The Brightsiders

by Jen Wilde

  “Lord knows you don’t tell us anything,” Mom adds.

  “You never ask,” I say.

  Dad finds another article and squints to read it out loud. “King Falls from Her Throne. Ha! Now that’s a smart headline.”

  Jessie shakes her head. I’m so embarrassed that she’s seeing this.

  I throw my head back and groan. I’ll show my mother dramatic. “I cannot wait to get out of this fucking hellhole. Even one day is too much in this place.”

  Dad drops the iPad to the table with a thud. “Hey, missy. Show some gratitude.”

  “Yes,” Mom says, even though she’s smirking. This is exactly what she wanted. “You keep behaving this way and you’ll end up on the street, just like you did six months ago.”

  “You didn’t kick me out then,” I say. “I left.”

  Mom chuckles. “And look how well that turned out for you. You need us. Remember that.” She sips her drink, her pinky finger extended delicately. “And please, do tell us exactly how you plan to leave this ‘fucking hellhole.’”

  “I’m going to start looking for a place to live,” I say quickly. “My plan is to buy a house.”

  She raises an eyebrow. “How nice for you.”

  My hips swivel ever so slowly toward Jessie in an attempt to extract myself from the conversation with my mother. I’m so done. But it doesn’t work.

  “Did you hear that, David?” Mom asks. “Emmy is going to buy herself a house.”

  “With what money?” he asks.

  I clear my throat. “With my money.”

  He exchanges a look with Mom, like they’re in on a joke I don’t know about.

  “Well,” he says, “good for you. At least you’ll have somewhere other than here to go when the green stops pouring in.”

  “Mm-hmm,” Mom says. “Enjoy it while it lasts.”

  This whole time, Jessie sits next to me, eating her eggs. I nudge her, hoping she’ll say something to change the topic. She looks at me, then shrugs.

  “Your dad’s right,” she says. “Buy a house now, before Alfie leaves to forge a solo career and leaves you in the dust.”

  My jaw drops, and she starts laughing. So do my parents.

  “Alfie wouldn’t do that,” I say.

  “I’m just fooling around,” she says. But when I don’t smile, she puts a hand on my knee. “Sorry. It was just a joke, I swear.”

  Dad pulls up a chair at the table, shaking his head. “Don’t apologize, kiddo. Someone needs to tell her the truth.”

  What the actual fuck is happening right now?

  I guess I shouldn’t be surprised at my parents. This fits nicely into their track record of behavior since my career took off. Instead of being proud of my success, they take offense at it, like we’re in competition with one another. Then they do whatever they can to make sure I know I didn’t earn any of it, and that I’ll fade into a has-been before I can say “one-hit wonder.”

  “We’re just saying,” Mom says. “Enjoy it while it lasts.”

  That’s what she said when our band won the Venice Battle of the Bands. Then she said it when we got a manager and a record deal. And again when our debut single climbed the charts. I’m sure she would’ve said it to me every day since if I hadn’t walked out the door and not come back. Until now.

  Dad gets up from the table, leaving his dirty plate behind. He shakes his head and laughs. “King Falls from Her Throne. That’s gold.”

  I turn and stare at Jess, begging her with my eyes for help. She looks at me with sympathy, but I know there’s nothing else she can do. Like Mom said, we’re just guests in their house. We need to be on good behavior or we’ll be out on the street, crashing on friends’ couches until I turn eighteen and can finally buy my own place.

  Dad reaches over and squeezes my shoulder. “Smile, girlie! Don’t be so sensitive!”

  “If you can’t take the media’s abuse,” Mom adds, “you don’t deserve the perks of fame, either.”

  I try to be good. To be quiet and go along with it. I force a smile for them, but I can’t stop the tears from welling in my eyes. This isn’t funny to me. It hurts. A lot. It’s one thing for my parents to give me shit, but I never expected Jessie to join in on it. What she said about Alfie was not cool. She can’t actually think that about him, can she? Ugh, this sucks. This is way too much suckiness for the breakfast table. I mean, at least let me eat my damn Froot Loops before you start trolling me about how much of a loser I am.

