Messy

by Cocks, Heather

  “At the carnival? Since when?”

  “We’re a last-minute addition,” Teddy explained. “While you were off at the studio throwing yourself on a sword for Brooke Berlin, Bone was on the phone with this rep from Chop Shop.”

  “Chop Shop Records?”

  Teddy grinned. “That’s the one,” he said. “I guess he was at the House of Blues concert and he loved Bone’s stuff. They want to sign us.”

  “Shut up!” Max said, sitting up so fast to punch him in the shoulder that her head spun. She lay back down again.

  Teddy nodded. “Crazy, right? Brie said we had to play a set at the carnival to celebrate.” He frowned. “Actually, I think she said that having a band with a record deal on the bill would improve the carnival’s Q rating. But anyway. There you have it.”

  “And how do you feel about this?” Max asked. “Weren’t you going to quit the band or something?”

  “I was embarrassed,” he admitted. “And I figured they’d want me out after everyone hated my stuff. But Molly kinda made me sack up and go talk to them, and it turned out no one was mad at me about it.”

  “I told you!” Max crowed.

  “No, you didn’t,” Teddy said. “You sat next to Molly while she told me that.”

  “Same thing. I’m moral-support-adjacent.”

  “Of course,” Teddy said. “Anyway, Bone said that there isn’t a group in the world that hasn’t had something like this happen, and he thinks we can all make each other better.” He blew out his cheeks. “I never thought a person named Bone—much less this person named Bone—would be the voice of reason.”

  “So you’re sticking with it?”

  “For now,” Teddy said, leaning over to retie the shoelace on his left Converse. “I mean, graduation is in six weeks. And then I start UCLA in the fall, and who knows what will happen then. But for now, why not see where it takes me? I obviously have a lot to learn about songwriting.”

  Max leaned back against her headboard. “Ew. That’s so mature.”

  “Just returning the favor,” he said. “I recall you giving me some pretty sage advice, too.”

  “Definitely a fluke,” Max said. “I think when it comes right down to it, I am actually really stupid.”

  “Okay, drama queen. Either spill it or get over it and rejoin the world,” Teddy said. “Or would you prefer if I had Mom come up and carry you downstairs?”

  “So we should probably leave soon if we’re going to make the carnival in time, right?” Max responded brightly.

  “I knew you’d see reason,” Teddy said. “I’ll meet you downstairs. If you don’t shower first, you’re going to asphyxiate everyone before we even get onstage.”

  The carnival took place every year off-campus at the historic Rose Bowl stadium, nestled in the mountains in Pasadena. Underneath the stadium’s famous red cursive logo hung the biggest and most garish banner Max had ever seen, which read in part COLBY-RANDALL PREPARATORY SCHOOL SPRING CARNIVAL and noted that the proceeds were going to a women’s shelter in downtown Los Angeles. Under that—in substantially larger script—it screamed, BROUGHT TO YOU BY DIET COKE, BAKED TOSTITOS, AND OUR GRACIOUS COMMITTEE CHAIR, BROOKE BERLIN.

  I am never going to escape that girl.

  Max and Brooke had parted on decent terms, or so it seemed from their silent exchange before Max fled the set, but in the car on the way over, Max realized what she dreaded most was what came next. How were they supposed to act now? It was like breaking up with someone and then trying to stay friends: It never truly worked, and tended to involve minimal contact and awkward sentence fragments. This was a compelling reason Max preferred to avoid these kinds of entanglements. Aftermaths were not her thing. But Max was thankful she’d have more time to figure it out—Brooke would be away filming for at least another month, and by then… well, by then, instead of being at NYU, Max would probably be very busy taking drive-thru orders at McDonald’s.

  “Maxine! Theodore!” screeched a blonde banshee from just to the left of the stadium entrance.

  Wait, Brooke is here? Max panicked.

  But as they drew closer to the registration table, Max saw that this was Brie, her hair an even blonder and fuller mass of curls than before, and her skin at least two shades tanner. She waved Teddy through but motioned for Max to stop at the table.

  “Thanks for joining us, Maxine,” she said, rummaging around in a cardboard box on the ground. “One never can tell with you. Aha!”

