It's All Your Fault

by Paul Rudnick

  If you don’t know what a dingleberry is I’m not going to tell you because it’s too gross and involves an especially unpleasant and moist area of the body. If you really want to know then just look around and pick out the most immature person you see, who might be a teenage boy who’s wearing his baseball cap backward and who smells like one of those body sprays that certain teenage boys use all over themselves instead of taking a bath. If you see or smell one of these boys, just ask him what a dingleberry is and after he finally stops snorting with teenage-boy laughter he’ll be more than happy to fill you in.

  “I will give you exactly one second to take that back,” Heller told the blazer guy. On one hand I knew that I should try to jump up and get in between Heller and the guy, because I was supposed to be keeping Heller from getting into trouble. On the other hand, right that second I was shocked and, I’ll admit it, secretly thrilled because Heller had remembered just how much I hated the word “dingleberry.”

  “Take back what?” asked the guy. “That your buddy is a first-class a-hole dingleberry? Of course she is. Look at her fuckin’ kneesocks.”

  Billy stood up and took a swing at the guy, but the blazer guy was fast and well built and he landed a punch right in Billy’s stomach and Billy crumpled.

  “You hit Myke!” said the girlfriend, who sounded very excited by this. “You took him down!”

  As the guy started to pump his fists over his head in a victory dance, Heller punched him right in the face and he fell backward onto his girlfriend, who started screaming because he’d broken one of her nails.

  “I’m gonna kill you, you Hollywood bimbo!” the guy yelled as he stood back up, which was when I had an idea.

  “Everybody!” I said to the whole diner. “This guy and his girlfriend! They work for the Darkling Creeper and they’re trying to hurt Lynnea!”

  Everyone in the diner jumped out of their seats and began piling on top of the guy in the blazer while his girlfriend shrieked, “No we don’t! We’re Angel people! And she’s not Lynnea! She’s too fat!”

  I heard police sirens, and Wyatt grabbed Heller and me and dragged us out of the diner to where April was waiting with the van.

  “Excellent move!” Wyatt told me, and he sounded grateful as April started driving us away from the diner very fast.

  “Heller?” I said, because I was still having trouble believing that Heller had defended me.

  “I had to do something,” Heller said. “He called you a dingleberry. Which you are, because you sure have been hanging around my ass, but that guy was being a total dick.”

  I was torn between wanting to yell at Heller for using that many disgusting words in a single sentence and wanting to thank her for hitting that guy. I couldn’t believe Heller’s life: Everywhere she went, total strangers either wanted to grab her, as if Heller’s stardom might rub off on them, or insult her and punch her because she was a star and they weren’t. For the first time I started to understand why she might need to drink and take drugs. I still hated her, but a tiny little part of me wanted to hug her. I’d also noticed that Heller had stopped calling me K-Bop.

  “Heller?” I asked. “Are you okay?”

  Just then my phone went off and it was my mom and I’d never heard her so upset, maybe not since that terrible day four years ago.

  “Caitlin,” my mom said, “there are pictures of you and Heller all over the Internet! It looks like you’ve been involved in a terrible backroom riot, with brawling and bad language and men in plaid flannel shirts! What in the good Lord’s name are you doing?”

  As I started to try and explain to my mom about what had happened at the diner, Wyatt snatched the phone out of my hand. “Carol?” he said. “Caitlin and Heller are doing just fine. They were minding their own business at a quiet little out-of-the-way bistro when they were attacked, out of the blue, by a deranged fan. Our girls both behaved impeccably and everyone is on their way home safe and sound. Yes … yes … oh, completely …”

  My mom’s voice rose higher and higher and Wyatt held the phone a few inches away from his ear. I could hear the words “violence,” “underage,” “thoughts and prayers,” and “teenage Armageddon.” Finally Wyatt put the phone back to his ear and said, “Carol, you are absolutely right and this sort of thing is directly related to both those shows on cable television that feature vampire incest and to the crisis in the Middle East. I will make absolutely sure that our girls never get anywhere remotely near another situation like this, if I have to lock them in those cages people use to carry their pets onto airplanes … Of course I’m kidding … Yes, I know they don’t make large enough cages … Yes, it is sad … As for those photos you’re seeing online, I’m sure they’ve been Photoshopped beyond belief, because Heller would never deliberately punch anyone in the face and Caitlin would never jump on anyone’s back … Yes, I know for a fact that Caitlin has at least two extra pairs of kneesocks with her at all times, because you never know when, um, when you’re going to run out of kneesocks … Of course I will … Bless you … bless us all … Godspeed … amen … hallelujah … She’ll call you first thing in the morning … You too.”

