The Brightsiders

by Jen Wilde

  “Emmy King thrilled fans last night when she came out as bisexual during a concert in Los Angeles,” the host says. They play a clip of me onstage, then introduce a panel to discuss it.

  A middle-aged white guy with a graying beard claps his hands. “Well done to her PR team. This is clearly a stunt to distract from all her bad press lately.”

  I grit my teeth. Jerk.

  “Wait a minute,” a black woman in a blue dress says. “I think it’s a touch cynical to assume this is all just a stunt. I say congratulations to her and welcome to the LGBTQ family.”

  “Thank you,” I say to the television, feeling vindicated.

  Another woman on the panel opens her mouth to speak, but Mr. Jerkface interrupts her.

  “Give me a break,” he says. “We keep seeing all these young celebrities coming out as ‘bisexual.’ Enough already. It’s just another part of identity politics, a label they slap on themselves to seem hip and cool. Meanwhile, all these so-called bisexual girls always end up with a guy anyway. So what’s the point?”

  I turn the TV off, then throw the remote at the screen. What an ignorant, biphobic asshole. I flip my pillow over my face and groan into it, trying to let out all my bisexual rage.

  My phone buzzes with an email, interrupting my fury.

  Emmy,

  Entertainment Now wants to interview you for their live morning segment tomorrow. They want you to talk about your coming out and recovering from your accident. Let me know if you want to do it. I think it could be a great way to move forward.

  Sal

  My thumb hovers over the reply button. I don’t know if I’m ready to face that kind of questioning. What if it’s just like that panel?

  But after thinking about it for a few minutes, I realize she’s right. This could be my way to move on from all this.

  Sal,

  If you think it’s a good idea, then I’ll do it.

  Em

  I hit send and immediately bury my head under the pillow, as though it will save me from having to go through with it. I’ve never been interviewed without Alfie and Ryan before, and Entertainment Now doesn’t shy away from intrusive questions. And Sal said it will be live, so she won’t be able to step in and pull me away if the reporter goes too far. This could make me or break me. I text Chloe in a panic.

  EM: Going on EN tomorrow. I’m gonna die.

  CHLOE: Woo! No dying allowed, missy.

  EM: They wanna talk about my accident.

  CHLOE: Of course they do. Do you want to talk about it?

  EM: Maybe? What do you think?

  CHLOE: Up to you. I would do it. Just to clear the air and shut people up. Then on to the next.

  EM: Yeah. Get it over with.

  CHLOE: Like a bandaid. Just rip through it.

  EM: Ugh. Gonna die.

  CHLOE: Well, let’s do dinner tonight. It can be your last meal:P

  EM: lol deal.

  An email pops up from Sal.

  Great! I’ll set up a lunch with Andrew from PR to prep you.

  Sal

  I force myself out from under the covers and walk into the bathroom. I’ve met with Andrew dozens of times before interviews, but never alone. He’s a nice guy, but very blunt and just a little condescending, yet Sal says he’s a PR star, so I do what he says. I slide my bathroom window open to let the early morning sun in, but am greeted instead by voices calling my name from the street below. A group of photographers and reporters are staked out at the gate. They’ve found me.

  “Creeps,” I mutter, and close the window again. I guess this was inevitable. It was only a matter of time before a neighbor spotted me and sold me out, or a pap followed me home. I’m public property now.

  * * *

  I wait at a table at the back of the restaurant, avoiding the curious eyes of people at the other tables. Jessie slides her chair closer to mine and takes my hand, lifting it onto the table. I blush a little, but I can’t help but feel uncomfortable. Like we are being gawked at. I didn’t even want Jess to come to this lunch—after all, it is business. But for some reason that I just can’t explain, I have trouble saying no to her. So here I am, bringing my girlfriend to my PR meeting.

  Andrew walks through the door and his eyes go straight to the back, narrowing when he sees me with Jessie.

  “Emmy,” he says when he reaches us, stretching out his hand for me to shake. “Great to see you again! Who’s this?”

