the tabloids. Through living la vida Lohan.

  Some time later the Pile Driver of Dreams host walks to the center of the ring. He wears a tuxedo, and the crowd roars when he’s handed a microphone.

  “Ladies and gentlemen! Welcome to our two-part finale of Pile Driver of Dreams. As you know, our contestants are working with the familiar faces of WWT. Tonight you’ll see them in action with the wrestling heroes. After the show, we’ll post the numbers, and that’s when you call or text your vote.”

  I don’t have unlimited texting, but I think Mom will understand five hundred or so over my limit.

  “And tomorrow night the two remaining contestants will go head-to-head for the judges. The scores will be averaged, and we will announce our winner of the WWT contract. Are you ready, America?” The yells and applause of thousands thunder in the arena. “Live from Las Vegas! This . . . is . . . Pile Driver of Dreams! Our first contestant will be Captain Iron Jack!”

  A door on the center stage opens. Smoke billows out as Jake saunters toward the ring. He poses and works the crowd. As his professional opponent enters the same way, Jake takes the moment to slip through the ropes and step into the ring. Before thousands in the arena and millions at home, he drops to one knee. And bows his head. Oh, my gosh. He’s praying. On national television.

  I think I’m kinda proud. A good portion of the crowd shouts their approval. I just hope he doesn’t split his pants while he’s down there. Wouldn’t be anything holy about that sight.

  I spend the next hour biting my nails. Just another reason to get a manicure before prom. Jake is seriously good, but will it seal a victory? I’m not exactly sure how you measure the quality of a choke hold or a leg squeeze. And his competition, Sanchez the Snake, is the one who dreams of being a professional wrestler just so he can send money to Mexico for his mother’s liver transplant. How do you compete with that?

  I tried to talk Budge into stepping in front of a bus for some sympathy, but he wouldn’t go for it. I guess he doesn’t want his dad to win as badly as I thought.

  When the show is over, we all walk back to the hotel room with a security escort like our last name is Cyrus. Fans snap Jake’s picture and beg him for autographs. It takes us forty-five minutes just to get through the lobby.

  On Friday we go to another buffet for breakfast. With such easy access to pancakes, I eat them like I’ll never see another.

  We spend the rest of the day rotating between sightseeing, finding Robbie when he flies away, and doing interviews for the media in the pressroom, which is the weirdest thing ever.

  “Bella,” the reporter for E! News begins, “all of America has followed you through your public relationships.”

  “You mean my friendships.” Would it be impolite to growl here?

  “Has it been hard having your life documented on television while you sorted out your feelings for Luke Sullivan and your ex-boyfriend Hunter Penbrook?”

  I feel my face flush with desert heat. What if Luke sees this? “As I have said all along, both of these guys are my friends. I would hate for anyone to make more out of it just for the sake of a story.”

  Wa-pow! Take that!

  My entire family fields questions like these for hours, as does the family of the remaining contestant. When I walk by one camera fixed on Robbie, I smile as he tells them how his cape helps him save the world on a daily basis.

  As Mom finishes up with CBS, I gravitate toward some brownies and snacks on a table.

  A woman in airbrushed jeans and a halter top grabs two. “This stuff is crazy, isn’t it?”

  “I hope you don’t mean the brownies,” I say. “Because I really need one right now.”

  She laughs with a Marlboro-laced huskiness. “I mean the months of cameras, the interviews, the gossip magazines.”

  “Are you Sanchez the Snake’s wife?”

  She cackles again. “I still can’t get used to that name.” She wipes her black-lined eyes. “I call him Louie Heine. Though I’ve certainly called him a snake plenty of times too.” She sucks in a fuchsia pink lip. “I’m Frannie, and I am not Louie’s wife. I’m his ex-wife.”

  “Oh.” I crunch my teeth on some nuts. Why do people have to destroy a perfectly good brownie with nuts? “That’s too bad about his mom. I hope she gets her liver.” Just not with winnings from the show.

