“Don’t say anything to the reporters,” Mom warns all of us as we pile into the limo. “Let Cherie’s publicist handle the questions.”
You would think people would be respectful and give a family space at a time like this. I’ve never seen such chaos over one person before. It doesn’t help that some of her celebrity friends show up, too. Danika made sure to call her agent, her manager, and her every last co-star. It’s like Hollywood threw up in my neighborhood. Naturally, I don’t have a chance to feel star struck. Instead of meeting starlets and rubbing elbows with guys I’ve seen on TV, I’m officially in charge of rounding up the youngsters and making sure we are all ready in time and no one is bleeding or dirty.
The service is sad and crowded with a motley crew of Hollywood C-listers and average suburban New Yorkers. Cherie, donned in black from head to toe, has the aura of a tragic victim more so than any regular girl. With big, face-swallowing sunglasses, a large black hat and a black fur wrap, she looks like the wealthy widow from a cheesy movie. She stands stoically beside the caskets, dabbing occasionally beneath her sunglasses with a small handkerchief. Her grandparents clutch tightly to her and can barely stand as the rabbi reads the burial prayers. But Cherie doesn’t waver; she doesn’t even flinch when she is given the shovel to throw dirt onto each of the caskets. Like a dainty china doll, she deposits a tiny smattering of earth upon each casket. Then she stands off to the side as the rest of us do the same. Mom is behind her every step of the way, waiting to be needed, but she is more of a mess than Cherie has ever been in the last few days.
Megastar Caz Farrell is here, much to my dismay. The women all ogle and obsess over him as he does his part and tosses dirt onto the caskets. Aunt Darla makes it a point to introduce herself, and he is generous enough to give her an autograph discreetly. He makes his way to Cherie as the relatives and friends begin to disperse. Cherie greets him with a warm smile and sparkly eyes and a kiss on the cheek; I am close enough to smell the confidence on him, and it is nauseating. I can’t see what the big deal is, but I do notice that he is definitely my definition of a pretty boy.
“Thanks for coming, Caz,” she says softly.
He smiles the perfect, white smile of a modest hero. “Of course. I’m so sorry, Cherie. I’m praying for you. If you need anything, please don’t hesitate to call me.”
He’s good, I think bitterly. I hadn’t thought to say anything like that.
Well, whatever. Isn’t he 25 years old or something – and an actor? He’s supposed to know what to say and what look to give.
She eats it up and grins a little brighter. “That means a lot. Thank you.”
“Will you still be joining me for the New Year’s special?” he asks.
She nods emphatically. “Yes. I should be fine by then. Just have to get some things straightened out.”
He grins again. “Well, I look forward to seeing you then. If you’re back in the Hills this week, text me; we’ll get lunch.” I resist shaking my head, thinking over and over how a 20-something year old taking a 16 year old to lunch has to be against the law somehow. He nods briefly at me and smiles, but I can only glare at him when I tip my head in response.
With that, Caz is off, headed for his own limo, accompanied by glamorous and extravagantly dressed celebrifriends and assistafriends, and they’re all swarmed by photographers as they reach the cars. When I look back at Cherie, she is listening half-heartedly to the rabbi. He tries to give her words of encouragement before she departs. She’s all polite smiles and head nods.
Jim lays a hand on my shoulder and murmurs, “Can you keep an eye on Cherie while I get everyone to the limo?”
I nod and stay by her side, hands shoved deep into my pockets, watching as Jim shields his parents from the same photographers. He helps his old, shattered mother into the limo with a gentleness I’ve never seen him use, even with Mom. Then he returns to help my mother through the snow, holding out his arm for her like a gentleman from the 1800s. The twins and Leroy follow, and Aunt Darla carries Britney and holds Brenton’s hand. It feels like a scene straight out of a drama Caz would probably star in.
A stout older man and an Aunt Darla-type woman approach us. “Hiya, sweetheart.” The man hugs Cherie, then holds out his hand to me, and I shake it, staring at his bulbous nose.
“Carl Schwartz. I’m Cherie’s manager. This is Betsy Calves, her publicist. And you are?”