  So I get up from the table and walk out the front door, leaving their laughter behind me.

  I walk aimlessly for a few blocks, then find myself standing outside Alfie’s old house. It’s no surprise that I ended up here; from age twelve onward, this was where I would always go to escape my parents. Only now, there’s nothing here except an empty house and a FOR SALE sign. Alfie bought his mom and dad their dream house in Malibu last year—a gesture that sent my own parents into a jealous rage.

  “When do we get our Malibu beach house?” they asked.

  I had already paid off their mortgage and given them expensive gifts, including a guitar once played by Kurt Cobain for my dad and a new convertible for my mom. I was doing everything I could to attain the title of Best Daughter, and still coming up short. Then they found out Ry flew all his extended relatives over to the US from South Korea to surprise his parents with a family reunion, and my dad suddenly remembered he had cousins in England he needed to visit. That was when I started to see that nothing I ever did would be good enough for them. And yet I still keep hoping that will change.

  I walk into the backyard and climb the old jacaranda tree, using the same curves and branches I always used to haul myself up, up, up. In the spring, the tree would bloom purple and I’d pluck the flowers off and tuck them behind my ears. Alfie and I would sit on the roof, under the purple shade, and listen to music for hours. I felt like I could hide there forever and no one would ever find me. I was safe from the world.

  Now, though, the flowers have fallen and wilted. There’s no shade, nowhere to hide. Alfie’s old bedroom window creaks open, and I slip inside, sitting cross-legged on the old carpet to reminisce. I could tell you exactly where every poster used to be on the walls. A huge Paramore poster made up the focal point of the wall by the window, surrounded by a collage of Fall Out Boy, Taking Back Sunday, and classic album covers from the Rolling Stones and David Bowie. More posters plastered the back of his closet door, mostly of Amy Winehouse, Lorde, and Ed Sheeran. They were originally on his wall with the others, but then Ryan accidentally kicked a hole in the door during one of our air guitar jam sessions, so we used the posters to cover it so Alfie’s parents wouldn’t find out. It’s patched up now, but the memory of it still makes me giggle. Ryan hopping on one leg while he tried to free his foot from the door; the look on Alfie’s face when it happened, his mouth hanging open, eyes wide. It was months before his parents finally noticed it.

  I lean back and stretch out over the carpet, staring up at the ceiling fan. I always thought I’d have this place to go to when I needed it, and now it’s empty. Soon a new family will be living here, and all I’ll have will be the memories.

  My heart hurts. Jessie’s voice echoes in my mind, her words circling like vultures. I can’t shake the thought that I’ve been here before, sitting alone before, feeling like shit because someone told me I was nothing. It’s a kind of twisted déjà vu.

  My stomach turns uneasily. I don’t want to be here again. I moved out of my parents’ place and into the hotel to escape this feeling, and yet here I am.

  * * *

  “Emmy?” Alfie’s voice echoes through the empty house.

  I sit up, wondering if I’m hearing things. No one knows I’m here.

  Footsteps bounce up the stairs. “Emmy? Are you here?”

  Alfie stands in the doorway, a smile appearing when he sees me sitting in the middle of his old room.

  “Hey,” I say casually, like breaking into and entering empty houses is t
otally normal. “What are you doing here?”

  He sits cross-legged across from me. “I went to your parents’ house to see how you were. Jessie said you walked out, so I figured you’d be here.” He flips his keys around his fingers. “Lucky I still have my key, or I would’ve had to Spider-Man it through the window like you.”

  When I don’t say anything, his smile slips away. “You okay? Did something happen?”

  I’m afraid that if I talk I’ll cry, so I just shrug and lay back down on the carpet. I feel him stretch out next to me. My shoulders tense. I really don’t want to talk about this, and I’m dreading the next words that come out of his mouth.

  But they never come. Instead, he just lies beside me and lets me rest. I’ve never felt more grateful for him in my life. Out of everyone in the whole world, when you’re feeling sad and don’t want to say why but you also don’t want to be alone, Alfie is the one you call.

