Break It Up

by Tippetts, E. M.

  It’s only then that it hits me—Aidan’s not intervening. I look up, incredulous, as he stands back and watches every moment

  “How are you going to deal with this?” I ask. To the fighting cousins, I yell, “Break it up! Both of you.” I lunge forward.

  For a moment, I have my hand on Zach’s shoulder and am reaching for Ben’s chest. Then something solid connects with my cheek and the world goes black save for a starburst of light.

  I come to in a sterile hospital room, my head throbbing to the beat of my pulse.

  “Kyra?” says a familiar voice.

  I lift my head off my pillow and feel the room spin. I’m delirious, though. I could swear that the woman sitting beside my bed is Mrs. Wechsler. She has her graying blond hair cut in a bob that makes her jaw look even more severe and the usual makeup that’s way too young for her face. It’s like her crystal clear publicity vision only works on teens.

  “Do you know where you are? What’s your name?” she asks.

  “Kyra Armijo,” I mutter. “I assume I got taken to the hospital after either Zach or Ben punched me in the face.”

  “Your father is on his way. He’s still ten hours out or so, but he’s coming.”

  “Okay…”

  “Listen, I just wanted to be here to let you know that you aren’t to have any more contact with either of my sons.”

  “Who are you to decide that?” I say. “They’ve got a restraining order against you.”

  “This is Switzerland. Different court system. It’s got no effect here. I’ve been following the tour, watching it fall apart, and I hold you responsible.”

  “Huh?”

  Her smile is cold as ice. “The band’s broken up. Triple Cross is no more. You took one of the most successful music franchises in history and ran it into the ground. Congratulations.”

  “I didn’t break them up.”

  “It’s just coincidence it happened the day after you slept with Zach and turned down Ben’s request in the airport to give him some?”

  I let my head flop back on my pillow. “I didn’t sleep with Zach.” Not in the way she thinks, though I know this argument won’t get me anywhere.

  “I’ve done a bit of research on you,” she goes on. “Contacted people claiming to be ex-boyfriends and, well, one-night affairs. I’m on the trail of a possible sex tape.”

  I shut my eyes, my whole chest cavity feeling like it’s about to implode with dread. “I didn’t break up the band.”

  “We’ll see what the public has to say about that.”

  “You’re scapegoating me.”

  “Mmm. Perhaps. Or perhaps it’s time you grew up and came to understand a thing or two about accountability. When I showed what I’d found out about you to Zach, he was devastated. You lied to him. He’s a good man and you toyed with his heart and led him on.”

  “It wasn’t like that.”

  “Hurt me, and I can forgive you,” Mrs. Wechsler says. “Hurt one of my boys, and Hell hath no fury.” She gets to her feet. “Goodbye, and good luck.” She chuckles at that last one and leaves the room.

  Yeah, the pounding in my head is only the beginning of my headaches, I’m sure. I shut my eyes and try to ignore the fact that I’ve just riled up one of the most powerful people in the entertainment industry. I remember Zach’s claims about her skills with the media. I’m not just going to look bad. She’s going to obliterate any chance I might ever have to make a good impression on anyone. I’m going to be the slut who destroyed Triple Cross.

  The first hint I get of the media fallout is the nurses in the hall laughing and joking. French is close enough to Spanish that I get the gist. “The girl in that room is the whore,” is the translation I come up with. To their credit, whenever they come in to wait on me, they have their game faces on and treat me with impeccable courtesy. In fact, they’re a little too nice, as if even they have some idea of what I’ll be in for.

  My father shows up half the day later, and from his grim expression, I can see that the media blitz is in full swing. By this time, I’ve had some painkillers and can sit up. The reason I was given for why I’m still in the hospital, though, is because I have a mild concussion, and they’ve kept me here for observation to see if I have a brain injury. It’s plausible, but I suspect the real reason is that I’m safer here, away from paparazzi cameras.

  My father is in a plain t-shirt and jeans, a baseball cap on his head, a duffel bag over his shoulder. It’s clear he came straight here from his flight. I doubt he even stopped at a hotel first.

  “How bad is it?” I ask.

  He drops into the chair by the bed, takes my hand in his, and squeezes it. “I’ll say the same thing to you now that I said the first time I ever saw you.” He says this in Spanish. Our language. The one he once spoke over my cradle.

  “What’s that?” I ask.

  “Papa’s here, and he loves you always. I’ll take care of you, no matter what it takes.”

  “When was that?”

  He pats my wrist, above our clasped hands. “The day after you were born. Your mother wouldn’t let me in to see you and I wasn’t on your birth certificate. I had to go get an injunction from a court in order to see you.”

  “What?”

  “I guess I never did tell you that story. You had enough drama in your life that I didn’t see the need to pile it on, but when you were born, your mother wouldn’t let me see you, and she wouldn’t hold you or even look at you. Her mother was there to help a little, but I wasn’t able to get in to see you until I got an injunction. Took the better part of a day.”

  “Only one day?” That sounds fast to me for anything to do with the court system.

