Catch a Rising Star

by Tracey Bateman

  Laini snorts but straightens up lickety-split when I send her the look.

  My defenses go up a bit. “I didn’t…”

  “Now, Tabitha,” Mom interrupts with a bit too much cheer in her voice—because she knows she’s about to get busted and is doing her best to deflect blame.

  I’d love to know what she was going to say to get out of this, but unfortunately, the buzzer goes off. Laini catches my gaze as if to ask whether or not she should buzz him up.

  I give her a “might as well” wave and decide to take the fall for Brian’s presence rather than cause a scene. Laini waits by the door for Brian, so I turn my attention back to the only man I love at the moment.

  “So, what did my little girl fix her old man for supper? Your mother feeds me rabbit food and baked chicken.” Dad grins and his chubby cheeks inch upward like a chipmunk. He’s at least thirty pounds overweight (fifty—if you believe Mom about it) and has hypertension and type 2 diabetes. Suddenly, I’m not feeling so great about my dinner choice.

  “Um—” I dart a guilty glance at my mom, “I called out for Chinese.”

  Mom’s lips press together. She’s going to blow a gasket soon. She’s not in control of anything tonight, and I doubt she’s going to put up with it much longer. As a matter of fact, I think she’s . . .

  But Dad cuts her off faster than she can pull her objections together. “I don’t think a little decent food every now and then is going to kill me. Do you, Martha?”

  “I surely hope not.”

  In those four little words I hear her saying to me, “If this Chinese food worsens his conditions, I will hold you personally responsible, young lady.”

  The weight of the world rests on my shoulders. Suddenly I’m responsible for global warming, the Middle East crisis, the imminent bird flu pandemic, overpopulation, and oh yeah, the astronomical cost of gasoline.

  And to make matters worse, Brian saunters into the room with a cheap bouquet of supermarket wildflowers, winks, and moves in to kiss me on the cheek. In a move worthy of Charlie’s Angels, I deflect the kiss, and he sort of stumbles. “Thank you for inviting me,” he says, recovering from my rebuff as though he didn’t even notice.

  “You’re welcome, but I—”

  Enter Mom, once again. “Brian. It’s so wonderful to see you again. I hope you’re hungry. My daughter has made us a wonderful Asian feast.”

  Brian’s eyebrows go up. “You cooked?”

  “I ordered from Mr. Wang’s,” I mumble, not even attempting to carry out this ridiculously unfair ruse my mother somehow feels she’s entitled to concoct at my expense. She has obviously convinced Brian I’m pining away for him. I’m humiliated, and it’s going to be that much harder to break it to the guy that I’m honestly not interested.

  I know there’s not a thing I can do about it for now, so I lead Dad into the kitchen, pretending neither of us has a care in the world.

  Mom starts in on me the second we sit and start passing around the Chinese cartons. “So, how do you like your gym membership?” Which means: You’ve gained weight, Tabby. How do you expect to keep a great man like Brian here interested?

  “Five pounds doesn’t matter that much,” I mutter.

  “You look great, Pumpkin.” Good ol’ Dad. Or wait. Does he mean I look good for a pumpkin?

  Brian clears his throat—clearly planning to stay as far away from this topic as possible—and slides a chunk of sweet and sour chicken between his unbelievably white teeth—can you say caps?

  “Of course she does.” Laini’s bright voice lifts across the table and for a second I think everything is going to be just fine.

  Until my mother huffs. Then I know we’re in danger of something hitting the fan. “Well, no one thinks she doesn’t look good.” Mom looks from Laini to Brian (who keeps his cowardly gaze averted) to Dad and finally back to me. “Did I say you don’t look good?”

  Must diffuse potentially volatile situation. Quick. I will revert to proven childhood tactic: agree with anything she says.

  I can’t look her in the eye when she’s being indignant. “No, Mom.”

  “Of course I didn’t. I merely asked if you’ve been using the gym membership I paid for.”

  “You mean the one I never asked for?” Oh bother. Did I say that out loud? I did, didn’t I? What’s wrong with me that I blurt things like that? Especially to my mom.