  “Nice to see you, too,” I say. “This is Jessie, my girlfriend.”

  She nods at him and shakes his hand.

  “Just to clarify,” he says as he sits across from us. “Jessie isn’t doing the interview with you, right?”

  “Oh no,” I say. “She just wanted to tag along for lunch.”

  He makes a face, and I can’t tell if he’s annoyed or just thinks it’s odd. I immediately resent Jessie for coming, and wish I’d objected a little harder. I don’t want to, but every time she does something like this I grow more and more irritated. I try to push those feelings aside and focus on the meeting.

  Andrew briefs me on the kinds of questions I’ll be asked tomorrow, and I listen carefully, trying to take it all in. The more he talks, the more nervous I am. It’s starting to feel like the rest of my career depends on five minutes of airtime. No pressure, though. Ugh.

  “All right,” he says, clasping his hands together on the table. “Let’s do a practice run. I’ll throw some questions at you and you answer like you would on the show.”

  I lean forward, ready to go.

  “So, Emmy, recently you made headlines after a night of underage drinking that landed you in a car accident and then the emergency room. How are you recovering from that?”

  I swallow hard, hoping he’s just throwing me the worst-case-scenario question and that he doesn’t actually think they’ll ask me this. “I’m doing okay. Thank you for asking. I made a terrible mistake, and I’ve learned a lot from it. I’m very lucky that I wasn’t seriously hurt, so I’m grateful for that, and I’m looking forward to moving on from it.”

  He nods slowly, thoughtfully, like he’s analyzing every word of my answer.

  “Good,” he finally says. “Are you sober?”

  “Yes.”

  “This and other scandals have littered your short career so far, resulting in a Bad Girl reputation. Are you saying you’re trying to turn things around and clean up your image?”

  I open my mouth to answer, but Jessie speaks before I do. “I thought this interview was about her coming out?”

  Andrew looks at her, then at me. “It will be, but this is also Emmy’s first interview since that night, so they will ask about it. I guarantee it.”

  “Huh,” Jessie says as she leans back in her chair. “Well, can’t you just tell them not to ask about that?”

  I turn to her. “It’s okay. I want to clear it up.”

  “But the whole point of you coming out was so that people would stop talking about that night.”

  My cheeks warm and my chest burns. “No, it wasn’t. I told you that’s not why I did it.”

  She runs her hands through her hair. “Whatever. But I don’t think you should answer those questions. Talking about it more isn’t going to make it go away.”

  Doubts start to swirl around my mind. Is she right? I glance at Andrew, whose thumb is tapping on the table impatiently. Seeing the discomfort on his face makes me realize how unprofessional this is. I should never have let Jessie come to this meeting. My embarrassment quickly turns to anger.

  “Jess, Sal and Andrew are the professionals,” I say to her quietly but firmly. “They know what they’re doing, and I trust them.”

  Her eyes widen. “Oh, and you don’t trust me? Is that what you’re saying?”

  “No.” My shoulders slump. “That’s not what I meant.”

  She points to Andrew. “So you’ll listen to this guy over me?”

  Andrew sighs. “Listen, I’ve got another meeting. If you want to go over some more quest
ions later, give me a call.” He gets up to leave before I can say anything. I want to run after him and apologize, but I’m too embarrassed.

  “Jess,” I snap. “This has nothing to do with you.” I try to match her gaze, hoping my pleading eyes will make her calm down. But she’s too busy looking around the restaurant. At first I think she’s looking for the exit, but then I see her turn slightly to face someone at a nearby table. Someone with their phone pointed straight at us. Is she doing this on purpose? Is she provoking a fight with me to get attention?

  My fists clench, and I lean in close to her ear. “Get. Out.”

  She doesn’t leave, so I do. I hurry by all the people whispering and glancing my way, and before I’ve even made it out the door, I’ve made a decision: I have to break up with Jessie.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  I don’t see her again until three a.m. when she stumbles into my room and shakes me by the shoulders to wake me up.

  “Babe,” she mumbles, her breath thick with the smell of fruity cocktails, “you awake?”