  “Well, in the neighborhood I was in at the time, a man wanting to claim his child is rare. It made an impression on the judge, who was himself an involved father of four. Judge Gonzalez, not that that’s a distinctive name in New Mexico.”

  “So, he helped you come get me?”

  “Yep. I didn’t sleep a wink the night before. I was thinking of you there all alone, without a parent to hold you. As soon as I had that injunction in hand, I was in the maternity ward.”

  “You rescued me.”

  “I did my duty, not that I thought of it that way. When I arrived at the hospital, there were babies crying and wailing, but there was this one voice, this one baby cry, that stabbed me through the heart. I knew at once it was you. The nurses had to chase me I was in the nursery so fast, but I picked you up and held you and told you, ‘Papa is here, and he loves you always. I’ll take care of you, no matter what it takes.’”

  “So you took me home?”

  “Not right then. I needed more help from the court for that, but I didn’t leave your side until I had the custody order. It was temporary at first, but I got it made permanent.”

  “I never knew that story.”

  My father shrugs. “That’s how you got the name Kyra. I put it on your birth certificate. Your mother hadn’t even filled out that part, but I wanted you to have some way to know you were mine, even if we got separated.” My father’s name, given to him by his Anglo mother, is Kyle. “Your mother’s parents wanted you, and in New Mexico, that’s who’d usually win a custody battle like that. I took my name and changed two letters and put that on your birth certificate along with my last name. And your mother’s, but you know, mine first.”

  Spanish tradition allows both last names to be passed down, but a lot of people who never knew their fathers don’t carry their names.

  “So that’s why I’m with you? It wasn’t because Mom dumped me on you.”

  “No. If she’d wanted to raise you, she’d have had a fight on her hands. You’re my little girl.” He smiles.

  “And now you might miss the birth of your other two kids because you’re here with
me.” All this time I’ve been thinking of myself, I forgot all about Jen and the twins. How awful am I? My father’s endured so much from me over the years, and here I am again, robbing him of another well deserved happy moment.

  “You needed me. I’ll never say no to that. Jen will be fine even if she does go into labor. It’s a very different situation from the last time around.”

  That’s an understatement. “Is there any way we can get home right now?” I ask.

  “I just need to get an all clear from the doctors to take you, but then yes. Let’s go home. And avoid all televisions, newspapers, magazines…” His voice trails off.

  “Yeah…”

  “So far Ben’s been doing all the talking. Zach hasn’t released a statement.”

  “He hasn’t?”

  “What is he likely to say? Or…well…you don’t have to tell me.”

  “If he tells the truth, nothing much. We kissed. We never slept together. I mean, we were only together less than a day.” If he wanted to talk to me, he would have by now. I take his silence to mean we are over.

  “All right. The only men worthy of you are ones who treasure you and fight for you. I keep trying to tell you this, but you never listen.” He waves his hand, as if dismissing an imaginary Zach Wechsler without a second glance.

  After everything I’ve done and all the mistakes I’ve made, here’s my toughest critic telling me I’m too good for one of the most sought-after men on the planet. And now I finally do get it. All the times he grounded me and scolded me and begged and pleaded with me, that really was what he was saying, in every way he knew how.

  Three days later, we’re in New Mexico, and the airwaves are still blowing up. My being a slut isn’t worthy of that kind of attention, but the end of Triple Cross totally is. And Aidan Greer is feeding the frenzy with clips and snippets of incriminating footage. The beast that is the media is more powerful and nasty than ever before. Court action to get my image supressed is powerless against videos going viral.

  Reporters surround our house, despite APD’s best efforts to get them away. Short of locking our property down with a SWAT team, there’s no way to prevent the media sneaking back once they’ve been evicted.

  Jason and Steve and Jen’s parents are supportive from a distance. Everyone’s in hunker-down mode, waiting for it to blow over. “Because it always does,” Jen assures and reassures me.

  But her due date is days away, and she is having twins. She’s already carried them longer than most women are able when they’re expecting two babies at once. Now is not the time to have the media hovering like buzzards over carrion.

  I make the decision on my own, and I don’t ask anyone, because I know what they’d say. In my room, with my headphones on, I Google myself, and I read and I watch and I listen.

  Kyra Armijo Had at Least Two Dozen Lovers

  Five New Ex-Boyfriends for Armijo Step Forward with More Intimate Details

  “Kyra and I Had Sex Four Times a Day”

  Armijo Likes It Dirty

  A Sex Tape of a Three-Way with Armijo?

  Ben is quoted everywhere, saying just what I expected—that I seduced his cousin and lied in a pathetic attempt to ingratiate myself with the band. He says that I propositioned him too and that I offered to do a vast catalogue of sex acts on him.

  Wonderful.

  I keep reading.

  I read about how I’m a manipulator and a whore. I read about how I supposedly slept with the whole varsity football team and every musical act that came through town. I read about how I’m to blame for the end of everyone’s favorite boy band and how I deserve to burn in hell.

  I stare into the maw of the beast. The force of human nature so powerful that even Chloe quailed before it. I stare at the consequences of all the stupid decisions I ever made growing up. I stare back into the eyes of Triple Cross fans who want to murder me in cold blood. I take in the pages and pages of search engine hits with my name on them. There are four pages of video links, and I watch every single one.