  “This is so cool,” said Heller, showing me a series of photos on her phone. I tried to look away but I kept peeking at the shots of me from the diner, including pictures where I looked like a drill sergeant barking orders and other shots where I was just staring at Billy and playing with my hair. Then came a picture of Heller punching that guy, which made me feel very strange because in the picture it almost looked like Heller and I were on the same team.

  “You’re famous,” said Heller, and I wasn’t sure if she was mocking me or complimenting me.

  “I don’t need to be famous!”

  “Bullshit,” said Heller. “You just need to learn the rules. See how you look almost decent in this shot? That’s because it’s your right side. Everyone’s face has a good side and a bad side, you have to figure it out. In this other picture, from the left, your jaw is too long so you look like a pterodactyl having a bad hair day.”

  “I do not look like a pterodactyl!”

  “But from the right side you’re almost hot. For Parsippany.”

  “I don’t need to be hot! I don’t want to be hot!”

  “I’m trying to help you.”

  Heller was looking right at me and the weird thing was—she wasn’t making fun of me. It was as if, while we spoke completely different languages, she was trying to communicate.

  “If you’re going to be photographed everywhere you go, hot is better. When I started doing Anna Banana it took me almost a year to figure out my best angles, but now whenever I see anyone holding a phone or a camera or even an ice-cream cone that might be a hidden camera, I put my chin down, I keep my eyes up, and I give them three-quarters from the left. Look at the pictures of any star and you’ll see, they always pick one angle and stick to it. If anyone tries to grab a picture of your bad side, just cover that side with your hand or throw your coat over your head.”

  Heller scrolled through a batch of photos from different premieres and awards shows, and she was always photographed at a three-quarter angle from the left and she always looked fantastic. She held up another photo and while she looked a little dazed in it, she also looked stunningly beautiful. “What is that?” I asked. “Is that from a modeling shoot for a magazine cover? Who took that picture?”

  “It was my first mug shot,” said Heller happily, “from two years ago, for possession. I ended up doing thirty hours of community service and wearing an orange vest and picking up garbage along a highway. But look at that picture—worth it!”

  I woke up the next morning at my usual time, which is 6:15 A.M. I always give myself fifteen minutes to become fully conscious so I won’t accidentally do or say anything I don’t intend to. Back home I always like to be the first person up because I like the quiet and, if I’m being honest, I also like being the most alert, ready-to-go, responsible person in the house. I love watching everyone else st
umbling into the kitchen all bleary-eyed while I’ve already set the table and I’m wearing an apron and holding a pitcher of milk and a pitcher of orange juice. While my parents are always incredibly grateful that I’m so on top of things, one morning my mom stared at me and said, “Stop it, Caitlin. Go back to bed.”

  Later my mom apologized and told me that in a big family each person likes to carve out their own identity, the way Caleb is a terrific athlete and Carl, who’s twelve, is already painting amazing portraits. “And Caitlin,” my mom said, “I think you like to be Can-Do Caitlin, who always does her homework and chores without being reminded to and who the rest of us can rely on for just about anything. It’s wonderful that you’re so good with schedules and mowing the lawn and keeping track of all of our vitamins, but sometimes I worry that you’ll drive yourself crazy. Or that you think we won’t love you if everything isn’t perfect.”

  “Which is just Mom’s nice way of saying that you’re really bossy,” said Callum, who’d been eavesdropping.

  “Mom, what’s Callum’s role in our family?” I asked.

  “He’s a medical experiment,” my mom explained. “Your father made him out of old newspapers and a broken toaster.”

  “HE DID NOT!” Callum yelled as my mom and I started laughing.

  When I left the guest bedroom at Heller’s loft at 6:30 A.M., I was showered and dressed and I fully expected to be the only person on the move. I was surprised because three of Heller’s assistants were standing by the front door, sipping coffee and standing beside a rack of garment bags and a pyramid of carefully labeled plastic boxes. Wyatt was on his phone in the kitchen and while all sorts of other people were running around, everyone was silent. Wyatt put his phone against his chest and whispered to me, “You do it. Wake the beast.”

  I nodded briskly and headed into Heller’s bedroom, which was so strewn with opened luggage and mounds of clothing that at first I couldn’t find the bed. I heard moaning from beneath a pile of mismatched bedding. After last night I was more determined than ever, not just to save Heller but to prove to her that there was another way to live, a healthier and happier and more God-fearing way.

  My way.

  “Good mornin’!” I said in my best up-and-at-’em voice. “Big day ahead! Best get a move on, missy!”

