“She does have a reputation for being a little bit of a cold fish.”
“And why would Jason Vanderholt marry a cold fish? Obviously there’s more to her. But people don’t see it and that’s the way the world is, and that’s why it’s hard sometimes to be yourself. I know this fear, but I also know now that it’s worth it. Not that being true to yourself always gets you a proposal from Jason Vanderholt or anything—”
“Or a date with Zach Wechsler,” Kimberly adds. “Is your point that having standards enabled you to date someone like Zach?”
I examine that question from every paranoid angle I can and decide it’s a softball. “Yeah, it let me believe that I could talk to Zach Wechsler, that if he laughed at me I could think less of him for it rather than less of myself. I didn’t think it’d lead to dating, but…yeah, it opened up the opportunity.”
“And what if he’d known about your past?” Not a softball question.
But I’m ready. “I don’t know. I never gave him the chance to decide, but I wasn’t trying to hide it. I mean, Zach Wechsler sending me text messages wasn’t enough to make me think he was smitten with me or anything.”
“Text messages?”
“Yeah. We’d text.”
“How often?”
“Oh…uh…I’m gonna look clueless here, aren’t I?”
“Yes, sweetie, you just might.”
But we’re both laughing now. “Okay, so I didn’t figure out how that all works in high school. It was my first real relationship in some ways, and I’ll always treasure it. I’m just sorry for how it ended.”
“Have you had the chance to tell him that?”
“I haven’t, no.”
“So maybe he’ll hear you say it here.”
“I hope so. I really do.”
Kimberly sits back. Now it’s her turn to pause and think. She’s back in control of the interview, and I hope for the best. “Okay,” she says, “so we’re going to imagine the whole audience out there is young girls who feel like the world hates them. Whether they’ve slept around or they have a parent who puts them down or they didn’t get the grades they wanted, whatever. What do you want to say to them?”
Talk about being given a soapbox. I take a moment to consider that, because I can. Because I’m not in enemy territory now. We’re two women talking about an issue that means something to us.
“That it’s never too late. You can always wake up tomorrow and decide to be someone else. If the rest of the world doesn’t get on board? Ignore them.”
“That’s tough to do,” says Kimberly. “I mean, I’ve been allowed to broadcast my opinion and cultivate my own image for decades, and it’s still hard some days to say, ‘This is who I am,’ and ignore people who want to say differently.”
Motion catches the corner of my eye. I don’t look, but all the same I see Jason’s publicist is pumping his fist in the air. I did it.
Tonight, at least. Tomorrow I’ll be back to getting out of bed, asserting my own identity, and probably having to ignore what the rest of the world has to say about it.
But tonight, I did everything I came here to do. I seal the deal when Kimberly asks me, “Are you still the girl who feels worthless because of what people say about you?”
“No,” I say. “I am not. Not anymore. Never again. People can say what they want. I’m just gonna live my life.”
Even Kimberly smiles at that one.
I just wonder if Zach is watching.
When I get backstage, I’m not terribly surprised to find my father waiting for me in the green room. It’s just his style to stay out of sight so I wouldn’t be nervous about him watching, but to be there to catch me the moment I fall. He’s grinning from ear to ear, and as I make my way over to hug him, various crew members give me thumbs ups and high-fives and shouts of, “Well done!”
Kimberly comes back, her cell phone pressed to her ear. “I want at least ten minutes. More if possible. I want to do a post interview piece and I want to get an idea of how it played tonight. Uh-huh. Uh-huh.” She puts her phone to her chest. “You interested in being on—”
“No.” I cut her off. “This was it. I go back to being just Kyra now.”
“No,” she repeats into the phone. “She’s done with interviews. Yeah, you do that.” She hangs up and turns to me. “You weren’t what I expected at all.”
I shrug, not sure how to take that. To smile would be to assume she means it in a good way, and that would probably look conceited. So I agonize about how to look grateful but not presumptuous.
She puts me out of my misery with a pat of her bony hand on my forearm. “You ever want a career in journalism or publicity, you call me, all right?”
“Oh…um…thank you.”
“That your planned career?”
“I really don’t know. I’m going to Chapman University.”
“Great school.”
“And I’m undecided still. I’ll see what I like.”
“Good plan. This your father?” She turns to shake my father’s hand.
“Yeah,” I say.
“She won’t let me beat the paparazzi with a baseball bat like I want to,” he says.
“I hear that. I think she’s got the situation under control, though.”
As nice as it would be to bask in the praise, I let it slide over me. Tonight everyone’s on a high. Tomorrow is another day.
The media fallout is divided between people who say I am amazing, people who think Kimberly Gregg fell down on the job, and people who think it’s all more media trickery and spin and BS. Offers flood in—for me to be a columnist, for me to give more interviews, for me to audition to be a spokesperson for a women’s weight loss company. (Yeah, I thought that one was weird too.)
With the help of Jason, Dave, and Jason’s publicist, I craft careful answers. “Thank you for the ego boost, but right now I just want to go to college and get on with my life,” is my message. Jason’s publicist explains to me that his usual advice is to capitalize on any publicity. Extend your influence.
