As I prepared to go to bed that night I realized maybe I wasn't numb.
Maybe I didn't care.
Jason was gone, and I'd been just as sad when I spilled coffee on my new purple costume the week before, and more upset when I'd thought I lost the iPod that was my sole treat from my first paycheck as Misty.
I curled up in bed, alone as I'd been so often lately but now really alone since Jason wouldn't be coming back, and tried to remember when I'd last been truly upset at losing someone.
Giselle.
But since her?
I thought through the boyfriends I'd liked and lost since then. A momentary sadness, nothing more. I'd been in love twice, once with Jason and once a while back, but neither of those losses had really affected me either.
Clutching the blanket around my neck for comfort, I decided that was all right. Better not to really care. It hurts less when the inevitable loss happens.
Chapter Twenty-Six
"A good party, that's what you need to get over him. I know just the place."
I almost hadn't answered my phone when it rang as I finished my lunch and now I wished I'd followed that instinct. Only two days after the breakup, the last thing I felt like was partying. No. That was second-last. The absolute last thing I felt like doing was partying with Angel. But it was sweet of her to offer, and I knew Jo wanted us to get along better so we could more easily tour and interview together, so I gave in. "Sounds good. Where?"
"I'll take care of everything. Get all Misty-ed up and get your driver to bring you to my place at eleven tonight."
I nearly said, "Eleven's too late," but knew she'd mock me. "Okay, will do."
After spending the rest of the day slaving over lyrics with Tim and rehearsing with my band, I wanted nothing more than to curl up in a corner of the studio and sleep, but instead I made myself go home and get ready. I stuck my head into Cindy's office to say goodbye, and she said, "Got something for you."
I skimmed the fax she handed me.
Sadly, it's true that you don't have free rein. But you changed your life, you can change it again. Be who you are and I think you will see how very much you now matter to me.
"Did you read it?"
She nodded.
"The free rein thing is interesting. That's kind of what I said in that German interview you sent me."
"Yeah, I thought so too. Someone's watching you."
"But it's not creepy somehow. That first note was but the others since haven't been. It feels... comforting. I think the person's on my side."
She smiled. "I hope so."
I wanted to ask if she'd had any luck dealing with her landlord, but I was afraid she hadn't and I didn't feel up to boosting her spirits, so I just said, "Have a nice night."
"You too." She grinned. "Good luck with Angel."
I laughed. "I'll need it."
I did, too. We headed out together at eleven as planned, me in a bright orange dress and matching wig and her in her usual pristine white, and in short order we were both drunk without having spent a single dollar.
I hadn't tried to trade on my fame before, but Angel had turned it into an art form. We waltzed up to the front door of a night club, ignoring the line of people waiting to get in, and Angel informed the bouncers in a loud voice, "Angel Dove and Misty Will are here." I half-expected to be sent to the back of the line, or even sent away entirely, but instead one bouncer said, "Give us a second," and let us past the velvet ropes out of the reach of the excited crowd while the other went to check with the boss.
I didn't know how to act so I copied Angel, keeping my distance and not acknowledging anyone who asked for an autograph. I didn't like it but the fans didn't seem surprised to be ignored. The people at the head of the line, and others who trotted up to take a peek at us, phoned their friends and described exactly how we looked, including such gems as "Misty's pretty flat. Yeah, must have been a push-up bra" and "Angel's wearing the same dress she wore last week. Right, the ugly one", without seeming to realize we could hear them. They were probably so used to commenting on us online that doing it in person didn't seem any different. It felt different to me, though.
Eventually, the bouncer returned and we were allowed into the club without paying the cover charge. Angel said, "Finally," before sweeping in with me trailing behind her. Once we were out of earshot, she said, "They always make you wait a bit. Brings a bigger crowd to the bar. But hey, now we're in. Let's go get drinks."
Our first drinks were on the house. The next two for both of us came from Bart, an exquisitely gorgeous blond Californian actor Angel knew, who was in Toronto shooting a movie. He gave Angel a friendly hug, then wrapped his arm around me almost immediately and didn't take it away. I'd seen all his movies and had always thought he was hot so I couldn't help being tongue-tied at first but by my third drink I'd relaxed in his grip and we chatted away while Angel attached herself like a sucker-fish to the same Evan I'd been rumored to be dating.
A pang hit me at the memory of Jason saying how "dreamy" the story of me and Evan was. He hadn't been ready to handle a famous girlfriend. Most guys weren't, I supposed. All that gossip and innuendo? How could you know what's real and what isn't?
Bart murmured in my ear, "Another drink?"
I was about to say I'd had enough, but suddenly I just wanted to let loose. I was a twenty-five-year-old pop star, and my only indulgence so far had been an iPod. Why not live a little? "Sure. Want me to buy?"
He kissed my neck, his warm mouth on my skin sending shivers through me. "No." Another kiss, and the feel of his tongue swirling against me intensified the shivers. "I want you to wait here." A light bite made me gasp. "Then kiss me when I get back."