  Brie withdrew a large Hefty bag from the box and handed it to Max. Confused, Max gave it an exploratory poke—it was awfully squashy—and looked quizzically at Brie.

  “Your costume,” Brie prompted her.

  “My what?”

  “You were missing in action—again—when everyone signed up for a booth,” Brie said sunnily. “So we had to assign you to something.”

  Max set the bag on the ground and opened it. A pile of brightly colored velvets peered back at her. On top sat a gold lamé turban, topped with an emerald-green ostrich feather.

  “The fortune-telling booth?” she gasped. “You are not serious.”

  “These are the consequences of shirking your extracurricular commitments,” Brie said. Then she waved her hand in the air dismissively, a very Brooke-like gesture. “It’ll be entertaining. Think of all the downer fortunes you can make up for people.”

  Max opened her mouth to point out that it was probably well on its way to being a hundred degrees out, and that she would likely die of heat prostration under her turban. But then she thought better of it. The prospect of an afternoon telling some schmo from her chemistry class that the Spirits claimed he was going to set his pants on fire next Tuesday fit her mood perfectly.

  “Fine,” she said. “Where is my tent?”

  They set off, past the fame-themed first attraction—a step-and-repeat emblazoned with their sponsor logos (and Brooke’s signature, in pink) behind a stretch of bubble-gum-colored carpet, where a couple of students dressed as paparazzi were setting up cameras—and then deep into the heart of the stadium. In spite of the planning committee’s endless discussions, it looked exactly like every other carnival Max had ever seen: a Ferris wheel, a Skee-Ball station, some game where you could knock over pictures of all the teachers with water guns (a touch Max rather appreciated, since shooting her mother was worth the most points), cotton-candy and caramel-corn stands, several games involving balls, and a rickety teacups ride that actually had buckets marked FOR VOMIT lined up near the exit. There was a carnival jail—Anna Fury had obviously won that argument; it was five bucks per arrest, and either an hour of captivity or another five bucks for bail—followed by a bunch of stalls where local merchants and some of Max’s classmates were selling crafts and jewelry. Between that area and the giant stage, where Mental Hygienist would be playing, sat a tiny purple-draped tent with a sign reading MADAME ESMERELDA: WHERE A FORTUNE WON’T COST ONE. The jar outside indicated the fee for entrance was a buck.

  Max walked inside. The “walls” had been clumsily adorned with glow-in-the-dark stars and swirls and other allegedly mystical nonsense. There was a red velvet–covered table, and two ancient folding chairs that promised to numb her butt within about fifteen minutes. Max dumped out her robes with an aggrieved sigh.

  “I want it on the record that I am only consenting to this because Bucky wore a turban at his wedding to Klaus on Lust for Life,” she said. Then she noticed her irritation had been wasted on Brie, who was gazing into space, cradling the prop crystal ball and tapping her toe.

  “Why so antsy?” Max asked, pulling on the robes. They weighed approximately a thousand pounds. This boded ill for the turban. How did Bucky do it?

  Brie flushed. “I’m fine.” She cleared her throat. “Um, what time is Brooke coming today?”

  Max shivered involuntarily. “You’d know better than I would.”

  “I haven’t talked to her much lately,” Brie said, twirling a blonde curl around her finger in an agitated way.

&nb
sp; Max studied Brie curiously. The girl did look more and more like Brooke every time Max saw her, right down to the clothes: Somehow, Brie had hooked herself a Pucci mini and sparkly Manolos. Her teeth were unnaturally white, and she also had a necklace with a script B around her neck that reminded Max of the logo that hung off Brooke’s doorknob. They were one meat hook away from a horror movie that ended very badly for Brooke.

  “Madame Esmerelda senses that you’re nervous about running into Brooke,” Max said, plopping the turban on her head and waggling her finger to try to lighten the mood.

  “It was just really fun to step into her shoes,” Brie confessed, tapping the crystal ball with her flawless greige manicure (also a Brooke Berlin favorite). “And so I kind of… really stepped into her shoes. All of a sudden I’m taking yoga with Ari.”

  “Madame Esmerelda sees why you might worry,” Max said. “You have sort of turned into Brooke’s clone.”

  Brie smoothed her hair. “I just feel more in charge this way. But Brooke does not like people horning in on her territory.”

