Spiral

by Jacqueline Levine

  That’s just my mom. The twins begin to have goodbye ceremonies with different friend groups every night the week before we leave. It starts with the cheerleading squad, who come over with a pizza and cans of frosting and pretzels and lots of tissues. It starts out as a night I wouldn’t mind hanging around, until the tissues come out. The next night, a few girls from their hometown come by with shoe boxes of ticket stubs and postcards and pictures. The next night, a mix of freshman and sophomore girls from my school fill my living room and play a DVD slideshow of pictures from the past couple of months that’s set to a mix of Kesha and Lady Gaga songs.

  I’d be jealous of all the attention they’re getting if it wasn’t so nauseating and disingenuous. The twins started coming to school with me when they moved here in October. These girls that keep coming over have known them for precisely four and a half months and can’t possibly be the true friends forever they claim to be. Katrina used to say some of those girls latched onto the twins in an effort to get closer to me, and I never believed her before this week. Now those same girls are throwing themselves at me like they have nothing to lose, and a few of them are actually pretty cute. I marvel at all of the opportunities I ignorantly missed out on these past couple of months.

  The one all-girl party I do attend is, of course, Britney’s. When her kindergarten friends hold a party to bid her farewell, there I am, holding her coat, watching her throw herself around the bouncy castle with all of the other five year olds. I’m an anomaly to the moms and dads, who don’t quite understand why I’m there and not my mother. I have to explain that my mom is chaperoning the twins’ ski party out in Orange County and that my step-dad is taking Brenton to a laser tag party with his friends. They nod knowingly but are still perplexed. That’s when I turn my attention back to my little sister and the parents continue to stare, wondering, whispering. I’m used to it, and they should be by now, but they’re not, so I breathe deeply and try to be patient.

  Cherie, however, is the only one who isn’t drawing attention to us anymore. She generally flies in and out of the state for different premieres and interviews, so she is barely around, and the gaggle of gossipers are even more scarce. When she is present, she keeps to herself in the basement or is chauffeured to some red carpet event by Danika. I vaguely remember hearing that she has a movie to promote or something. Every now and again I secretly hope we will be forced to sit together and talk, and maybe I’ll have the chance to apologize. The longer we go without speaking or seeing each other, though, the less I have to say and the more I begin to forget about her.

  The evening before we leave for California, I’m sitting in the middle of my barren room, which has been stripped of all of its furniture and posters. Another moving truck will come in the morning to pick up the rest of our boxes. My childhood home has never looked sadder.

  I examine the map Jim’s printed for me, which details our route for travel to California. I’ve never been on a road trip like this before, especially not as a driver. It’s a little intimidating, but the alternative was leaving my car in the hands of strangers on some train ride and joining the RV of Hell. Even Brenton begged to ride with me instead of with the collection of misfits riding together in the RV Jim has decided to rent and captain. My mom almost caved when Brenton threw himself at her feet, but then he got the flu and threw up at her feet a few days later. Now she wants to watch him every minute of the trip and reneged on her original promise, only allowing him to stay in the one hotel room we are renting for Britney and me.

  Naturally, Princess Cherie is flying out to LAX in the morning. She would never ride in a rented RV like a commoner. Her handlers actually flew in to New York last night just to make the trip back out with her tomorrow. Betsy picked her up earlier for a “dinner meeting,” but I never heard of a dinner meeting requiring a limo and an entourage of hair and makeup people. Either way, she’s out of the house for the night, and I won’t have to see her.

  There’s a knock on my door, and I call out, “Come in.” The door pushes open, and Claudia comes inside.

  “Ready for tomorrow?” she asks, pointing to the map. In Brenton’s place, Mom gave me Claudia as a co-pilot. Not my first choice, but at least it’s not Chloe.

  “Yeah, looks easy enough,” I say. “Did you need something?”

  She smiles and sits down next to me. She fiddles with a corner of my sleeping bag. “Are you nervous?”

  “It’s just a couple of highways,” I say with a shrug, trying to sound confident. She is putting her life in my hands for a few days, after all.

  She laughs. “No, I mean about moving. To Hollywood. Isn’t it crazy?”