  She snorts loud enough to turn a few heads. “Right. His dying mom. In Mexico.”

  Okay, well, her bitterness is putting a downer on my snack time. “I’ll see you at the show, Frannie.” I stuff some chocolate chip cookies in my purse and walk away. Somewhere there’s a buffet calling my name.

  Later in the hotel room, after I’m glossed, CHI’d, and sprayed, I join the rest of the superprimped family in the sitting area. We all look ready for our close-up.

  Mom has us say a quick prayer for Jake, then we’re out the door, walking down the hall on carpet so busy it makes my eyes hurt.

  Once again we are escorted to our seats in the WWT arena. Chills break out on my arms as music swells and the host begins his intro.

  “Hello, America! We’re coming to you from Las Vegas at the World Wrestling Television Hotel, and we are down to the final night. This evening our contestants, Captain Iron Jack and Sanchez the Snake, will have two matches—against each other. We will combine your voting results from last night with the judge’s scores at the end of this hour. The winner will walk away from here as the new professional wrestler on the WWT team. Live from Las Vegas . . . it’s Pile Driver of Dreams!”

  The crowd goes wild. Robbie and Budge hold up signs for Jake.

  I scan the crowd for more just like them.

  Giant screens play highlights of the last few months, giving the overview of Jake and Snake’s lives.

  “Captain Iron Jack gets up before dawn to train, then reports to work at a local factory to help support his wife and three kids. Jillian Finley and Bella Kirkwood, once Manhattan princesses, now live the Wal-Mart life on Jake’s income . . .”

  Eek. No need to make us sound like we’re one paycheck away from living out of the Tahoe.

  “Sanchez the Snake works three jobs . . . to pay for his five children . . .”

  The person behind me kicks my seat, and automatically I turn around. It’s Frannie. Her arms are crossed, her eyes narrow slits.

  “Pays for his five kids.” She does her snorting thing again. �
�And I’m Reese stinkin’ Witherspoon.”

  I return my attention back to the screen.

  “Sanchez the Snake also supports his mother, who will die soon without the money for an organ transplant.” They show pictures of Snake’s kids and a pitiful shot of his shriveled up mom. The entire arena awwwwws.

  “Aw, my tush!”

  This lady is worse than high schoolers in a movie theater.

  “Frannie”—my voice snaps a little too harshly—“can you keep it down?” I dig into my purse. “I have some cookies if you want them.”

  “Sorry, kid.” She smacks on a big wad of gum. “This whole thing is about over, and I’m officially at my breaking point.” She points toward the screen. “They’re making him out to be some stinkin’ saint. That man’s never paid a dime of child support to my five kids.” She blinks rapidly as if holding back tears. “And little Tommy needs . . .”

  I hand her a Kleenex. “Shoes?”

  She sniffs. “A Wii.”

  “But if your ex-husband hasn’t paid you in all these years, why are you here?”

  “Because I want that money. He owes me.” She blows her nose. “But now . . . my tummy hurts, you know?”

  “From all the brownies?”

  “No,” she whines. “From keeping his secrets.”

  The heavens open and angels sing above me. “What are you talking about?”

  “And tonight he tells me he knows he has it in the bag—and won’t be giving his kids their share.”

  I’m so in her space, I’ve all but leapt over the seat. “Frannie, what secrets?”

  Her dark brown eyes lock onto mine. “Sanchez the Snake does not have a mother in Mexico. She lives in Scottsdale, Arizona, in a condo on the ninth green.”

  “But the little old lady? The video footage?”

  She waves a hand. “I did some acting in my skinny days—small parts in sci-fi movies. We don’t even know that lady. I spent weeks Googling to find someone in Mexico who needed an organ or something. I found one other lady, but she was Chinese and spoke clear English.”

  “So Louie, er, Sanchez the Snake just went and filmed this woman in the hospital?”

  “That lady don’t speak no English. Apparently neither do any of the reality show crew because nobody’s called Louie’s bluff.”