He moved off to the bar, trailed by the biggest bodyguard I'd ever seen, and I stood swaying on my high orange heels and tried to think about what I'd do when he came back. I wasn't thinking well, though. Bart's touch had felt surprisingly good, and the noise and the flashing lights and the multiple drinks, more than I usually had by a long shot, were shutting down my brain.
I looked to Angel for help, but she was far too busy kissing Evan to care what I did. There were fans everywhere, watching us and snapping pictures of Angel and Evan and of me too, and I wondered how many had taken pictures of Bart with his mouth on my neck. I'd liked the contact, more than I should have, and suddenly the idea of a little fling seemed incredibly appealing. Bart was famous too, he'd understand and be able to deal with my situation. Unlike Jason.
Bart appeared before me, handed me my drink, and stood waiting.
I tossed back half the contents of my glass then did exactly what he'd done to me, two kisses and a bite to his neck.
"It's a start," he growled into my ear. "I want more, though."
He got it. Countless drinks and lots more teasing kisses on necks and collarbones and wrists later, I found myself sitting on a table with my arms and legs wrapped around him as he kissed me hard. I didn't even remember getting up there. I could hear people cheering and laughing, and Angel saying, "So she can have fun," then Bart slid his tongue into my mouth.
My stomach twisted at once, and I just managed to push him off before I threw up into one of my many empty glasses.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Nobody commented on my behavior when I went to Sapphire Angel the next day. Jez rolled her eyes and gave me a 'rock stars, what can you do?' smile, no doubt having seen far worse behavior in her time, and Tim seemed distant as we worked, but I was too hung over to care.
By the afternoon, after several coffees and a lot of water, I was feeling a little better but still sick whenever I moved too fast, so I took advantage of Cindy's day off and settled into her office to work through the stack of articles and reviews she'd been saving for me. Most were moderately interesting at best, but one caught my eye because it claimed to be an interview with one of my high school classmates. She was anonymous, but from the first quote I knew she really had known me.
"Misty, Amy back then, had
big dreams. She and her friend Giselle had them, really. They spent hours together working on ideas for this girls' center they were going to set up. I was kind of jealous, to be honest, because they were so clear what they wanted. They probably knew what color they would paint the walls. I didn't even know where to start figuring out who I wanted to be when I grew up."
I leaned back in my chair. We had spent hours, on breaks at school and every weekend. But it hadn't seemed like work. Once Giselle told me of her idea for the center, her passion had infected me and we'd slaved over it until we had indeed known we would paint each room a different pastel shade to soothe and relax the girls who came to us. We'd even hit the home improvement store and picked out paint chips.
Such energy and drive. I was working harder now, as Misty, than we'd worked then, but my work now wasn't important. Not like the center would have been.
Annoyed with myself, I rephrased in my head to 'not like the center will be'. No matter how much I liked being Misty now, I couldn't do it forever. The center mattered more.
"After Giselle died, though, I think Amy didn't know who she was without her. She started missing a lot of classes and she sort of withdrew into herself. We tried to talk to her, but we were all kids and nobody really knew what to say. So I guess we stopped trying."
They had tried, and I hadn't known what to say any more than they did. I'd kept showing up at school because I didn't know what else to do, but I'd sat alone in the library or the back corner of the cafeteria instead of going to class and hadn't talked to anyone. At first I'd just been in shock over Giselle, then the Shawn thing happened and the guilt and shame added to that shock had been far too much to discuss. So I'd ignored people when they talked to me, and even yelled at Giselle's sweet cousin who kept trying to help, and the girls had eventually left me alone as I'd claimed to want.
"One of our teachers, though, didn't stop. He was a younger guy, and really nice, and I think he knew Amy needed help. I don't know what he did exactly but by the end of the year she was back in class every day."
My mind filled with the image of a tall black man with close-cropped hair and warm brown eyes. Mr. Peterson. I hadn't thought about him in years, but I should have because he'd probably saved my life. I'd been so full of hatred, of the world and of myself, and he had simply not allowed me to disappear into it. He emailed me every single time I skipped his English class, which was every day for months, telling me what we'd done and that he'd missed my comments on whatever story they'd studied, and every email ended with the same thing. "If you need to talk, I'm here."
In January, on what would have been Giselle's birthday, I actually responded to his email to say, "I need to talk." The hardest four words I'd ever typed, and I'd been terrified he'd ignore me, since why would he waste his time on the kid who couldn't even bother going to class, but he wrote back at once and said he'd be staying late at the school if I wanted to come by after classes were over.
I didn't want, but I went anyhow. I'd had an awful nightmare the night before, of Giselle screaming at me for not moving forward with her dream, and I was losing my mind. I had to talk to someone. My poor parents would probably have loved to talk to me but I didn't know where to start with them. They were in their sixties then and didn't deserve a mess like me.
I'd wanted to talk, but I didn't say much that first visit. I couldn't find any words. I was expecting a lecture but instead Mr. Peterson gave me a cloth and a spray bottle and I scrubbed his whiteboards while he cleaned up the room and filed papers and chatted casually about how school had been going and what "we" would be doing next. No pressure from him at all, and definitely no lecture.