But my aim isn’t to succeed in showbiz or further my career. I don’t even have a career yet. My aim was to make a point, and we all agree that talking too much is far worse than not talking at all. I’ve said my piece, and now it’s time for society to chew it over and figure out what they think. Meanwhile, I’m stepping out of the spotlight and walking away.
It’s clear I’ll have to do a lot of walking before the spotlight stops following me, though. I get fan mail from girls who say that I changed their lives. I get death threats. I get my face splashed all over the tabloids and the glossy magazines. I have no trouble seeing how people get lost in all the popping flashbulbs and outcry from fans.
I have the best support system a girl could ask for, and I let them take over. Jason helps me answer my fan mail and advises me on how often to be seen out in public. We discuss whether I should move to California early to take the media spotlight away from Jen and the babies. While I want to spare them, I don’t want to be so far from my parents just now, and they indulge me. They are letting me be the clingy little girl for a few weeks longer before I leave for college. It helps that Jen’s been the twin sister of one of the most famous people on the planet for eons. None of this seems to faze her.
The paparazzi follow me way more than makes sense. The tabloids fill up with pictures of me getting in and out of Libby, pushing a grocery cart around, talking on my cell phone, and getting the mail. Even I look at the pictures and think that I must be really boring. I know what the game is, though. It’s to put pressure on until I crack and do something stupid.
It turns out I have people willing to fight back on my behalf, too. Feminist columnists take up my cause. Schoolgirls across the country make themselves “Team Kyra” t-shirts and wear them with pride. Vio
let Eyes and Shutdown shout their support of me from their concert stages and are answered by the screaming enthusiasm of fans.
Notes from girls pile up around our mailbox, left in the night by fans who want me to know that I made a difference to them.
When I get home from the store about a week before I’m due to head out to school, I find may parents waiting for me at the dinner table.
“Sit down,” says Jen. She doesn’t seem angry, but she isn’t happy either. Her expression is pensive. My father’s posture indicates that he is following her lead.
I sit down at the table and brace myself. “Yeah?”
“We got a phone call today from Lizzie Warner.”
“Huh?” I say. Lizzie Warner is a blond and perky actress in silly teeny bopper television. I can’t imagine what she’d want with me.
“She’s about to start shooting on a television series in Orange County…and she’s looking for a roommate.”
“Okay,” I respond.
“You interested?” asks Jen.
“Is she serious?”
“She doesn’t want another actress, but she needs someone who knows how to handle fame by association. The last girl lined up as her roommate got caught accepting interview requests.”
I nod. My life has come full circle since the beginning of the summer when I got invited to dinner with Triple Cross. I’m still an insider. Someone who knows how celebrity works and won’t take liberties. Even this massive media blow up hasn’t changed that apparently. “She’s sure she wants to take me on?” I ask. “If she wants to avoid the press…”
“Kyra,” says Jen. “People like you. A lot. You’re going to have to get used to it.”
“She doesn’t even know me,” I say.
At that Jen frowns, shrugs, and says, “You can be very, very famous and still not have any real friends to turn to. Even celebrities get celebrity crushes, watching someone kill it in an interview, for example.”
So that’s how I ended up renting a penthouse apartment with Lizzie Warner, because my life is completely weird sometimes. Lizzie’s shows aren’t the kind of thing I’ve watched since I was seven. Given my reputation in high school, I know my old friends would laugh their heads off if they knew I was her roommate.
Only most of them ratted me out to the media, so they aren’t my friends anymore. I guess that makes Lizzie my new normal, not a deviation. Maybe I can get used to hanging around girls with rose petal complexions and dainty giggles.
That following week, I go with my parents to Target and Walmart to buy furnishings for my new place. Thanks to the ever-present paparazzi cameras, all of America knows what pattern of sheets I’ll be sleeping on and what color plastic cups I’ll drink out of. Bloggers even post opinions about whether or not the whole shopping trip was a ruse because, obviously, famous people like Lizzie Warner get pre-furnished penthouses, right?
Oh yeah, one other thing—the whole world knows where Lizzie Warner’s going to be living, complete with pictures of the exterior, thanks to me and my notoriety. And yet I’ve not heard a peep from Lizzie’s people. She hasn’t called the arrangement off. She’s even called my cell phone a few times so we could “chat,” and she’s nice enough, I guess. I find I can get along with just about anyone these days, even the reporters who flip me off and hope that I’ll get mad and go after them. I mimed picking my nose once in response, and that got splashed on three tabloid front pages, so now I just smile and act like the attention doesn’t bother me.
I keep thinking it’ll have to end soon. Aidan and company are still going to release that concert movie, and my notoriety is still helping them. The last video they posted with me on it got so many comments it crashed the page. I had haters and white knights (people who defend others online) get into a massive flame war. Ben Roland even commented, but I don’t know what he said. I purposely didn’t find out once I got word he’d posted. I’m pretty good at shutting my eyes and ears these days.