  I nod. “Yeah, I guess a little.” I’m confused; Claudia never tries to talk to me, let alone have heart to hearts.

  “We’ve been out there to visit a bunch of times. It’s nice and all, but I don’t really know if I want to live there. They’re all probably rich and snobby at school.”

  “School will be weird, I guess,” I say.

  “Yeah,” she sighs. “It sucks; we feel like we just got settled here in your school, you know? We made so many friends already.”

  I tilt my head and raise my eyebrow at her. “I’m sure you guys will be fine; you’ll make lots of friends again, especially with Cherie around.”

  “Oh, she’s not going to school,” she tells me, then rolls her eyes.

  “Why not?” I probe, intrigued and a little annoyed. “Princess doesn’t like school?”

  Claudia shakes her head, and we share a smirk. “Well, she was always tutored on the set and stuff, so I don’t think she’s gone in a really long time anyway. But she’s taking time off from everything – school, acting, you name it.”

  My stomach drops, and I instantly remember how fragile she seemed at the grocery store that day. “That makes sense I guess,” I grumble, turning back to my map to avoid Claudia’s gaze. “How’s she doing?”

  Claudia laughs again. “Why don’t you ask her yourself? She’s staying downstairs tonight.”

  “In case you haven’t noticed, we don’t talk much,” I say with a forced grin, “and I prefer it that way.”

  My stepsister groans. “No you don’t, come on. I think you like her.” I scoff, “Yeah, right, okay.”

  She waves me off dismissively. “It’s not like you’re the only one; every guy loves her. You don’t have to pretend.”

  I hope my cheeks aren’t as red as they feel as I train my eyes on the map.“Yeah, but they don’t know how nasty she is. Mean girls are ugly girls.”

  “Yeah, right! Look me in the eye and tell me she’s ugly,” she chides, poking at the paper in my grasp until I look at her.

  “Stop!” I push her hand away. “You’re going to rip it.”

  “See? You can’t even answer me,” she snickers.

  I can feel myself turning violet, but I force myself to look at her. “I told you: no! She’s not hot, and I don’t want anything to do with her.”

  She blinks rapidly. “You’re gonna live together for a long time. I mean, what, are you not gonna talk to each other for the rest of your lives?”

  I play it nonchalant. “That’s the plan.”

  “You don’t mean that, Jack,” she says. Again, she gives me that disappointed frown, and I’m growing tired of her questions and prying.

  “Look, don’t worry about either of us. We’ve co-existed in this house for the month just fine,” I say.

  “That’s just because she’s never around,” Claudia laughs. “She’s always flying out to LA for premieres or something. What are you going to do when we’re in her house and she’s around all the time?”

  “She said if I stayed out of her way, she’d stay out of mine, so that’s good enough for me.”

  “Fine,” she says, giving up. She looks around my room and sighs. “What time are we leaving tomorrow?”

  I make a face. “6.” She makes the same face and rolls her eyes again. I watch her curiously as she gets up to leave.

&nbs
p; “Hey.”

  Claudia stops in the doorway and looks down. “Yeah?”

  “Why do you care so much anyway?” I ask.

  Her face falls, and she shrugs. “I – I think she needs someone to talk to.”

  “Why?”

  Claudia looks around and puts a finger to her lips. She closes the door a little. “I don’t think she’s okay.”

  “What do you mean?” I press, suddenly absorbed.

  “I hear her crying at night sometimes. She holds it in all day around all of us, but when she’s alone, she has these meltdowns.” Her voice is a whisper now. “Dirterazzi says all this crazy stuff about bad things she’s doing and clubs she’s going to.”

  “You’re not supposed to be reading that stuff,” I remind her, but the information she’s spilling to me makes me want to look the stories up for myself.

  She cocks her head and folds her arms. “It’s kind of impossible to ignore, Jack. And the things they say – if they’re true, she’s in trouble. I think she needs someone to talk to her about her parents. Someone who can relate to her, like you.”

  I look down at the map as anger stirs inside of my gut. “My dad didn’t die, Claudia.” My voice is edged with bitterness.

  “That’s not what I mean,” she says quickly, but I hold up a hand to stop her.