I went back the next day, and the next, drawn to his room though I didn't know why. We talked about the school and his class and the weather and any random thing that came up, and I gradually became more comfortable sharing my thoughts with him. After two weeks or so, though, he took a deep breath and said, "Giselle's death must have been hard on you."
"God, you think so?"
A little part of me cringed at how bitchily I was talking to a teacher, and a nice one at that, but mostly I wanted to snap at him, snap at the world.
"Yeah, I do," he said as if I'd spoken politely. "She was lovely. Do you think she'd like how you're wasting your life?"
I turned and left the room.
But I came back the next day, and the day after that, and a few days later he broke through my shell just by being there. I burst into tears when I walked into the room, before he could even speak, and cried long and hard while he sat before me holding my hand and passing me tissues, and the warmth in his brown eyes melted some of the frost Shawn's cold ones had left surrounding my heart.
"You're a good girl, Amy," he said when I'd settled. "With a lot of potential. Don't throw it away."
I dropped my head onto my hand. He thought I was only upset about Giselle. "Too late. It's already thrown."
"Never too late. There's always a chance to change yourself."
I hadn't been convinced, but the next day I'd slipped into his class, five minutes late because I hadn't been sure I wanted to go, embarrassed but then shyly happy at his delighted smile. After a few days I'd returned to my other classes too.
"It was too late, though, to get into university. Of course, I don't know if she wanted to go."
Oh, I'd wanted to. Giselle and I had planned to go to the same university. But I'd missed so much school that my grades were terrible, and not even Mr. Peterson's letter of recommendation, which he let me read and which touched my heart with how impassioned he was about what I'd been through (not that he knew the half of it) and how much I deserved another chance, was enough to get me into university.
The words of that last faxed note returned to my mind. It had been about change. Could Mr. Peterson have sent it? If he was still teaching high school his students probably knew me. Maybe he'd seen my picture on their binders or book bags and recognized me.
"I'm happy Amy's doing so well now. I just hope she's happy too."
Is numb the same as happy?
*****
I sat at home that night thinking about the Amy I'd been and the Misty I was now. The first hadn't been able to find herself after Giselle and Shawn, and the second didn't have a chance to find herself because she was always being told who she was and what mattered. Critics hated her, fans loved her, Jo didn't much care either way as long as the money rolled in.
I felt like an interchangeable cog, like Jo could have grabbed any girl and put her in my place. I felt like that because it was true. I didn't need the autotune stuff, although they applied some anyhow to smooth breaks between lines and that sort of thing, but I'd heard some terrible singers made to sound great so my talent was irrelevant. I didn't matter. Only Misty mattered, and Misty was as real as the highlights in Jo's hair.
Wanting to talk to someone real, I checked my old high school's web site to see if Mr. Peterson still worked there, but to my disappointment it said he'd gone to work overseas. So he probably hadn't sent me the faxes, and I couldn't tell him how much he'd helped me. Maybe he'd gone overseas because in Canada he'd felt interchangeable too, even though he'd been precisely what I'd needed at the time. Staying late every night to take care of me? It hit me for the first time that he had been staying for me. Of course he had. Why else would he have been there late night after night when the other teachers had all gone home? He'd been a special man and I hadn't even thanked him, and I'd repaid him by spending the last eight years of my life doing nothing but falling into being Misty by pure luck.
My phone signaled a text and I listlessly picked it up.
Going out again tonight. You are too. Be here at 11.
I thought about writing back that I was too tired, but before I could Angel wrote again.
Don't tell me no. Gotta milk the fame, Misty. This is our time. Get over here.
I sighed. Then I didn't want to be at home with my thoughts any more so I put on the Misty outfit built on Giselle's
skirt. My ongoing training with Marcus meant I fit comfortably into the skirt now, although it was still terrifyingly short.
That's what the world wants from you anyhow, I told myself. That's what you have to offer. Short skirt and a vacant expression.
I already had the first, and the second didn't take long. Angel and Evan were hammered when I got to her huge glossy white house and they quickly got me caught up. They offered me a little green pill too, but when they just snickered when I asked what it was I refused.
"Too bad. Bart loves these."
"He's coming?" We hadn't spoken since he'd had his driver take me home after I threw up. He'd been nice enough to me that night, if understandably a little distant, but I didn't want to see him again. Embarrassing.
Angel giggled like a hyena on laughing gas. "Even though you nearly puked on him. He likes you for some reason."
Evan tugged the hem of my skirt, letting his fingers brush my thigh. "I think I know the reason."
She squealed and slapped him, then stuck her tongue down his throat. I threw back another drink.
We met Bart at a different night club, and he took us to so many I quickly lost count. The same routine at each: we showed up, grabbed immediate attention, and bailed the second people stopped being excited by our presence. He took the little green pill Angel offered, and tried to encourage me to do the same by saying it would make me feel relaxed and floaty.
No need. The booze had taken care of that. I didn't feel drunk, though I certainly was. I'd somehow disconnected. When Bart whispered, "No tongue this time," and kissed me, it was like I was seeing someone else being kissed. When his hands slid up under my hot pink top, the same thing. I knew we were being watched, and photographed, but I simply didn't care about that either.
Toronto Collection Volume 2 (Toronto Series #6-9) Page 13