Messy

by Cocks, Heather

  “Are you guys ready to par-taaaay?” he asked, and the crowd cheered.

  But Max barely heard him, nor the ensuing musical stylings of Unsinkable Panty Line. Her mind was racing: I can’t believe Jake kissed me. I can’t believe I didn’t enjoy it when Jake kissed me. I can’t believe I was thinking about what Brady might be thinking when Jake kissed me. If thirteen-year-old me found out about this, she’d want to punch me in the face.

  After what seemed like half a lifetime of “intense” “singing,” Unsinkable Panty Line ran offstage. They were followed by a jug band called Uncle Grandma, and then a fivesome by the name of Plush that included a woman in a rabbit suit hopping around the stage and beating her chest between handstands.

  “Well, they’re not much competition,” Molly noted.

  “Are you kidding? I wish we were the Colby-Randall Rabbits,” Jake said. “That thing would make a rad mascot.”

  Mental Hygienist was next. Molly and Max cheered as Teddy ran onstage, holding his guitar, wearing a fedora, and looking pale.

  “What’s with the hat?” Max whispered.

  Molly rolled her eyes. “Bone decided they needed to be more visually arresting, or something,” she said as the band launched into its first song, “Knead Your Love (I Need It [Love Bread]).”

  Whether it was the hats or just the fact that anyone would have been better than Plush, the crowd immediately took to Mental Hygienist. Max never would have admitted it to anyone, especially to Teddy, but the first song was kind of good. The lyrics were incredibly stupid, obviously, but the chorus was buoyant and the tune was catchy. Even the adults in the audience were bobbing their heads to the beat.

  “Thank you, Hollywoooooood!” Bone yelled over the applause as the last notes died out. “We are Mental Hygienist, and we are so excited to be here! I’m your lead singer, Bone Johnson!”

  He took a bow as the crowd applauded, flipping his long bangs out of his eyes when he righted himself—an affectation Max knew from Teddy that he’d been practicing for months. Max and Molly clapped wildly as he introduced the rest of the band, especially for Teddy, who lifted his hat in a halfhearted salute. Out of the corner of her eye, Max thought she saw some people taking camera-phone pictures of Molly cheering. It was always weird to remember that, depending on who else was in the room, Brick Berlin’s surprise daughter Molly Dix was considered a semi–celebrity sighting.

  “Thanks, everyone,” Teddy said, stepping up to his microphone. “We’re gonna try something a little different now.”

  With that, he launched into the song Max had heard him practicing endlessly in his room. It was slow, romantic, acoustic—and totally wrong for the audience, which had been pumped up by Mental Hygienist’s perky first number.

  Molly shot Max a concerned look. Teddy was already losing the crowd; people had started to chat among themselves, and several spectators around them had abandoned ship to refill their drinks. Even Jake was suddenly nowhere to be seen. Max peered through the half light at the people around them, but she couldn’t find him.

  “Where did Jake go?” she asked Molly.

  Molly looked around. “He was here like two seconds ago. Did he leave?”

  “I have no idea,” Max said.

  “I saw you guys—”

  “Yeah,” Max said.

  “Oh, wait,” Molly said. “Isn’t that him?”

  Max followed Molly’s outstretched finger all the way across the club to a darkened corner, where Jake was in a heated discussion with a very angry-looking Jennifer Parker.

  “What is she doing here?” Molly asked, but the bulk of her attention was clearly drifting back to Teddy, who was valiantly pressing forward with his ballad.

  “She’s probably here to choke me out,” Max muttered. She knew she should be annoyed at the prospect of being on a collision course with Jake’s ex, especially since the two of them were such enthusiastic public arguers, but she was more curious as to when exactly Jennifer had arrived on the scene. Because as much as she was terrible at reading people’s signals, she was pretty sure Jake had chosen a really random moment to go in for their first kiss. Maybe he was making a point, she thought. Rather than get caught staring at Jake and Jennifer, who were getting right up in each other’s faces and making violent gestures, Max turned back to Teddy. As she did so, a flash of blonde hair caught her eye. There was Brooke, leaning up against a wall at the back of the club. At least, it sure looked like Brooke. It was hard to tell—some of her was blocked from view because she was…

  Because she’s making out.