“Jack Hansen,” I reply, hoping my handshake is firm enough for Hollywood bigwigs. I don’t add a title; I don’t think I have a title. Cherie’s step-cousin? That just sounds weird.
Her manager looks me over before turning his beady eyes back to Cherie. “Coming, sweetheart?” he asks, and he points a fat thumb toward their Rolls Royce limo.
She smiles and shakes her head. “It’s okay. Maybe you can take Danika with you?” She turns to Danika on her left side, who looks disappointed to be dismissed. “I’m going to ride with my uncle and grandparents this time, and their limo’s pretty crowded.”
I’m surprised by this revelation, and I’m almost tempted to ask, “Why?” It seems so unnatural that she’d want to continue to mix with us commoners.
Betsy, a pretty, middle-aged woman, gives her a big hug. “Okay, baby. We’ll be in touch with you soon, okay? Don’t worry about the press; I’ll take care of it. Just keep your phone off. Don’t even look at Dirterazzi.com – just keep clear of the internet completely. I’ll update your blog in a few hours with a thank you to the fans or something.”
Cherie nods gratefully. “Thanks, Betsy.” She looks up at me. “We should probably be going, right Jack?” I nod quickly, realizing she needs me to get her out of the conversation.
“Yeah, they’re waiting,” I say stiffly.
As we turn to leave the cemetery, I take a cue from Jim and give my arm to Cherie, helping her brave the ocean of snow that covers the cemetery grounds.
“Thanks,” she whispers tightly, resting one hand in the crook of my arm and the other on the top of her drifting hat. She plods along in giant heeled boots that bring her head to just above my shoulder, and I wonder inwardly if she couldn’t have chosen a more unfortunate shoe for this event. She tries very hard not to stumble or struggle as we walk, and I immediately realize why when I hear the distant sound of cameras snapping away. I look up to see photographers intently capturing her every step through the cemetery, cursing at each other to get out of a shot.
They’d love nothing more than for her to fall right now, wouldn’t they? They’d love a shot of this overdressed little girl, this Hollywood princess with the not-so-fairytale life, falling in public. I scowl at them and make sure Cherie, in her high heels, with her fancy black dress and big hat and big fur wrap, makes a graceful exit into the waiting limo. I scowl at the photographers again before sliding into the empty seat next to her.
As the car pulls away and we are encased in silence, Cherie makes a sound like she is releasing the longest breath ever held by a person. Her head drops and her sunglasses slide down her nose, revealing eyes tightly scrunched in agony. Her mouth twists into a silent scream, and she doubles over onto herself. She’s disintegrating, the prim and proper façade gone, and now I realize why she wanted to be with us. No one else gets to see what’s behind the elaborate outfit, the passive line her lips make. No one else gets to see the stuff that happens once the door of the lavish limousine hides all of us from their prying eyes.
I’ve only seen one other person this hurt before, and I shudder from the memory of my mother lying on our kitchen floor, my father’s farewell note clutched in her hand.
Looking out at the sea of red, worn faces in our limo, each set of eyes welling with fresh new tears at the sight of Cherie’s breakdown, I realize I’m the last person who should be sitting beside her. While the picture moves everyone else to sobs, I feel like I’ve been punched in the gut, and I don’t know what to do.
“Oh, sweetheart,” Mom murmurs. She moves from her seat and trades places with me, throwing h
er arms around Cherie’s shoulders and crying with her. She is finally needed.
Britney crawls into my lap, which is the distraction I need.
DIRTERAZZI.COM
WHO IS CHERIE'S MYSTERY MAN?
At the snowy funeral for Cherie Belle’s parents today, tears and celebrities were to be as expected as the cold New York temperatures. What was not expected, however, was the heat between the mourning Belle and a mystery friend who stood stoically at her side. Onlookers noticed a tall, handsome youth doting on Cherie and assisting her in and out of the cemetery throughout the day. Those in attendance at the funeral identified the young man as Jack Hansen, James Goldman’s stepson, and the oldest child in Goldman’s Brady Bunch-ish family.
