The Brightsiders

by Jen Wilde

  Ryan holds up a finger. “For the record, Em wasn’t the one driving.”

  Sal throws her hands up in the air. “Do you think the press gives two fucks who was really driving? She’s the celebrity, she’s the seventeen-year-old role model with legions of teenagers looking up to her. Do you think their parents are going to shell out cash to buy your songs or go to your concerts if they think the Brightsiders are bratty party animals?”

  Alfie drops his head into his hands. I sink lower into the bed and wish I could hide under the blanket and disappear. I feel like the worst person in the world right now.

  “Just because you play punk rock music,” Sal continues, “doesn’t give you a pass to act like a little punk.”

  Ouch. That hurts, but she’s right.

  “I’m so sorry, everyone,” I say.

  Alfie reaches out and takes my hand, and Ryan gives me a tired smile.

  Sal’s phone buzzes. She looks at it and sighs dramatically. “Well, it’s happening. All the videos from last night have officially gone viral.”

  My mouth goes dry. “Videos?”

  Sal purses her full lips. “Don’t act like you don’t know.”

  “She doesn’t remember anything,” Alfie says, glaring at Sal.

  She throws her head back and laughs. “Of course she doesn’t. Well, allow me to refresh your memory.” She holds her phone out to me.

  “Don’t,” Alfie says.

  “She doesn’t need to see it right now,” Ryan says.

  They exchange that same worried look from before, and I realize this is what they weren’t telling me. It must be really, really bad.

  I take the phone and hit play. It starts off innocently enough: me dancing with Jessie in the club, flirting, laughing, the usual. Then there’s me with some sort of blue concoction in my hand, gulping it down. Then another. And another. And soon I can hardly walk straight. Next, videos and photos of me puking my guts out all over Alfie’s boots. Then me out on the street, my lips stained blue, my hair a mess, and my mascara smudged under my eyes.

  Then it gets weirder. There’s video of us in Jessie’s Range Rover, and Jessie looks upset. I can see the vein that always appears in her forehead when she’s mad at me. Alfie and Ryan get out of the car, and we speed off. The next shot is me falling out of the car in the middle of an intersection, blood running down my face, and puking again. The final nail in the coffin hits when I see Jessie swiping at photographers and getting arrested, while I fall unconscious on the road in the background, with my skirt hitched up and my lace underwear on show.

  It’s like a tacky montage from a bad frat party movie.

  I give Sal her phone back with shaking hands, then promptly burst into tears. I’ve become the starlet of the tabloids, the celebrity trainwreck everyone talks about on the morning talk shows, chastising me over their mugs of coffee while an audience cheers. No one is ever going to take me seriously again. Every time my name is mentioned, this is going to be the moment they remember. Last night is going to be chained to me everywhere I go, for the rest of my career. For the rest of my life.

  “My … life … is … overrrr,” I wail.

  Alfie and Ryan hug me, and even Sal seems to soften when faced with my tears of sheer humiliation.

  “Come on now,” she says. “Don’t be so dramatic. You’ve got me, remember? We have a whole team of people who are already doing damage control. We’re going to spin this into a positive.”

  I try to ask how, but her phone rings and she leaves the room to answer it. I turn to Alfie and Ry. “Tell me honestly, how bad is this?”

  They don’t answer me. They don’t even look at me. But they don’t have to. Seeing myself in that video, it’s clear that I’m spiraling out of control. I can’t keep doing this.

  Ry presses the heels of his hands into his eyes. “When we heard you had been rushed to the ER…” He trails off. My stomach turns.

  Alfie clears his throat, like he’s trying to hold himself together. “But it’s okay. You’re okay.” But I can tell by the tears in his eyes that he doesn’t believe that. And neither do I.

  I am not okay.

  I need to get my shit together, ASAP. I wipe my tears away with the back of my hand. “I’m gonna fix this,” I say. “I promise.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Later that afternoon, Sal sneaks us out the back exit of the hospital and drives us back to my place. I’ve been living in a hotel for the last six months, waiting out the days until I turn eighteen and can buy my own house. It’s expensive, but anything beats living with my parents.