  It was like a giant stone dropping into her solar plexus, a sudden jealousy that was an actual physical presence in Max’s body. Brooke Berlin was kissing Brady Swift. And it ejected all thoughts of Jake Donovan kissing Max McCormack from Max’s mind.

  I am so stupid. So, so stupid.

  Up until now, Max had wanted to believe that she was only mildly intrigued by Brady—and that it didn’t matter that he was probably into Brooke, because Brooke was, well, Brooke, and people like Max didn’t stand a chance in the face of all that hair and height and skin and batted eyelashes. But as she watched Brooke touch Brady’s neck, the full force of every conversation, every joke, even their excitement at making fun of the possum farmer thing, hit Max at once. It was a massive wallop of adoration, exhilaration, envy, agony, and regret.

  It’s so obvious. I don’t just want to be with some guy like Brady. I want to be with actual Brady. And now he’s kissing Brooke, because of me. I made this happen. I am the stupidest girl in the world.

  “Sorry about that,” Jake said, popping back up at her side. “I had to deal with an unwelcome guest.”

  Max barely registered him, or that Teddy’s song was over, or the audience’s halfhearted applause. She needed to go somewhere to breathe. She spun around, almost in a panic, trying to scope out the exit.

  “Max, it’s okay, I got rid of Jennifer,” Jake called out to her. “Told her this was none of her business. Wait, where are you going?”

  Max wasn’t sure. All she knew was that she had to get out of the club, away from everyone, immediately. She mumbled something to Jake that she hoped sounded like “Be right back” and pushed away through the crowd, not stopping until she’d burst out of the heavy double doors leading to the parking lot and collapsed against the wall. All her other emotions were quickly being supplanted by resentment. Brooke had asked her several times if she was into Brady. Clearly, she had seen something Max herself hadn’t.

  And yet she did this anyway, Max raged to herself. She told me it was for publicity. She told me she didn’t like him. She told me she wasn’t going to lead him on. And now she’s making out with him in public. She lied. Brooke Berlin is not my friend. Brooke Berlin has never been my friend.

  “Max,” Brooke’s voice said.

  Max looked up and her eyes slowly focused on Brooke’s perfectly painted, very satisfied face. She had her arm wrapped around the waist of a flushed, slightly embarrassed-looking Brady.

  “What a night, right?” Brooke chirped.

  “You could say that,” Max said, staring at her shoes. She didn’t want either of them to see her face. Because then surely they would know. For all her crowing about her poker face, Max had no idea how to hide what she was feeling right now.

  Why didn’t I quit this stupid job when my mother gave me the chance?

  “We’re off—early call times tomorrow,” Brooke said. “See you on set!”

  As they walked away, Brooke suddenly stopped and said something Max couldn’t hear, then ran back to Max.

  “Did you see?” Brooke whispered excitedly. “Mission accomplished! The tabloids are going to go nuts.” She squeezed Max’s hand. “Just remember, you made it happen!”

  And with that, she scurried back to Brady and dragged him to the valet stand. Max just watched them go.

  I made this happen.

  In the distance, Brooke rummaged through her purse and briefly unearthed the edge of what look
ed like one of Max’s flash cards before hastily stuffing it back inside. A slow smile spread across Max’s face.

  Yeah, I made this happen, she thought spitefully. And I can make it un-happen.

  nineteen

  “THE NERVE OF THAT GIRL,” seethed Jennifer Parker.

  “Mmm,” Brooke said. Damn, he’s cute. And those dimples.

  “I ran into her at Barneys, talking to your regular shoe salesman and trying on those YSL boots that you saw in Vogue and said you liked,” Jennifer nattered. “And when I went up to confront her she blew me off! Can you believe it? Doesn’t she know who I am?”

  “Mmm.” He’s like Ryan Gosling combined with that hottie from White Collar. How did I not notice this before?

  “And then she cut off Rene’s head with a sales receipt and made it into a purse.”

  “Great.” I wonder what our Hollywood couple nickname will be. Brooky? Bralin? Brake? Broke? Ew, no.

  “Brooke!” Jennifer shouted peevishly, snapping her fingers in front of Brooke’s face.

  “What? Sorry, Jen. What were you saying about Brady?”