We don’t know what role Jack is playing in Cherie’s life right now, but we hope it’s a reoccurring one. He just might give some competition to Cherie’s rumored beau, Caz Farrell, who also happened to be in attendance, though only briefly. Jack is around Cherie’s age, which is already an improvement from Caz, and he has that young, brooding James Dean look that makes the ladies here in our office say “Mmmhmm.” (Their words, we swear. We were more interested in Hansen’s smokin’ hot stepsisters (click here for pics!)). One thing is certain: if Cherie does end up imprisoned in suburban New York until her 18th birthday, at least she’s in good-looking company.
CHAPTER 8
Jewish people do something called Shiva when a person dies. They gather at a house to visit with the family members of the deceased and drink coffee. At one point in the night there are some prayers said and some songs sung. It’s a lot like a wake, except it goes on for days and the overpowering smell of flowers is replaced by an overwhelming cloud of freshly-brewed coffee. Fortunately, there’s a lot of food. There’s a lot of talking, too. During the very first hour, I overhear family members debating Cherie’s future, both as an actress and as a person.
“Terrible, just terrible – a girl that young?” their great-aunt Elyse whispers to a distant cousin over the top of her lipstick-stained Styrofoam cup. “Eh, no good. I imagine she’ll wind up on the path of some addict and get arrested, or worse.” She nods her head and gives a raised eyebrow, “that’s-a-fact” look. I load a small plate with cookies and pretend I can’t hear her, but the comment sits inside of my gut and ferments, making me anxious. I try to imagine Cherie doing anything that would mess up her hair, let alone her reputation, and it’s laughable to me.
But still, I wonder, Could that really happen? Or are those ladies just being old and catty?
My phone buzzes with a new text message in my pocket. I check it quickly, and it’s my friend, Josh.
I open the message, grateful for the distraction. Maybe he’s throwing a party I can escape to. Then, my stomach drops. “Did I just c u on TV?”
TV? I’m on TV? I want to turn one on, but then I stop. Cherie’s sitting right next to the one in the living room. Mom’s rule echoes loudly in my head. I rush upstairs to my laptop, closing the door to my room soundlessly. When I do a quick online search of Cherie Belle, the first few links are to news reports about the funeral. Sure enough, Channel 5 has posted video coverage of all of us standing in the cemetery. I see myself, which is weird, because I’m watching myself react in a moment that I still remember clearly. I note with a small amount of pride that I’m taller than Caz Farrell, and I’m a little bigger, too.
A knock on my door yanks me from my daze. “One second!”
“Your mom is looking for you,” Claudia calls from the other side.
My pulse pounds. “Tell her I’ll be right there.” I close my laptop before my mom can catch me completely breaking one of her only rules about this whole mess and head back downstairs.
I take out my phone and am about to reply “Yes” to Josh, but I stop, my thumb hovering over the send button. I look up and see Cherie, who sits stoically beside an old woman and nods with a somber frown as the lady rattles on about what great people her parents were.
Looking back at my phone, guilt gnaws at me. I promised my mom I wouldn’t talk about this with anyone, and I don’t want to tell anyone what is happening anyway. I don’t want the questions that will follow, and I don’t want the phone calls harassing me for information. Even more, I don’t want to be just another person putting her private life on display.
Instead of hitting send, I hold the power button down until the phone turns off.
I dodge Cherie for the rest of the night, which is hard to do now that she’s staying in our basement for the week. I know I’m supposed to be supportive and helpful, so I work overtime to do little chores around the house and keep Britney and Brenton occupied, which keeps me from crossing Cherie’s path too often.
As one day passes into the next, however, she begins to surface more. I run into her the next evening after Shiva when I go scrounging for leftovers. She’s in the kitchen, sitting in silence with Danika at our dining table.
I feel compelled to ask, “How are you? Do you need anything?”
Danika gives me the stink eye, as if to say, “Back off, kissing up to her is my job.” I try to pretend she’s not the world’s biggest bitch.
Cherie whispers, “No, thank you, Jack,” and a sad smile follows. I like when she says my name, and I’d give anything to take the hurt out of her voice when she says it.