  When things got really bad at home, like strangers-passed-out-on-the-staircase bad, I’d sneak out and ride my bike to Alfie’s house. I’d tap on his window, and he’d let me sleep in the top bunk. Just hearing him breathing, knowing I wasn’t alone, not hearing the walls vibrating from music or loud, unfamiliar voices in the hallway, helped me sleep better than I ever did in my own bed.

  “This reminds me of when we were kids,” I whisper.

  “Me, too.”

  “Do you ever feel torn between the past and the future?”

  He rests his arms behind his head and looks up at the ceiling. “What do you mean?”

  I chew on the inside of my cheek as I try to find the words to explain it.

  “You’re grateful for everything you have now,” I say slowly, “and you wouldn’t change anything, right? But you’re also sad that everything has changed so much. And you can’t ever go back to how things used to be.”

  “Do you want things to go back to how they used to be?” he asks, sounding skeptical.

  “Not all of it, obviously. Just some things.” I groan. “Never mind. I’m just in a weird place right now.”

  “I know,” he says. “That’s why I’m here.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Several days later, I pace back and forth in my room, not knowing what to do with myself. I don’t remember the last time I stayed in on a Friday night, but Sal gave me strict instructions not to go out in public. I tried to convince Jessie to stay in with me, but she insisted on going to a birthday party at a club and will likely be out all night. I can’t go outside, I can’t go online, and all my friends are having fun without me. Even my parents are out doing a gig at a bar. This is a whole new realm of boredom.

  But I refuse to sit around feeling sorry for myself, so I put on a swimsuit, a pair of denim shorts, and one of our Brightsiders baseball caps, then pad around the rim of my parents’ pool and sit down. I dangle my legs in the water and stare up at the night sky, the stars glittering just like the rest of the city. I can almost feel the collective buzz of energy that spreads through the streets on a weekend like this. I must be the only person in Los Angeles who isn’t getting ready to roam the city looking for the best party in town.

  The doorbell rings, and I hear Chloe’s voice. I haven’t seen them since the night at the club, and I have to admit I’m a little nervous. I hope they’re not mad at me for getting myself into trouble.

  Chloe doesn’t take anyone’s bullshit—and they don’t give it, either. If Chloe has a problem with you, they will let you know. That’s what first drew me to them. We met when Alfie was a guest on their YouTube channel. Chloe is nonbinary femme and made a web series interviewing transgender and nonbinary people. After the interview, Alfie invited Chloe to one of our shows and we brought them onstage to sing our hit “All for You.” We clicked right away and have been besties ever since.

  “Em?” they call down the hallway. “You home?” My parents must have left the door unlocked when they left.

  I look over my shoulder and see Chloe walking down the hallway, followed by Alfie and Ryan, carrying pizza boxes.

  “Hey! What are you doing here?” I ask.

  They walk onto the deck and put the pizzas on the outdoor dining table, pushing aside ashtrays and beer coasters stolen from bars around the city. They flick their sleek, dark mahogany hair over their shoulder and smile.

  “We thought you might want some company,” Chloe says. I relax, knowing that means they’re not mad. They just want to hang out.

  “You down for a pizza and Netflix night?” Alfie asks as he flips open one of the boxes. “I think we’re way overdue for a Leo marathon.”

  This has been our thing since we were ten. Ry, Alfie, Kass, and I jacked ourselves up on junk food and soda, determined to sit through Leonardo DiCaprio’s biggest hit movies. We made it all through the night but fell asleep at sunrise, right around Catch Me If You Can. Ever since, nothing cheers me up like binge-watching Leo with them and stuffing ourselves with KitKats and Flamin’ Hot Cheetos.

  “You don’t have to babysit me,” I say as I step up from the pool. “I know there are probably a thousand parties you could go to tonight.”

  Alfie scoffs. “Everybody knows the best party in LA is wherever Emmy King is.”

  I roll my eyes. “Not anymore.”

  Ryan pulls out a slice of pizza and takes a bite. “So,” he says, sauce sticking to the corners of his mouth, “on a scale of one to ten, how bad is your FOMO right now?”

  He’s teasing, and I love it. Ryan always manages to break through my bad moods. “Actually, not too bad. Especially now that you’re all here. I had planned to spend the night unpacking my bags.”