  I press the heels of my hands into my eyes. “I am now.”

  “Your dad is on the couch downstairs,” she says.

  “I know.” My parents were up until midnight, arguing about money. I only heard bits and pieces of it before I put my headphones on, but it sounded like they’re in a lot of debt. He was yelling at her to stop buying drinks for all her friends when they go out, and she was screaming at him to stop buying old guitars. I’m expecting them to ask me for money in the morning. But I’ll save that problem for tomorrow; right now Jessie is all I can handle. I’d tried to wait up for her, my breakup speech all planned out and rehearsed, and if I don’t do it now I might chicken out.

  Jessie starts pulling the covers back to slide into bed, but I stop her.

  “I don’t think you should stay here tonight,” I start.

  She ignores me and jumps on the bed. “I’m already here, though, so.”

  “Okay.” I sit up. “I don’t want you to stay here tonight.”

  She groans. “Is this about what happened at lunch today?” I feel her hand snake around my waist. “It’s okay, baby. I forgive you.”

  “You forgive me?” I screech. “You embarrassed me in a work meeting!”

  Footsteps creak on the stairs, and I hope I didn’t wake my mom. The last thing I need right now is for her to come in here in a mood.

  Jessie’s arms pull away from me fast. “Hey. I was trying to help. If you didn’t want me there you should’ve said so.”

  “You’re right,” I snap. “I should have said so then. But I’m saying it now. I didn’t want you there then, and I don’t want you here now. I want to break up.” My voice trembles, and my heart beats like a drum in my chest as I wait for her reaction.

  She starts to moan. She must be crying. I resist the urge to hug her, to try to comfort her. I can’t let myself give in. Then she gags and suddenly she jerks forward, puking everywhere. I leap out of bed and turn the light on to see my bed covered in blue sludge. It looks like a Smurf exploded all over my comforter.

  Once Jessie has emptied her guts, she leans back and rests her head on my pillows. “Sorry.”

  “You okay?” I ask. She nods, and I’m glad because I’m still not ready to give up on this breakup. “Jess, I’m sorry, but you need to leave.”

  She waves a hand over the bed. “But I’m sick!”

  “I can see that.” I pinch my fingers over my nose. “And smell it. But the only thing that’s gonna change is my sheets. I need some space from you. Please go. I’ll order you a Lyft.” I pick up my phone and open the app, feeling very proud of myself for being so real with her.

  Jessie finally gets out of the bed. But instead of leaving my room, she comes over to me and tries to pull me in for a hug. I back away, my eyes still on my phone.

  “Come on, Emmy,” she says with a laugh. “You know we’ll just get back together again in a week. Stop being so dramatic.” She leans in like she’s going to kiss me, her lips stained blue. I duck and swerve like a boxer, dodging her puke breath just in time.

  “Jessie, I’m being dead serious,” I say. “Your ride will be here in three minutes. Please. Just go home.”

  Her jaw clenches. She kicks my dresser so hard that a glass of water I left there topples onto the floor and shatters.

  “Jessie!” I yell, and point to my door. “Get the fuck out!”

  “How could you do this to me?” she screams back. “Is there someone else? Is it fucking Alfie?”

  I run into the bathroom to get a towel and start cleaning up the broken glass. She keeps yelling.

  “It’s Alfie, isn’t it? Don’t lie to me! It’s so fucking obvious that he’s into you. How long have you been screwing him?”

  I want to scream, so I do. “Shut the hell up. There’s no one else. I’m just sick of the way you make me feel all the time.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  My bottom lip quivers. “Whenever I’m around you, I just feel like shit. You make me feel like … like…” I search for the right words, but I don’t know how to explain it.

  “What?” she yells.

  “Like I’m wrong!” I finally spit out. “You make me feel like I’m wrong all the time. I feel small and inferior and like nothing I do or say matters.”

  She crosses her arms over her chest. “I don’t make you feel like that. That’s not true.”

  I throw the towel back onto the floor. “You’re doing it right now! I’m always wrong or acting crazy or being dramatic. You never just listen or trust that I feel the way I feel for a reason. You always doubt me, and I hate it.”