  “I wasn’t saying anything about him,” Jen huffed. “I was talking about your disrespectful little assistant.”

  “What did Max do now?”

  “Not her,” Jen spat. “Brie. As if they’d even let Max into Barneys.”

  Brooke resettled herself against the huge old maple tree on Colby-Randall’s main lawn and tried to focus on what Jennifer was saying, but her mind was elsewhere. Specifically, in Brady Swift’s mouth. “So what’s the problem? Brie didn’t want to talk?”

  “She should treat me with respect,” Jennifer said, tugging some grass out of the ground in irritation. “She is your employee, and I am one of your oldest and dearest and most loyal friends. She doesn’t get to say, ‘Jennifer, I don’t have time for this, I have a manicure.’ ”

  Brooke shrugged. “Maybe she really had a manicure.” At Jen’s furious expression, she quickly added, “But I will make sure she knows that if she runs into you again at Barneys, she should cancel it.”

  “That’s the least she should do,” Jennifer said airily. Then she added, “But since you brought up Max…”

  Brooke stretched lazily. “I can’t control who she goes out with, Jen.”

  “It’s so rude.” Grass was being uprooted by the violent fistful now. “She’s dating my ex! Of, like, a week! That violates the Girl Code, doesn’t it?”

  “It would, if you had ever been friends,” pointed out Arugula, who had been absorbed in her iPhone on Jen’s other side. “But you loathe each other. Ergo, I’m confident the only code you have in common is the penal code preventing you from running each other over with your respective cars.”

  “She was so in my face about it, too! Kissing him in the bar…” Jen’s tone went from aggressive to wounded. “It really sucked, seeing that. I didn’t think…” Her face crumbled as she trailed off into silence.

  Brooke sat up. “I’m sorry, Jen,” she said sincerely, feeling slightly guilty for her small (very small, though, really) part in encouraging Max and Jake. She rubbed Jen’s arm sympathetically. “I’ve been kind of caught up in my own stuff.”

  “It’s okay,” Jen said quietly. “I understand. You have a big movie taking up all your time.” Her voice took on a wistful tone. “Jake was kind of all I had to focus on.”

  Brooke didn’t know what to say. Now she felt massively guilty for her somewhat larger than “very small” part in encouraging Max and Jake.

  “First of all, every woman should have something to sustain her emotionally other than just some man,” Arugula said. “Second, at least you got to yell at him about it.”

  “That’s true,” Jen allowed, twisting a strand of brown hair around her finger. “It was kind of like old times.” She brightened. “Maybe it’ll make him nostalgic! He always liked it when we fought.”

  At that moment, two of the school’s basketball players crossed the quad. “Hey, Maneater,” one yelled, and wolf-whistled. Brooke blushed prettily and waved.

  “Oh, right, how many hits has the YouTube video gotten?” Jen asked, a bit peppier now.

  Ari pecked at her phone. “Fifty thousand so far,” she said. “How many of them were you, Brooke?”

  “Only about twelve,” she lied. It was more like fifty. But she couldn’t help it—whoever had gotten the cell-phone video of her and Brady making out had been at a really advantageous angle. She looked great—her nose wasn’t in the way at all, although she had mild concerns about her chin—and it perfectly captured the heat of the moment. Brooke could still feel his kiss all the way to her toes.

  “Way to go, Berlin!” Chaz Kelly shouted, giving her a chunky thumbs-up from the parking lot. “You’re an animal!”

  “The commenters aren’t so charitably disposed,” Ari said, skimming the page.

  Brooke blanched. “What are they saying?” she squeaked, snatching the phone from Ari. “Is it my chin? I knew it was my chin.”

  “Oh, they aren’t talking about you,” Ari said. “They’re murdering the song that’s playing. The one Teddy McCormack wrote.”

  Brooke scrolled down and read a few of them. “Artless whining from a nasal loser,” she read aloud. “Oh, God, this one called it ‘eunuch rock.’ ” She frowned. “Poor Teddy. Molly said he worked really hard on that.”

  “Well, that doesn’t change the fact that he’s an ‘emo angst bag,’ ” Arugula quoted. Brooke glared at her. “I didn’t write it,” Ari protested. Then she paused. “But I may have written the eunuch one.”