  “Boring!” Chloe sings, their Brooklyn accent coming out. “Those bags aren’t going anywhere. This pizza, though, will be gone in a hot second if you don’t get in before we do.” They hand me a piece of pizza, knowing I’d never say no. There are three things Chlo and I share an unwavering love for: loud music, Bob’s Burgers (Linda is their fave, Louise is mine), and triple-cheese pizza. Chlo looks amazing in tight denim short-shorts and a cropped white tee, paired with white wedges. As usual, their makeup is flawless and I found myself admiring their shimmery gold eyeshadow.

  “I hope you’re not letting the haters get you down, Em,” Chlo says with a sigh. They get a lot of shit online for being nonbinary femme, black, and bi, so if anyone knows about standing up to hate, it’s them. Not that what I’m going through is anything close to what they experience.

  “I’ll be fine,” I say before taking another bite of pizza.

  Chlo winks at me. “Yeah, you will.”

  “So,” Alfie says, “Ry’s written a new song he wants us to hear.”

  I swallow and give Ryan a punch on the arm. “That’s awesome, Ry!”

  He blushes and looks away. “Thanks,” he mumbles. “It’s not perfect yet, but if we workshop it together I think it could be pretty rad.”

  “Oh, I almost forgot,” Chloe says, taking their phone out of their pocket. “Jessie texted me yesterday. She wanted to know where you were. I was in the studio, so I didn’t see it right away, and, uh, I guess she freaked out a little. She sent, like, twenty texts. Most of them were just question marks. I told her you were here. Was that an okay thing to do?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “She showed up at my window late last night. So sweet, right? She was so worried.”

  I pretend I don’t notice how they all exchange worried glances. My friends have never explicitly told me they don’t like Jessie, but they also aren’t very good at hiding it. I get it—Jessie can seem pretty blunt and is prone to jealousy—but they just don’t know her like I do. They don’t see how sweet she is when we’re alone.

  “She’s living here now, too,” I blurt out, then immediately regret it.

  Alfie puts his half-eaten pizza down. “Are you sure that’s what you need right now?”

  I shrug. “Why should I face my parents alone if I don’t have to? Anyway, Jess lost her license after the accident, so it’s just easier for her i
f she stays with me.”

  “I guess it’s up to you,” he says slowly. “You gotta do what feels right.”

  I nod, but I’m not sure. How does anyone really know what’s right for them, anyway? All those parties I went to and drinks I had felt right to me at the time. Getting in that car with Jessie last week felt right.

  Maybe my moral compass is defective. All I seem to do is make bad decisions.

  Suddenly I don’t have much of an appetite. I swallow the last bite of pizza and go upstairs to get into some sweatpants. My stomach turns at the thought of all the work I have ahead of me, of having to face the media circus my life has become, all because I was doing “what felt right.”

  I try to distract myself by putting on a new shade of lipstick I haven’t had a chance to wear yet. It’s metallic purple, and I was saving it for a big night out. That’s obviously not going to happen any time soon, so I may as well use it to boost my mood. I drag the tip over my lips and pout in the mirror.

  Some people call me shallow and superficial for being so obsessed with makeup and fashion, like it somehow cheapens my value to the world, but I call bullshit on all that crap. My hair is blond right now, but I’ve been known to change it when the mood strikes. And I don’t dye my hair every color of the rainbow for anyone else’s enjoyment but my own. It’s not about covering my imperfections or attracting others; it’s about expressing myself. It’s a fun way to show the world how I’m feeling.

  If I’m feeling creative, you’ll see me painting my eyelids with multicolored eyeshadows and giving myself ombré lips. If I want to tell people to fuck off without saying a word, I’ll wear black matte lipstick and a dark smoky eye. If I can’t be bothered, I won’t wear any makeup. See the pattern here? Whether I wear makeup or not depends solely on how I want to feel, never mind what anyone else says.

  Besides, who’s really the shallow one? The person who wears makeup because it makes them feel good or the person who judges them for wearing it? It’s hypocritical, misogynistic bull like that that inspired me to write “Enough Already”—one of the songs on our first album.