  “I gotta go,” I say quickly. She looks at the clock, surprised, as I stand up and avoid her gaze. “I gotta go to Frank’s house and say goodbye.”

  “Okay,” she murmurs. “Have fun.” And she leaves in a whirl of frustration.

  “Surprise!”

  I’m jolted by the chorus of shouting coming from Frank’s living room. There are a slew of my friends from school inside, raising red plastic cups and blowing on noisemakers leftover from New Year’s.

  “What is this?” I laugh. Frank and Josh grin like idiots. Frank slaps his hand on my back, and Josh gives me a cup full of cold beer.

  “It’s your going away party, man!” he cries. “We couldn’t let you leave without a proper sendoff!”

  “You serious?” I look around the room in awe. Frank’s mother, Donna, comes up and gives me a tight hug.

  “Ma!” Frank whines.

  “I know, I know, I’m not s’posed to be here,” she mutters in her thick Brooklyn accent. “I gotta say goodbye to my second son ova here!” She squishes my face between her hands and gives me a big kiss on both cheeks.

  Taking my hands in hers, she says through teary eyes, “Now you listen, Jack: you visit often! You come right here and stay with us; don’t you go stay in no hotel. You’re family!”

  “Thanks, Ma,” I reply, feeling a little sick inside. This woman has been like a second mother to me for a long time now; she was the first person to take notice that I needed help a few years ago, back when I had gotten really bad. Now I have to leave her behind, too, and that kills me. If I had ever before felt like I didn’t want to move to California, it was nothing compared to how I feel now.

  “Ma, c’mon.” Frank nudges her away from me. I want to tell him to leave her alone, but she gives me one last kiss, wipes a tear from her eye, and turns.

  “I know, I know, I’m gone, alright?! Have your party; enjoy. Bye, sweetheart.”

  “Thanks, Ma,” Frank and I call out simultaneously. We laugh at our joint response, but the feeling is suddenly bittersweet. I look away from him quickly and make my way around the room to say hello to our other friends.

  “C’mon, man, let’s have a drink!” Frank says finally, pulling me away from the crowd and urging me to raise my cup.

  I gesture to my watch. “I can’t stay long, you know. I just came to say goodbye. I’m driving all day tomorrow.”

  Frank squints at me and mutters, “They get you forever; we can have at least one night.”

  His words hit me like a punch to my gut. Josh is quick to neutralize the feeling.

  “Eh, leave ‘im alone, man,” Josh grunts. “He’s probably gotta rest up for all the road head Cherie’s gonna give ‘im!”

  I glare at Josh and shake my head. “You’re an idiot.”

  He snickers and taps his cup against mine. “Happy travels!”

  Frank and I shake our heads, but I lift my drink anyway.

  The air is frigid as I open my door and step out onto my curb. My breath floats in small puffs over my head. I lock my car door and step quietly onto the walk. I pause and lean against the trunk, staring at the house. I just want one last small moment of peace with my childhood home before leaving it forever. The house looks just like I remember it did when we first moved in over 13 years ago, though somewhat worn and faded in parts. Despite how hard I try to will the memories away, I can still picture those first few years we spent here.

  When we first moved in, I was the only kid, and it seemed as though that was how it would stay. Just the three of us: me, Mom and Dad, in this little, green-shingled home with the white shutters and the white birch trees. The backyard was my kingdom, and my dad built a tree house as my castle. He’d call me ‘sport’ and would teach me how to throw a football and tousled my hair when I made a good pass. I ruled on high for three years. Then Brenton came along, a little bit of an accident, and he wasn’t interested in bugs and dirt and sports like me and Dad. We didn’t understand him, so we kept doing our thing together in the backyard, hoping he’d come and join us one day. Mom insisted that she couldn’t be alone in a house full of boys, so Britney came next, much to Dad’s chagrin. Mom wanted everything to be perfect for her little girl. She had her name picked out, and she was buying dresses and pink blankets. Dad had to build a new addition on one side of the house just to accommodate the little girl who would need her own room and privacy. Then, she came home, and she was anything but Daddy’s little girl.