People assume that I left Kimberly Gregg’s interview victorious, gained a lot of allies, and am now basking in my own glory. The truth is a lot lonelier. I hope that what I said made a difference to others. To be honest, it made very little difference to me.
Zach has been so silent that people have started rumors online that he’s dead. It’s as if he dropped off the face of the earth, and I realize I may never know what becomes of him. I’ve got no way to reach him, and we might never cross paths again. He could hole up until his fame disappears and then get on with his life as just another guy. Even the biggest stars fade if they let themselves.
That hurts—to think that our last fight is the last memory I’ll ever have of him. I still miss him. Some nights I dream that he lies next to me and I can almost feel his weight on my bed, his arms around me.
I wonder if he saw any of this crazy publicity fallout and whether he hates me for what I did. Nobody else can blame me for the breakup of Triple Cross, but Zach could if he wanted to. He could yell at me and call me names. I owe it to him to let him feel however he wants.
The thought of him brings a pang to my chest like flesh ripping. I don’t know if it’s love, but it sure is intense. I still cry over him sometimes when only Boots can see. Things would have been so much better for me if I’d never met the guy I’d lusted for all through my teenage years.
I’m not sure if I decide to get a tattoo as an act of rebellion or grief or what, but it seems only fitting that a girl with a past like mine should have a tattoo. I don’t tell anyone—not Jen, not my father, not even Boots. I just take a few hundred dollars of textbook and food money out of my bank account and walk into a tattoo parlor, where my notoriety works to my benefit. The artist, a woman, knows me on sight. She sits me down and asks me what part of myself I want to keep with me always. An odd question. It takes me a long time to think about it.
“My heritage,” I say, finally.
“Which is?”
“A little bit Spanish, Hispanic, whatever, and a little bit Anglo. All New Mexican.”
“How about a desert rose?” she suggests.
“Um, sure.”
“It’s just that when the environment got really hostile, you bloomed. It fits.”
It’s flattering at least.
She sketches out a drawing of a silver medallion and feathers and desert roses and I agree that it’s what I want. We ink it on the inside of my bicep, where I can see it with a simple glance down, but it’ll be easy to hide from the world. The needle hurts something awful, a deep scratch that goes on and on and on as she inks in every little line and dot. Once she’s finished, she refuses payment. “Just stay true to yourself,” she says, and she then escorts me out the door before I can protest. “Treat it with Neosporin and keep it covered for a week with a bandage.”
Like a typical teenager, I hide the body art from my parents, and a week later, it’s time to move to California and be an adult, which is a tall order after I botched up so much of my childhood, but I figure that if I can’t do it, I can at least fake it. My father and I load up Libby and drive to Orange County. My car and my roommate have similar names. I hope Lizzie doesn’t mind.
She greets me with a squeal and a hug that are pretty much what I’d expect from what I’ve seen of her on her shows. She turns out to be sweet as sugar and doesn’t care about the paparazzi tailing me around. In fact, I think she enjoys pictures of us together in the gossip rags. Kyra Armijo, the reformed slut, now hangs out with Lizzie Warner, and it’s not an act.
I do appreciate Lizzie’s sense of humor about all of this. It’s pretty similar to my own.
About two weeks into my studies, I arrive back home after a day’s classes, and there, seated in front of the door to my apartment, is Zach.
I freeze at the sight of him, and he gets to his feet, his hands shoved into his pockets. He doesn’t look me in t
he eye, but rather down at his shoes. He wears the same uber-clean jeans and t-shirt as always.
My heart pounds hard enough that I’m sure he can hear it. How could he not? The blood rushing in my ears is almost a roar. “Zach?” I say. It comes out as a strangled whisper.
“Hi.” He still doesn’t look at me.
It occurs to me: What if Zach’s here to visit Lizzie? I think I’d die right on the spot. “You here to see me?” I ask.
He nods.
Okay. I decide to assume that he’s here to yell, which is fine. Anything is better than the agony of not knowing where he is or what he thinks. I pull my keys out of my purse with a jangle. “You want to come in?”
He chews his lip and lifts his gaze to meet mine. I don’t know how to read him. He seems as nervous as I am, but that tells me very little. “Yeah,” he whispers. “Okay.”
I unlock the door with shaking hands and let him enter first. My new home, despite being a two-bedroom penthouse, isn’t all that huge. It’s just got great views and is in a building with tight security. The front door opens into a living room, and I invite Zach to take a seat on the couch, which he does.
I sit down in the chair and clasp my hands between my knees. I resolve to be ready for anything. Anything at all.
Zach is silent. He stares down at his feet.
Okay, I think. He wants me to talk first. That’s not a lot to ask. “Listen,” I say. “I’m sorry about—”
“I know.”
“Really. I am.”
He nods, glances at me, and looks away. “Yeah. I know.”
“How are you?” I ask.
“Um…yeah… I’m… I don’t know.”
It’s not much of an answer, but I’ll sit here all afternoon just to breathe the same air he does if he’ll let me.
He fidgets before forcing his fingers to unclench. Those steel blue eyes lock with mine again. The intensity is still there. My insides quake under the force of that gaze, but his posture is despondent.
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