  Paparazzi wait on the sidewalk outside the revolving doors and hold their cameras up to the windows of the car, tapping on the glass as we pull up to the curb. Hotel security forces the vultures back as Sal marches through them, creating a path for me. Alfie and Ryan walk on either side of me while I hide behind my oversize sunglasses and cover my bandaged nose with my hands.

  The concierge frowns when he sees us walking through the lobby. I hang my head so my hair falls in front of my face, avoiding his judgmental gaze. Sal presses the button for the elevator, and I take in a deep breath, dreaming of my beautiful bathtub. I’m going to soak myself in hot water for at least three hours. The elevator takes us up to the top floor, where my neighbor, Dr. Bennis, waits with her little bulldog, Frenchie. I smile as we pass, but she turns her nose up at me and steps into the elevator. I’m not exactly the most popular resident here, but no one has ever snubbed me like that before. Oh God, she must have seen the videos.

  “Okay, Em,” Sal says once we’re safely inside my apartment. “I know there’s probably no point saying this, but try to stay offline for the next few days. No Twitter. No Tumblr. Not even Snapchat, okay? Maybe don’t watch much TV, either, and definitely do not Google yourself.”

  “I won’t,” I say. She gives me a hug, and I breathe in the strong vanilla scent of her perfume.

  “You’ll be fine,” she says. “I’ve got this under control. Just lay low this week.” She turns to Alfie and Ryan. “You two keep her company if you can.”

  They both nod. Sal opens the front door but turns and points her finger at us before leaving. “And absolutely no alcohol or anything illegal! You hear me?”

  “Yes, Sal,” we all say. She closes the door, and a minute later we hear the ding of the elevator.

  “Are you hungry, Em?” Alfie asks as he opens my fridge. “Jesus, you have, like, no food in here.”

  I can’t look my bandmates in the eyes. “I usually just order room service.”

  Ryan opens my pantry, but that’s bare, too. “We could order a pizza?”

  “You two order,” I say, yawning. “I’m not that hungry. I think I’m just gonna take a bath and go to bed.”

  I stand in front of my bathroom mirror and use my facial wipes to smear away last night’s makeup and today’s tears. Jessie’s makeup is scattered all over my sink, concealers and lipsticks and eyeshadows, each a reminder that she’s not here. God, I hope she’s okay. The thought of her locked up all night, scared and alone, breaks my heart. She must be worried sick after seeing me pass out after the accident. I try calling her phone for the fifth time since I was discharged, but it’s still switched off.

  Before I’ve even started running the bath, there’s a knock on my door.

  “I’ve got it, Em,” Alfie calls out to me. I press my ear to my closed bathroom door to hear who it is.

  “Can I speak to Miss King, please?” I recognize the concierge’s snooty voice. I walk out of my room to see him standing in the doorway with two members of hotel security behind him.

  “Is everything okay?” I ask.

  “I’m afraid not,” he says as he steps past Alfie and into my apartment. The guards follow him. “I need to discuss something rather delicate with you.” He glances disapprovingly at Alfie and Ryan, then adds, “In private.”

  I narrow my eyes at him. “Whatever you need to say, you can say it in front of them.”

  He nod
s and holds his hands behind his back. “I’ve been told by management to ask you to leave the hotel.”

  “What?” I glance at the guards and realize they’re here for me.

  “As you are aware, we’ve had a number of complaints from the other residents and guests here,” he explains. “Not merely about the noise from the many parties you’ve thrown, but also complaints about vulgar behavior directed at residents by you and your many guests.” He side-eyes Alfie and Ryan, and I grit my teeth. “And given the, um”—he clears his throat—“recent events, management has decided to ask you to find alternative accommodation.”

  Recent events. Ugh. I want to fight, to argue my way out of this, but I’m just too tired. Alfie, on the other hand, jumps to my defense.

  “You can’t just kick her out,” he says. “She has a lease.”

  “Yes, and in that lease it states very clearly that a resident who repeatedly breaks hotel rules and ignores warnings will be asked to vacate the premises without notice.”