  “This is bullshit,” she says, totally proving my point. “I don’t buy it. There’s someone else. And I know it’s Alfie.”

  I clutch my head. “What is your obsession with Alfie? He and I have never ever been anything more than friends. He has literally nothing to do with this.”

  She marches toward me and shoves her index finger in my face. “He has everything to do with this. I know it.”

  I slap her finger away, then open my bedroom door. “Out. Now. I’m done.”

  Finally, she leaves. I slam the door shut, lock it, and listen as she stomps down the stairs, still screaming.

  “I knew it! You’re fucking Alfie! You fucking slut!”

  Her ranting spills out onto the street but disappears after another minute or two. And then I breathe for what feels like the first time in days. More tears run down my face as I strip my bed of the blue-stained covers and dump them in the hamper. My mind races with all the ways Jessie could try to get back at me. No doubt there will soon be headlines out about our breakup, citing an “unnamed source.” But I’ll know it’s her. Ugh, what a shitstorm I’ve just unleashed.

  But as hard as it was, and as messy as it’s probably going to get, I know it was the right thing for me to do. I didn’t realize it until I blurted it out just now, but being with her really did make me feel worthless. And I was growing to hate the person I was when I was around her. I don’t want to be someone who only cares about being the life of the party. I’ve seen what that leads to. I don’t want to feel like I’m wrong all the time. I don’t want to feel inferior, especially not to the person I’m supposed to be equals with. And most importantly, I don’t want to feel worthless.

  I deserve better than that.

  With fresh sheets and covers on the bed, I wrap my arms around myself and wait until the tears slow. I have to get up in two hours, and my eyes will be puffy for my interview, but at least I’m free.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  “Emmy,” the makeup artist whispers. I open my eyes and smile, acting like I didn’t just fall asleep in the makeup chair.

  “You’re done,” she says, smiling back at me like she knows I fell asleep.

  I look in the mirror, grateful to whoever invented concealer. The dark circles under my eyes are gone, the puffiness of my eyelids virtually invisible under all the glittery eyeshadow an
d feathery false lashes. No one will be able to tell I spent last night cleaning up the vomit of my newly ex-girlfriend.

  A producer pops her head into the dressing room. “Five minutes!”

  Sal looks up from her phone and locks eyes with me. “How are you feeling?”

  “Great,” I lie through my teeth. I don’t feel anything close to great. I feel like I’m about to walk into a courtroom to hear the final verdict: innocent or guilty. Hero or heathen. When I leave this studio, I’ll either have a stamp of approval or a scarlet letter branded over my heart.

  “Okay,” Sal says. “You know what to do. Make it clear that you know you made a mistake, you’re ready to move on, and then pivot to other topics. They want to talk about your sexuality, but don’t do anything that makes you feel uncomfortable. And try to talk about the band and working on the next album. Bring it back to the music.”

  I nod with every instruction she gives, repeating it all over and over in my mind. Made a mistake. Moving on. Music. Those are my main talking points.

  I stand up and walk with Sal down the hall toward the set.

  “Smile,” she adds. “Back straight, legs closed. Hair out of your eyes. Make sure you appear open and calm even if you don’t feel that way.”

  It doesn’t matter how many times I get prepped for media appearances, hearing stuff like that always makes me cringe. It feels so forced, so fake, so unnatural. But I remind myself that if I just grin and bear it for now, one day—when my career is more stable and my music more recognized—I’ll be able to make my own rules. I’m still a newcomer. The Brightsiders might be a hit with teenagers my age and younger, but adults are more cynical. They’re snobs. They won’t take us seriously until we release a few more albums, win awards, prove we have staying power. They don’t trust that people my age know what’s good and what sucks. They don’t trust people my age, period. I can’t wait to prove them wrong.

  My phone buzzes with a call from Jessie, and I ignore it. I’m standing just off-camera, waiting to go on, when it buzzes again. I ignore it once more, then switch it off. Not today, honey.