On Wednesday morning, Mom comes in my room and closes the door like she’s about to tell me a secret.
“Jack, honey?”
I don’t open my eyes, but I turn over when she sits down and shakes me gently.
“What, Mom?” I look at the clock. 8:00 AM. This clock had better be three hours slow.
“Honey, wake up a second; I need a favor from you,” she says. Whenever she starts off like that, I know it’s not just a favor. When Mom wants something simple, she just tells me to do it. “I need a favor from you” is code for a whole day of babysitting or a list of chores.
I still refuse to open my eyes. “What?”
“We have to take Danika to the airport and meet Jim’s parents at the lawyer’s office.”
I groan. I already know where this is going.
Mom rattles on. “Chloe and Claudia are going to the mall with some friends, and I’m sending Brenton to Raine Johnson’s house for a sleepover. I don’t want him to have to sit through another Shiva – ”
“Mom, what’s the favor?” I just want her to stop talking; she’s giving me a headache.
She hesitates. “Well, I need you to keep an eye on Britney, and I was hoping you’d help me with Cherie.”
I lift my head. “Cherie?”
Mom leans in to confide, “She’s not eating. I’m a little worried. Danika said something about her being a vegan, so I don’t know. Maybe we don’t have anything here for her to eat. Would you take her to the store for some groceries?” She sees my eyes roll back into my head, and she hurries to say, “I’ll leave some cash for you to get a few things you like, too.”
I’m about to protest, but then I think better of it. I weigh the con of being alone with a teary – eyed Cherie with the pro of a chance to eat frozen foods and not get a lecture about preservatives. Mom’s good. She knows my weak spots.
Maybe Cherie won’t be so bad. We’ll be out in public. She’ll be too proud to cry or anything. She might be nasty to someone, but that’s okay, as long as it’s not me. I can deal a little better with Mean Cherie than Sad Cherie.
“Okay,” I concede. She tousles my hair, and I jerk my head away. She laughs and bends to give me a kiss. Her strong, going-to-something-important perfume envelopes me.
“Thank you, sweetie. I knew I could count on you,” she whispers. “I told her you’d be ready in an hour, so try to get up soon, okay?”
“What?!”
But she’s out of the room and the door is closing behind her, and I have no choice other than to get out of bed.
I should have known that gathering Britney and setting up her car seat would be easier than rounding up Miss Belle, who is thirty
minutes late for our supermarket appointment. I use the first ten minutes to really clean up the inside of my car, kind of spruce it up a little extra for the occasion. Then I have to play a spelling game with Britney for the next twenty minutes to avoid honking the horn.
“Spell…snow.”
“S. N. O.”
“W. Snow has a w at the end. It’s a tricky word.” I sigh and throw my head back against the headrest. “Spell tree.”
Give Cherie time. Don’t be a jerk, I remind myself. I try to remember that she’s not one of the twins, and that she has the potential at any time to run into people wanting to take her picture. She wants to look good. Hell, even I made sure to put jeans on instead of my sweatpants today.
When she finally does emerge from the house, I can sort of see why my mom’s worried. Her cheekbones are a little more prominent, her skin is paler, and the bones of her hands and wrists stick out. The rest of her is covered by heavy, layered sweaters, a scarf, and big sunglasses. Her legs look like the heels she’s wearing: long and impossibly skinny. She sways a little when stepping down off of the porch, and she has to grab the banister for support, as if walking makes her dizzy. This girl definitely needs to eat.
I get out and shuffle to the passenger side to open her door for her, a gentleman’s move that always earned me bonus points with girls in the past. Cherie, so used to being chauffeured, merely murmurs a thank you and slides into the front seat as if my chivalry is no big deal.
“Cherie!” Britney cries out. I think she loves her as much as Brenton does, but for different reasons. Cherie is a princess in Britney’s mind; one with pretty makeup and fancy clothes that she might let Britney play dress-up in.
And she’s a star on TV. That never hurts.
“Hey sweetie pie,” Cherie coos, turning in her seat. “What a pretty braid! Who did your hair?”
“Chloe.” Britney grins and bats her eyelashes. I try not to groan audibly.
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