  And now she looks hurt. Oh bother, again! I can handle Mom when she’s sarcastic or angry, but when she’s hurt… that’s another story. Guilt slices through me like a samurai sword. “I’m sorry, Ma. I was just thinking today how much I need to start going to the gym. It’s just that I don’t have that much time.”

  Mom reaches across the table and pats my hand. “I understand.”

  Oh, the guilt! Just shoot me and put me out of my misery.

  I glance at the clock. How much longer?

  I actually kiss the closed door once my parents leave, Brian reluctantly tagging along behind them.

  “Whew.” And that’s all Laini says. I know I owe her big for hanging around. Not that she said much. But when she did, it mattered.

  A knock at the door a second later gives us both a start.

  “Don’t open without looking out the peephole.” Oh yeah, rule number six. My heart gives a little leap when Brian’s distorted face peers back at me.

  I groan. “He’s back.”

  Laini raises a palm. “I’m out of here.”

  I hesitate, about to beg her not to leave me alone with the guy, but I figure she’s done her time. “Okay, go ahead. I can handle him.”

  I ease the door open, but only slightly. Just enough so that maybe he’ll take the hint that I’m not inviting him back inside.

  “Brian?” I say, like I didn’t see him through the peephole. “Did you forget something?”

  “Yeah.” He pushes his way in. Not in a way that scares me, just like he figures I don’t realize he needs more room to squeeze inside. His arms go around me before I can stop him, and he pulls me in for a brief, wet kiss. Grr-ross!

  “Brian!” Flattening my palms against his chest, I give him a hard shove into the door.

  “What the… ?” He frowns. “What was that for?”

  “What do you think? Who said it was okay for you to kiss me?”

  “Oh, come off it. Your mom filled me in on everything.” He reaches out and fingers a strand of my hair, and I have to clench my fists tight in order to keep from slugging him.

  “Look, I don’t know what my mom told you…”

  His chin goes up like a lightbulb just went off, and he suddenly gets it. “It’s okay, sugar,” he soothes. “I guess I moved a little too fast.” Oh great. Whatever he got, it wasn’t a clue.

  “Ya think?”

  “We can take things as fast or slow as you want.”

  Oh, dear Lord. Why am I being persecuted?

  Thankfully, the doorknob rattles and Dancy enters. Her eyebrows go up at the sight of Brian. “What’s going on?”

  “Nothing,” I say. “Brian was just leaving.”

  “Sure I am, sugar,” he says with a wink. “I’ll call ya later.”

  Oh gee, can’t wait.

  I close the door after him and Dancy frowns. “Since when are you Sugar?”

  “Since my mother decided Brian is Mr. Right.” I roll my eyes. “He thinks I’m sweet on him, I guess.”

  “Yikes.”

  “Did I hear the door?” Laini reenters the room.

  “Yeah.” I flop onto the couch and grab a throw pillow to hug. “He’s gone.”

  “Whew.”

  “Tell me about it.” I hug the pillow close and can’t hold back a shudder. “He kissed me good-bye—thought I wanted it.”

  “Ew! What a creep,” Dancy says, slipping her purse onto the hook next to the door. “I never understood why you went out with him in the first place.”

  “Blind date, remember?”

  “Yeah, but you’ve been out with him several times
over the last couple of years. Why do you do that when you don’t even like him?”

  “Chalk that up to Ma’s guilt trips.”

  “Still, though.”

  “Dancy’s right,” Laini says, slipping a supportive arm around my shoulders. “Brian was nothing more than a rebound guy. You never would have looked twice at him if you hadn’t been fired from the soap opera and down on your luck at the time.”

  Okay, this isn’t helping.

  Besides, Dancy hardly has room to talk. I’m about to mention Floyd Bartell when the stove timer buzzes and Laini hops up. “Cookies are done. You’re going to love these.”

  “Sure,” I say without even trying to drum up enthusiasm. My friend will understand. Besides, it’s not like I’m going to turn down the cookies even if I don’t display excitement.

  Dancy shoves to her feet. “Want me to run you an aromatherapy bath? I brought home the new Cate Able book.”