  “What rules have been broken?” Ryan asks.

  The concierge takes in a deep breath through his nose. “As I mentioned, rules regarding noise pollution and offensive behavior. There was also the incident with the sand.”

  Oh shit. I knew that would come back to bite me in the butt one day. For our three-month anniversary, Jessie threw me a beach party and turned the hotel rooftop swimming pool into an island, complete with tons of sand she had delivered. We first met at a beach; I was there shooting a music video and she was there for a bonfire party. So she was trying to re-create that day, which was super sweet. It was totally fun, and everyone was loving it—until the wind picked up and turned the roof into the eye of a sandstorm. We escaped the worst of it by running into the stairwell and back to my apartment, but the pool was clogged for days, and the rooftop was closed until professional cleaners collected every last grain. Some of the sand even fell to the lower balconies, resulting in lots of complaints. I ended up footing the bill, which cost more than having the sand delivered in the first place. So, yeah, that was my bad. I don’t blame them for being pissed about that.

  “Miss King,” the concierge continues, “if you have further questions, I’ve been asked to refer you to our lawyers.”

  “Forget it,” I say with a sigh. “Just give me a week or two to find a new place, and I’ll be out of your hair.”

  He shakes his head. “I’m afraid I’ve been instructed to escort you out immediately. You have one hour to pack your things.”

  Alfie straightens his back, like he always does when he’s mad and about to argue with someone, but I take his hand.

  “Don’t even bother,” I say. “Just help me pack so we can get out of here.”

  The concierge gestures for security to follow him. “We’ll wait for you in the lobby.”

  Once they’re gone, Alfie turns to me, his brow furrowed. “You can come stay with me. I’ll sleep on the couch.”

  I shake my head. “Thanks, but no. I’ll just go back to my parents’ place and tough it out until I turn eighteen.”

  “No way,” he says. “They’ll drive you crazy. Just come stay with me. I’d love to have you.”

  Ryan rubs the back of his neck. “I think Em’s right. I mean, there’s no way she can lay low at your place, it’s in the middle of Hollywood.”

  “I’ll just go back to Venice and hide out for a while. I’ll be safer from the paparazzi there.” I think of the house where I grew up and shudder. It’s more like a museum than a home, a shrine to my mom and dad’s short-lived music career. It’s the last place I want to be right now, but it’s the only place I can go where I won’t have to worry about cameras peeking over walls or through windows. It’s the only place I can go where I’ll be left alone.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “No one’s home,” I say as Alfie rings the doorbell for the third time. “I told you they’d be out on a Saturday. They’re somewhere drinking mimosas with their friends.”

  “Don’t you have a spare key?” Ry asks as he peeks through the window.

  “Never needed one.” I start walking through the bushes and around the side of the house to the backyard. It’s littered with empty wine bottles and cigarette butts. A pair of red lace underwear floats in the middle of the pool. Looks like they had one of their Friday-night ragers and went straight to brunch. I slip off my heels and grab on to the vines that snake up the back of the house. Memories of all the times I snuck out to go to Alfie’s house come flooding back.

  Through the kitchen window I see framed portraits of my parents and roll my eyes. I’m not in any of the photos that adorn the walls and the mantel over the fireplace. If a total stranger walked through their house, they’d never even know my parents have a daughter. It’s like I don’t exist.

  “Em?” Alfie calls from the front of the house. “You in yet?”

  “One sec!” I yell back, then keep climbing. The vines are thicker than I remember; they’ve grown since I’ve been gone. But everything else here seems to have stayed the same.

  I reach the roof and haul myself up, then rest for a second to catch my breath. Scaling a building after having my stomach pumped is probably not the smartest decision I’ve ever made, but desperate times call for desperate measures. When I’m sure I’m not going to collapse, I crawl over to my bedroom window. As usual, it opens easily, and I drop inside. Inside, everything is exactly as I left it. My walls and ceiling are plastered with posters of bands, a Pride flag hangs over the back of my bedroom door, and my desk is covered in notebooks filled with all the songs I used to write.