  I remember how my sister would cry every night that first month she was home. Dad couldn’t even pick her up. She’d cry and scream all night, and my mom couldn’t figure out why, let alone stop her.

  Sometimes I think Britney was the straw that broke my dad’s back.

  My moment of darkness is immediately brightened by the glare of headlights. The screeching wheels of an oncoming car that almost missed the turn onto my road shatters through my thoughts. I have a hard time seeing, but the queasiness in my stomach tells me it’s Cherie and her hanger–ons in their fancy limo.

  I watch the car roll to a dramatic stop at the tip of the driveway. The blistering February cold forces me to shove my hands deep into my coat pockets and shrug my shoulders up to my ears. No matter how glacial my skin feels, I can’t tear my eyes away from the windshield. I smell trouble.

  The driver hops out and runs around to the doors at the limo’s rear. A lot of cackling laughter and smoke billows out of the backseat, and the driver reaches in like he has to drag something out. I get a creeping feeling that the something he’s trying to pull out is Cherie.

  Sure enough, as the driver backs up, I see one tiny, impossibly long heel poke out and wobble as it touches the ground. I step onto the lawn, hoping to make it inside before I’m spotted, watching the scene from the corner of my eye. A stout man emerges from the other back door and runs around to Cherie and the driver, as if he has to help in some way. I recognize her new helper from the funeral; it’s Cherie’s manager – Carson? Carter? I don’t remember his name. Fortunately, he doesn’t seem to notice I’m there, so I spy some more, undetected.

  Cherie flops out of the car, practically unconscious. Her eyes are closed, her makeup smeared down her cheeks like she’s been crying, and she looks like she’s little more than a marionette as they try to manipulate her body forward. She’s the very definition of a hot mess.

  “C’mon, Cher, we’re home! Just a few more steps and you can go to sleep, okay?” Mr. Manager says in an ugly, gruff old man voice.

  It’s almost comical as he urges her forward, her arm draped behind his neck. She laughs a little and says, “Carl, you’re not very good at this.” Her impossibly short dress rides up a little and threaten
s to show too much.

  “Yeah, well, you’re not very good at handling a few drinks, little lady,” he scolds. That’s when I’ve heard enough and turn away, hoping I’m an inconspicuous shadow.

  “Oh, hey Jack!” Crap. “Jack, right? Hey there, gimme a hand, would ya?”

  I press my lips together and turn around. Carl and the driver help Cherie stumble toward me, and she practically collapses. Instinctively, I reach out and catch her.

  “Good reflexes, kid! C’mon, sweetheart. Up, up…there we go!” He rights her, but he leaves her in my grip. The driver hurries back to the warmth of his car.

  “Jack!” she shouts out as if we’re best friends. She slaps her hands against my chest and gasps, “Jack, I had the best night!” She smells like smoke and liquor, and she’s beautifully wrecked. The tiniest of voices invades my psyche, echoing the words of one of her pessimistic aunts in the days following her parents’ deaths.

  “She’ll probably end up on the path of some addict or get arrested or worse…”

  I’m so confused that I can barely make a sentence. “What – why…?” I look down at her, and then I glare up at Carl, speechless.

  “Thanks, bud, can you get her inside? I don’t wanna wake your parents,” he says breathlessly. He then has the nerve to roll his eyes and shake his head, as if this is not his problem. I want to shout at him, but my mother instilled stupid manners in me, and I hesitate.

  Cherie backs away from me, pulling down the hem of her dress, and slurs, “I can do it myself, Caaarl!” She opens her eyes to look at me and then squints like I disgust her. “I don’t need your help with ANYTHING.”

  What the hell? Now she’s pissed at me again?

  I don’t have a chance to snap back; instead I’m jumping forward to catch her before she tips backward onto the icy sidewalk. She almost takes me down, too, but I drag her onto the snow.

  “Ah!” she cries. The slush surrounds her feet, slipping into the sides of her shoes. “It’s cold! Help!”

  “Shh! You’re gonna wake everyone up!” I hiss. “Carl, wait!”

  But he’s already gone, climbing back into his smoky limo and shouting at the driver something about stopping at the Regency. The car door slams closed behind him.