  Dancy thinks soaking in aromatherapy and reading a book is a cure-all. The good thing about her position as an assistant editor at Lane Publishing is that she’s always bringing home free books.

  “That sounds good, Dan,” I say pathetically.

  “You should write a book based on your life, Tabs,” she yells over the running water.

  “Oh sure. Loser Takes Manhattan.”

  She comes back into the living room. “Not about your life now.”

  She thinks I’m a loser? Sheesh. I was looking for a little support. “Thanks a lot.”

  Flopping next to me on the rust-colored sofa, she tucks a leg under the other and forces me to look her in the eye. “Seriously. A fictionalized tell-all about a daytime soap star. You could write about the sleazy head writer’s husband who came on to you.”

  “Pul-ease, like anyone cares.” Laini pads back into the room, carrying a plate of cookies. She’s wearing faded flannel PJs she’s had since college and a pair of yellow gripper socks she got the time she had her tonsils out two years ago. She gives me a look as soon as she realizes she’s talking about the downfall of my very own career. “Of course we care since it happened to Tabby. But why would anyone buy a book like that?”

  Dancy shrugs. “Sex sells.”

  I’m outraged. “Hey, there was no sex! Not even a measly, itty-bitty kiss. I was wronged and robbed.” Have I mentioned I’m an actress? If I have a flare for the dramatic, is it really my fault?

  “We know that. But this is fiction.”

  “Not very good fiction,” Laini says.

  Once again, two worlds collide. Dancy and Laini are great friends. We all are. But Laini is practical, and Dancy’s head is stuck in the world of fiction. A meeting of minds is an unlikely concept when the subject involves budgeting and tax write-offs, or plot and characterization. And never the twain shall meet.

  “I don’t have time to write a book,” I say glumly. “I have to find a job.”

  “Tabs!” Laini practically shouts. “Are you saying you lost the bookstore job?”

  “How does someone lose a bookstore job?” Dancy asks. She sounds offended. Books and their stores are sacred.

  “I was the rabbit again and…”

  A deep groan escapes Dancy and she flings herself back on the couch. “They put you with kids?”

  I nod, feeling tears burning my eyes. See? My friends understand that I am not kid-friendly. I’ve tried, truly I have. But kids hate me.

  She grabs the box of Kleenex from the table next to the couch and tosses it to me. “Why does that old bat keep doing that to you? She knows you don’t get along with kids.”

  “That’s why,” Laini explodes. Laini is not easy to rile, but when it happens, it’s quite entertaining. She flaps her arms and paces the floor. Says crazy things that don’t make any sense. Like I said, very entertaining. “She’s been trying to get rid of Tabby ever since she realized Tabs was a soap star once upon a time. Jealous old cow.”

  There’s comfort in having my friends convey the sentiments I’m no longer at liberty to express since embarking on my life as the new me. And she’s not done.

  “Putting Tabby with kids is like… asking a garbage man to cook without washing his hands.”

  “Hey!” Methinks there’s a fine line between defending me and insulting me. Let’s tread carefully here.

  “You know what I mean. It’s just not a good idea.” She gasps. “We should sue that old biddy for entrapment.”

  Dancy and I exchange a glance, and I burst into laughter. Laini frowns and stops. I guess she realizes what a lunatic she’s being because a quirky little grin tips the corners of her lips. Then a smile. Then she joins in the laughter.

  When things settle into sanity once more, Laini looks at me evenly. “So what are you going to do?”

  I glance from one friend to another, and I know exactly what I’ll do. “I’m going to soak in the tub and read my new soap magazine.”

  “What about the new Cate Able book?”

  “Cate Able.” Laini laughs. “Does anyone else think that sounds like someone grasping to find a pen name?”

  She’s mentioned before how it sounds like Cain and Abel. Dancy and I give her a cursory chuckle.

  “I want to read my soap magazine and see what’s happening on the show.”

  My great friends nod. They understand. When I’m down I need to relive my glory days. Dream that the photos splashing over the center of the magazine contain my image as well.

  A little while later, I sink into a tub of aromatic bubbles. I can’t help but think how my life has changed in the past twenty-four hours.