  “That’s my sister’s boyfriend you’re talking about,” Brooke huffed. “Kindly leave out the snide comments.”

  Brooke stood up and brushed off her pleated DKNY mini. “Okay, I’m off—I have to turn in this week’s homework to Headmistress McCormack and then I’m due on set.” She smiled. “Nancy solves the mystery today, in an actual dress. Such a nice break from my homeless rags.”

  “I know what you mean,” Jen said, scooping up her books. “On Thursday I did an infomercial for a company that makes neti pots and they put me in a shirt from Wet Seal. I mean, can you imagine?”

  The three of them headed into the main building. Brooke hadn’t been on campus much in the past month, and it was satisfying to find her old stomping grounds totally unchanged: The student din nearly overshadowed the light classical music piped in on the PA system, the air still smelled like Lysol and chalk, and people continued to gawk and whisper whenever she passed. Maybe even more than usual, now that she was Hollywood’s most promising up-and-comer.

  In fact, something was definitely different about their attention today. Instead of seeing the standard cocktail of admiration and mild fear in her fellow classmates’ eyes, Brooke saw confusion, with traces of… amusement?

  “Excuse me, Brooke?” said a smooth, cold voice from over her shoulder. Brooke whirled around to face the most wretched human being on the planet: her longtime archnemesis Shelby Kendall, the anchor of the school’s TV station and heiress to the tabloid Hey!, a blisteringly (and inconveniently) beautiful Angelina Jolie in a world of Paris Hiltons, and a daily thorn in Brooke’s side. Shelby’s red Serious News blazer matched her lipstick to a T; she wore it over white skinny jeans with leopard pumps.

  “Shelby,” Brooke said pleasantly. “Trying to make the eighties happen again, I see.”

  “We’re on live for CR-One, covering Colby-Randall’s most cherished blogger and member of the literati,” Shelby sneered coolly, jamming a microphone into Brooke’s face. “We’re just all so inspired today by your brave antitechnology stance—what prompted it?”

  Brooke looked blankly at Shelby. “Have you hit your head recently?” she asked.

  “I might ask you the same,” Shelby said, tilting her head in faux-concern. “For someone who has cleaved to the Internet so intimately this past month, I thought calling it a ‘succubus’ was a surprising choice.” Shelby shot her a smug smile. “Would you care to elaborate?�
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  Brooke’s mind spun wildly. She hadn’t taken a single sip of alcohol on her date with Brady. She hadn’t gone anywhere the following day except to get her brows waxed. As far as she knew, nothing Shelby was yammering about had anything to do with her.

  Ari finagled a spot in her peripheral vision. The blog, Ari mouthed, waving her phone in the air. Brooke realized she hadn’t checked it yet that day. She’d been letting Max go on autopilot after the success of their first several entries. Suddenly, it seemed urgent that she escape and see what “Brooke” was talking about today.

  “Shelby, if you need help with your reading comprehension, I’d be happy to lend you one of my on-set tutors,” Brooke said, turning to leave. “Ian once taught a chimp to read, so hopefully he won’t have too much trouble with you.”

  “Such warm beauty in your words,” Shelby said, catching Brooke with her hand and squeezing her arm. The assembled crowd tittered. Brooke felt herself go pale. For the first time possibly in her entire life, she was the only person not in on the joke.

  “I don’t have time for an interview, actually,” she fumbled, shaking off Shelby and scurrying away.

  “Of course,” Shelby called after her. “So much typing to do. Ta-ta!”

  Brooke didn’t give Shelby a backward glance; instead, she stormed into the principal’s office and dumped her file folder of homework papers on the receptionist’s vacant desk. Ari followed and silently handed Brooke her phone, cued up to OpenBrooke.com’s latest:

  OPENBRKE.COM

  Precious Open Brookers, I’ve got an English assignment you might feel compelled to embrace to your collective bosoms: I’m to take a novel and imagine how it would be changed if social media existed in its universe. At first, of course, I aimed to cleave to my old favorite, my comrade-in-snark, my friend-against-phonies, the dearly departed but ne’er forgotten J. D. Salinger, but it’s simply too easy to envision the indolent existentialist funk into which Holden Caulfield would descend upon being forced to parse his worldview into 140 characters or less.