  “Tell me about it.” Max snorted.

  Brie checked her watch. “Okay, the doors are opening right now,” she said. “I should go check on everyone else.”

  She pulled open the velvet curtain and came face-to-face with Brooke, whose folksy outfit for the day made her look like the world’s most impossibly chic country bumpkin (apparently in her mind, carnivals were the chief export of America’s farmlands).

  “Oh… my God,” Brie squeaked.

  “Good, Anna told me you’d be here,” Brooke said. She glanced around the room, her eyes flickering over Max briefly, dismissively.

  So that’s how it’s going to be. I should have known.

  “Is everything… okay?” Brie asked. She began gnawing on a hangnail that Max knew she didn’t actually have.

  Brooke looked Brie up and down, then walked around her slowly, in an appraising circle.

  “Brie,” she began, “when I put you in charge of the carnival, this is the last thing I expected.”

  “I’m sorry,” Brie said, her shoulders slumping with disappointment.

  “Why? I am seriously so impressed with you right now.”

  “Really?” Brie squeaked.

  “You have shown initiative and excellence in personal grooming,” Brooke said. “I have to say, after a year of you never even so much as bookmarking Shopbop.com, I had assumed this day would never come.”

  “I just wanted to make you proud,” Brie said hopefully.

  “You are everything I had hoped for when I plucked you from freshman obscurity,” Brooke said proudly. “I mean, there are some rough spots—I would never have worn those shoes with that skirt—but we are making such progress. It’s reassuring to know that I have a mini-me who can represent my interests at school while I am busy with my craft on set.”

  Brie was as red as the cloth under Max’s crystal ball. Max stifled a yawn. She was happy for the kid, but Single White Female was way more entertaining on a Saturday morning than what was effectively an episode of A Makeover Story.

  “How’s it looking out there?” Brie asked, more confidently. She threw open the curtain again. The grounds of the Rose Bowl were already packed, and Mental Hygienist was doing its sound check on the main stage. Mavis Moore was manning the cotton-candy stand across the way, having artfully shaped all her sugary swirls to look like animals. Magnus Mitchell had been roped into selling his mother’s wooden bracelets nearby, but he kept gazing at Mavis and her edible zoo as if she were Brett Favre. A huge group of chattering students swarmed the area, obscuring the rest of their view.

  “It’s a hit and it only just started,” Brooke said. “I am a genius.”

  “Oh, yes, well, whenever I was stumped, I just thought, What would Brooke Berlin do?” Brie trilled, delighted.

  Brooke nodded sagely. “Exactly,” she said. “In fact, you’re officially in charge of my birthday-party planning this year. It’s less than two weeks away, so it’s a huge responsibility. I’m not sure how you’re going to get the elephants on such short notice.”

  “Details,” Brie said, waving her hand. “I know someone at the zoo.”

  “Of course you do.” Brooke beamed. “Now, I’m looking for Max. Have you seen her?”

  Brie looked puzzled. “Well, yeah.” She jerked a thumb in Max’s direction.

  Brooke peered at Max intently. “Well, well,” she said, thoughtfully. “Nice turban. It’s very directional.” She turned to Brie. “Could you give us a moment, please?”

  Brie fought through the heavy curtains to get outside. As soon as she disappeared, Max yanked off the robes. “I draw the line at caftans,” she muttered.

  “Right? Maxi dresses are bad enough. Nicole Richie needs to stop giving people bad ideas,” Brooke said, sliding into the seat opposite Max. “So, fortune-teller, what do you see in my future?”

  “Fame and fortune,” Max replied flatly.

  “Duh. And what do you see in yours?”

  “Why are we doing this?”

  “Well, for one thing, because you didn’t answer any of my calls,” Brooke said, leaning back in her chair. “I need to return some of your stuff.”

  She reached into her Victoria Beckham tote and fished out a handful of paper, which she dropped on the table next to the crystal ball. It was Max’s discarded NYU application. There was a coffee stain on the left corner, and it smelled faintly of bananas.

  “It’s good, Max,” Brooke said. “It’s really good.”

  “You read it?”

  “Don’t act so shocked. It’s not like I snuck into your bedroom and read your diary,” Brooke said, offended. “You practically threw it in my face.”

  “It was in the garbage.”