  Opening the magazine to a huge spread about Legacy of Life, I devour every word of the article, then close my eyes and relive my days as Felicia Fontaine. Tears are threatening when I have a thought: I have to forget the past. I’ll never find a way to reboot my career while I’m wallowing in yesterday. Okay another goal. I will absolutely stop obsessing over my character, Felicia Fontaine, being killed off on the nation’s number one soap opera and thus robbing me of my continued rise to fame and fortune.

  But honestly, the entire situation smacks of injustice. It’s not like I knew the guy I flirted with was the head writer’s husband. Two words, people: wedding bands. Wear them. Otherwise it’s just false advertisement.

  Obviously, it’s not going to be so easy to accomplish this goal. I close my eyes for a moment, still my soul.

  Yoo-hoo, God? I hope you know what you’re doing. Because when I was controlling my own life, I had a job. Now what do I have?

  I sink down farther into the bubbles. Hey, at least I still have my health.

  3

  So much for having my health. Merely a week later, I’m writhing in pain, wishing God would just lift me home to heaven. The pain in my side is like a red-hot sword slicing through me. And I can no longer claim I simply have the flu or food poisoning from last week’s Chinese food. By the time my friends convince me to hail a cab and go to the hospital, I’m close to tears. The bumpy, start-and-stop cab ride nearly kills me, and by the time we reach the hospital, pay the cabbie, and get inside, I’m mentally making out my will. Short and sweet though it may be.

  An hour later, I am still waiting in the crowded room, with no relief in sight.

  “Make them hurry, Dancy,” I beg. “I think I’m dying.”

  Dancy’s on her feet in a millisecond. I’m curled into a ball across three empty seats, oblivious to the fact that my head is in Laini’s lap and I’m moaning and drawing attention to myself. Even in my fuzzy state of mind I can hear Dancy’s authoritative sass. “Hey, lady, listen. I don’t care if there are ten people ahead of her. My friend’s suffering from appendicitis.”

  A murmur from the woman at the desk.

  “No, that isn’t my professional diagnosis, and no, I am not a doctor, but only an undereducated moron would just sit there and not consider the fact that a patient has been puking her guts up for twenty-four hours, so at the very least, she’s severely dehydrated. She’s also in massive pain—on t
he right side—and if her appendix bursts and she dies, you are the idiot that my lawyer and I are coming after.” Her voice rises, and she addresses the crowded waiting area. “You’re all witnesses. Anyone willing to give me a name and number?”

  I hear rustling, and I’m assuming people are standing in line to get back at the hateful receptionist who has probably treated everyone equally badly.

  Five minutes later I’m on a gurney in the ER, being attended by a slightly effeminate male nurse with soft, gentle hands who reminds me of Freddie, my friend who works as a physical trainer on the set of Legacy of Life. He shoots something in my IV, and I start to fly a little.

  The next thing I know, I’m waking up. The searing pain is gone, replaced by a different kind of pain. Nagging, excruciating.

  “That’s it,” a voice says somewhere above me. “Wake up now.”

  My eyelids flutter open, but they’re too heavy to stay that way. I sigh, and the world once more goes dark.

  “Come on now, wake up.”

  Leave me alone! I’m so sleepy.

  “Kill me,” I moan.

  “You need to wake up, Tabby. You’ve just had surgery. We need to get you awake.”

  Surgery? “What do you mean?” I mumble, my voice hoarse and barely audible.

  “Remember coming in here with all that pain in your side?” She doesn’t wait for an answer, but boy do I ever remember. “Turns out you had appendicitis. From what I hear, your friend bullied the ER staff until they took you in and got a doctor to look at you. They yanked that sucker out just before it burst. Lucky for you.”

  Funny, I don’t feel real lucky at the moment. I feel about three steps away from death’s door if you want to know the truth.

  The nurse walks across my little curtained-off room and stands next to my bed, checking tubes and vitals. “How do you feel?”

  “Not too bad.” For having my guts ripped out.

  She nods. “Good. If you decide you’d like something for pain, let me know.”

  My eyelids are so heavy. . . .

  The next thing I know I’m having a nightmare that my mother is in the room.

  “Stop hovering, Frank. She’ll wake up when she’s ready.”