  I take in the fact that it is now me against the world. I am the girl everyone loves to hate, the person responsible for ending an era in the music industry.

  No one blames Aidan or Rick. No one even points out that Aidan was entrusted with the band’s reputation and used the opportunity to bring them down. No one even talks about him, even though he continues to supply the mob with video clips of me present while Zach and Ben fought and postured and pushed each other’s buttons.

  I stay online for hours until my father knocks on my door. “Jen’s going into labor,” he informs me. “So we’re headed to the hospital.”

  I look over my shoulder at his silhouette in my doorway. “You want me to stay away?” I ask. I have an image of hordes of reporters following me to a private family moment.

  “Absolutely not. We want you to be a part of this.” The way he says it, with that steely stance of his, lets me know that he and Jen are of one mind about this. Forget the stupid media with their agenda. Forget all the awfulness out there. Our family’s stronger than that.

  “You guys go ahead. I’ll distract the photographers.”

  “Kyra—”

  “Go, Papa. Your wife’s in labor.” I sidle past him and march down the hall. All right, media sharks, I think. Come take the bait. I get out my cell phone and throw open the front door to the crowd of photographers. Feigning surprise and shock, I look around as if out of places to hide. Let them think I’m having a traumatic conversation and am trapped, unable to get away from my house or the media. “Go away,” I cry, half hysterical. That I don’t have to fake. The images of all the nasty words that have been written about me are burned into my retinas. “Just go away, all right?” A tear runs down my cheek. My drama teacher would be so impressed.

  “Who’s on the phone?” a voice shouts.

  “Are you talking to Zach Wechsler?”

  The hot desert sun beats down, merciless as always. I put my hand up to shield my face and say into my phone, “Just…can we talk? Please?” I hope that it doesn’t ring and give away the fact that I’m faking this.

  To my right, the garage door rumbles open and my father’s truck reverses out. Jen sits hunched over in the passenger seat. The two of them wave at me as they zoom down the driveway into the street, and then are away.

  “Oh my gosh,” I say into my phone. “You’re naked right now? Send a picture. I wanna see.”

  But the game is up. The mass of cameras and microphone-wielding reporters turn and watch my father’s truck drive off, weaving past all the cars parked alongside the road.

  “You got a tattoo where?” I go on. “Down there? What’s it say? Oh, you’re going to tweet it? All right. No, not your secret pet name for me!”

  “Very funny,” says one of the reporters. He chuckles and a ripple of laughter moves through the crowd.

  I take my phone away from my ear and stand up straight. “Listen, that’s about as exciting as it’s gonna get around here.” I step back and slam the door, moving fast enough that not even the most obnoxious paps can try to brace it open and harass me.

  It’s a small victory, but I’ll take it. Boots, the cat, peers out from his cardboard box on the floor. Dare I believe that dismissive look he gives me has a measure of respect to it?

  The paparazzi all tail me to the hospital, of course. I drive around the city to three hospitals just to be annoying, but they end up at Presbyterian with me, trailing along like a convoy of baby ducks following the big, red mother duck, Libby. I hate them. I hate them all.

  The APD meets me at the entrance, though, and they form a wall of uniforms and muscle between me and the cameras. Wow, what a waste of their resources. My guilt edges up another notch.

  And once I’m inside the air-conditioned interior of the hospital, with its industria
l tile floors and tessellated foam tile ceiling, everyone stares, and I do mean everyone. Nurses in scrubs, patients in wheelchairs, families waiting with small children (some of whom point). So many times in high school I thought everyone was looking at me. Turns out I was wrong. It never felt anything like this. Every comforting thought I told myself about how not everyone reads the papers flees my mind. The world knows. Mothers are telling the story to their babies in cradles. I’m not just a bad media moment. I’m history.

  “Kyra Armijo?” says a woman in scrubs with her hair pulled back in a ponytail. “Here. Come on.” She gestures me to follow her and I do. Her shoes squeak against the floor while mine clop like horse hooves. I’m sure everyone’s eyeing the length of my skirt and the way I move my hips, which makes it hard for me to walk. I’m sure I look like a marionette whose puppeteer is having a coughing fit by the time I get all the way to our destination, which turns out to be a staff room where Jason waits, seated on a couch, his phone to his ear. Now we’re displacing the staff.

  I scoot into the room and deposit myself on the couch next to him. He waves absent-mindedly while he tells the person on the phone, “I can’t commit to that many episodes and the producers know it. Why’d they change the contract after they subbed it to you? Well, it’s stupid. I’m not gonna… Uh-huh…” He shuts his eyes and leans back. “Greeeaaat. That’s just fantastic.”

  At least he doesn’t stare at me like I’m walking around naked, prostituting myself. His iPad is balanced on his knee and I realize I forgot my phone at home. I’m clearly losing it. I reach over to snag it and he puts a hand on my arm. “Sec,” he says into the phone. Then he turns to me. “Google yourself and I will beat you senseless. We clear?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Cool.” He resumes his phone conversation while I swipe the iPad with no real plan for what I’m going to do with it.