  “At my workplace,” Brooke said pointedly. “And you’re welcome for me rescuing it. I especially liked the part where you basically compared me dating Brady to Heidi Montag becoming a neurosurgeon.”

  Max willed her turban to drop over her face again. It complied. “Artistic license,” she mumbled.

  Brooke plucked the turban off Max’s head. “I laughed,” she said. “Seriously. You are even better at writing as yourself than you are at writing as me.”

  “Thank you,” Max said, fixating on one cloudy spot on the crystal ball.

  Brooke stabbed at Max’s NYU application with a red-painted nail. “I can’t believe you’re not turning this in. That’s a winning application if I ever saw one. And,” she said, brandishing a long rectangle of paper, “Brick wrote you a letter of recommendation that I don’t think the selection committee can ignore.”

  Max unfolded the letter. The first line read, This totally anonymous writer is nothing less than a preeminent American hero of our century. Turns out Brick loved hyperbole as much as he loved protein powder.

  Brooke smiled. “He’s really impressed with what you did for me. So am I, Max.”

  Max wanted to crawl under the table. She never knew how to take compliments. Mostly because she rarely got them. “I couldn’t let you get fired,” she said to the crystal ball. “You wouldn’t have even been in that position if I hadn’t written that ridiculous entry about social media.”

  “And you wouldn’t have written that entry if I hadn’t swooped in on Brady.”

  “That’s my fault, too,” Max pointed out.

  Brooke shrugged. “It’s hard to be truthful about matters of the heart,” she said. “I learned that during the Lust for Life episode where Veronica goes mute after falling in love with Hedge von Henson while they’re trapped in the mine shaft.”

  “Yes. This is very much like that.”

  “Don’t be sarcastic,” Brooke scolded. “I’m trying to have a heart-to-heart here.” She cleared her throat and the imperious tone disappeared. “I liked how it felt when people acted like I was smart. I mean, I am smart, but not in the same way you are, and I liked the way the blog made people treat me. Like the producers, and Daddy, and… and Brady.” Her voice cracke
d. “No boy ever made me feel brainy before. Hot, yes, but not brainy. So I kind of got carried away, and I’m… sorry about that. I thought you liked him even when you denied it, but it was easier for me to decide you were telling the truth because… well.”

  “It’s okay. It’s my bad.” Max tapped the turban. “Madame Esmerelda can’t expect everyone to be psychic.”

  “The thing is, a huge part of what he liked about me wasn’t really me. It was you,” Brooke said. “Your writing did that. So it’s super lame of you to give up on NYU.”

  “Look, it’s fine. It doesn’t really matter anymore anyway,” Max said. “The application deadline is Monday. I’ll never write something new between now and then.”

  Brooke crinkled up her nose. “And why would you do something dumb like that? I just told you, this is good,” she said. “And everyone knows the truth now, so what’s the problem?”

  “Wait, what?”

  “The truth about the blog. I told it. After you left,” Brooke said impatiently. “Didn’t Teddy tell you?”

  “No!” Max gasped, wanting simultaneously to hug Brooke and throttle her brother. “He must’ve wanted to make me hear it from you.”

  “Well. That was bossy of him,” Brooke said. “Well played, Teddy.”

  Max straightened up in her chair. “But everything was going to be fine! Why did you do that? You’ll get annihilated on the Internet!”

  “Well, we’re going to say that the whole blog thing was illustrative of the undue pressure the Internet puts on Young Hollywood to be one hundred percent accessible to the world,” Brooke said, as if reciting a press release (which she probably was). She scratched at a sticky spot on the velvet tablecloth. “But the real answer is, because you made yourself look totally crazy to help me out, and you didn’t have to. I don’t think I would have done that for me, if I were you.”

  Max snorted. “Apparently, all that green hair dye didn’t blitz my conscience like I had hoped.”

  “Well, I think I got a taste of how you felt all this time,” Brooke said. “Everyone was screaming about how happy they were that Brooke Berlin really did have a brain, and I just thought, I do have one, and it’s perfectly fine the way it is. It must have sucked having everyone treat you like you weren’t important when actually everything they liked came from you. So I couldn’t let everyone think you were a nutball.” She paused. “Well, not for those reasons, anyway.”