  My bedroom was originally supposed to be their recording studio, but Mom got knocked up and, according to them, that’s when everything started to turn to shit. Dad started cheating and drinking instead of writing music, so he was kicked out of his band. Mom started playing gigs in bars to pay the bills and began her own drinking habit after her shows. And I spent most of my time up in my room, way at the top of the house, separate from everything. Unfortunately, they never got around to soundproofing it, so I was constantly kept awake by their fighting or by Dad broodingly playing his guitars all through the night. The parties started when I was about thirteen, and the house was perpetually filled with loud nineties grunge and cigarette smoke. The night I got my first period, I had to sneak a tampon from the purse of some random woman who was passed out on our stairs because my mom was busy playing strip poker with a bunch of middle-aged dudes.

  “Jesus,” I whisper. “It’s like I never left.” I run down the stairs to let Alfie and Ry inside.

  “Gross,” Ry says as he walks into the living room. “It smells like all the furniture has been soaked in bong water.”

  I laugh, but I can’t help but feel a little embarrassed. “Yeah. Sorry. The party never ends here.”

  Alfie gives me a sympathetic look. “Did you really expect it to?”

  “I don’t know,” I say, shrugging. “Maybe.”

  If I’m honest, I did expect them to change. I thought seeing me walk out six months ago would have shocked them into cleaning up their lives. But from the state of the house, it seems all I did was give them free rein to go as wild as they wanted.

  “You don’t have to stay,” I say, pretending not to notice the way Ryan is surveying the living room, his eyes landing on every lipstick-stained wine glass and empty beer bottle. Just add a tiger in the bathroom and it would be a recreation of the famous waking-up scene in The Hangover.

  This is why I never invited friends over when I was growing up.

  “Sorry,” I say again. “Weekends always were the messiest here.”

  Ry rubs the back of his neck and chuckles. “To be honest, I was just thinking how it reminds me of your apartment after a big night.”

  I do a double take. “No way, man.” His words feel like a punch to the stomach. “It doesn’t look anything like this! That’s totally…” But then I scan the room, seeing it as he does, and realize he’s right. I’ve thrown a ton of parti
es lately, the kind that made my hotel apartment look like a tornado tore through it. Knowing that Ry sees similarities between me and my parents makes me feel so gross. I’m not like them. I’m a teenager; we’re supposed to party, right? They’re grown-ass humans. They’re parents. They’re supposed to be responsible and sensible and know their limits and all that adulting stuff. Mom and Dad are the ones looking bad here, not me.

  * * *

  Once we carry all my boxes and bags up to my room, I decide to soak my bruised body in a hot bath.

  My back and ribs ache as I retreat into my bathroom and lock the door. I lean over my bathtub and turn the water on, then open the window to get some air. The afternoon sunshine casts a glare on the rooftops below and makes the glimpse of ocean sparkle on the horizon. I will never tire of the endless California summer, but the sky seems so obnoxiously blue at times like this, when it feels like my life is a rolling storm cloud.

  The sliding doors to my living room open below, and Alfie walks out onto the pool deck, his phone held up in front of him.

  “Hey, Kass,” he says. I lean back so he doesn’t see me. He’s talking to Kassidy, my cousin who lives on the East Coast. She’s probably calling to check in on me. I wish Kass were here instead of Boston. As comforting as Alfie and Ryan have been today, I really need her right now. She knows what my parents are like.

  “Where’s Emmy? I’ve been texting her all day, but she isn’t responding,” Kass says.

  “I think her phone is off,” Alfie says. “I don’t think she wants to talk to anyone right now.”

  “Is she okay?”

  “I don’t think so. Can you blame her? The whole world is tearing her to shreds.”

  “I can’t believe some of things people are saying,” Kass says. “Some people are calling her an alcoholic and a slut. Can you believe that?”

  A lump forms in my throat. I feel like such an embarrassment.

  Alfie sighs. “You have no idea how much I want to just tell everyone to shut the fuck up. They don’t know her; they don’t know anything about what’s going on behind the scenes. Em has had to go through so much horrible shit lately. She doesn’t deserve this.”