  The bedding still wasn’t moving so I sat down beside it and asked, “Who’s ready for the most wonderful, big bright sunshiny morning? Because she gets to tell the whole gosh darn world all about that amazing new Angel Wars movie?”

  Very slowly, Heller’s head appeared, with her hair spiking in every direction and her eyes still sealed shut. “Am I having a drug reaction?” she mumbled. “How much did I do?”

  “No siree bob!” I said. “You are going to have the best day of your entire lucky ol’ life! Do you know why? Because from now on, every day is going to be the best day of your lucky ol’ life!”

  “Did I vomit?” Heller asked, still without opening her eyes. “Did the vomit turn into a person?”

  “Heller, yesterday we may have gotten off on the wrong foot. I know we’re not friends, and we don’t have to like each other, but we do have to work together—on you.”

  Heller opened her eyes and smiled warmly, which terrified me. “I understand why you’re here,” she said. “I get that you’re trying to help. I think it’s great that you’re so shiny and peppy and inspiring even right now in the middle of the night. I’m just going to ask you to do one thing for me, one eensy-weensy tiny little favor, if you can.”

  I couldn’t believe my ears. My efforts were paying off. I was getting a peek at a brand-new Heller Harrigan. Good for me!

  “Just name it! Can I grab you a glass of fresh-squeezed OJ or maybe a nice bowl of flax flakes with skim milk and sliced strawberries for additional fiber, or should I go turn on the shower so you can scrub yourself all squeaky-clean-tastic?”

  “No, you don’t need to do any of that, although you’re very kind.”

  I was even more encouraged by Heller’s use of decent language. Was it possible? Were my own personal goodness and decency contagious? Was Heller about to thank me and admire me and apologize for every disgusting and vicious thing she’d ever done, especially to me? I put my hands on my hips, bursting with pride.

  “What would you like me to do for you? How can I be of service on this brand-spankin’-new rarin’-to-go Manhattan morn?”

  “K-Bop? Catey? Singlesweetness?”

  “Yes, ma’am?”

  “I need you to go fuck yourself.”

  * * *

  All righty then—if this was how Heller was going to keep behaving, I was going to prove that I was every bit as tough as her. Even while she whined and screamed and called me names involving sex acts with family members, I dragged her out of bed and an assistant brought her some sort of fancy coffee with lots of foam on top and even though Heller was still in her pajamas, Wyatt wrapped her in a long gray cardigan and knelt down and slid her feet into a pair of ratty Anna Banana slippers, which were shaped like grimy, furry yellow bananas, and everyone carried Heller to the elevator and into April’s van and we drove over to the hotel where the morning’s press junket was being held.

  “Is she always like this?” I asked Wyatt on our way over.

  “It’s not so much that she’s not a morning person,” said Wyatt, “it’s that she’s not a late afternoon or even an early evening person. When she’s working it’s a different story, because no matter what kind of shape she’s in, Heller is always prepared and she’s on time and she knows her lines. She’s a professional. But on her days off she’s kind of in a coma.”

  “Sometimes we just put her in the trunk of one of the cars,” added April.

  “Oh dear Lord!” I said.

  “No,” said April, “you don’t understand. Getting into the trunk was Heller’s idea. She says it’s peaceful and no one can find her. Although she can still text us her coffee order.”

  * * *

  The hotel was a gigantic modern palace in Midtown and the police had blocked off traffic for three blocks around to accommodate the mobs of Angel Warriors. From their sleeping bags and pillows I could tell that many of these fans had spent the night camping out on the sidewalk to make sure they could grab a front-row view of whoever was entering or leaving the hotel. We took the elevator up sixty-three floors to a penthouse suite, where we only stayed for a few seconds before Wyatt announced, “Heller’s got a wake-up yoga session. It’s part of her rehab. Caitlin, have you ever done yoga?”

  I’d heard of yoga but my family was bigger on group runs and jumping jacks and volleyball games as our program for staying healthy and fit.

  “I’ve never done yoga,” I told Wyatt. “Is it sort of like the Yiddish thing?”

  “No,” said Wyatt. “But just wait until you get to the more advanced poses. The greatest yogis, the spiritual masters, can pass a clean linen cloth into their noses, down through their intestines and then out their mouths and the cloth stays spotless. They also advocate drinking your own urine so no bodily fluid goes to waste.”

  “Oy vey iz mir,” I said.

  The hotel gym had been roped off for the use of Heller and other Angel Wars staff members. When we walked into the high, mirrored space with rubber mats on the floor, Mills Stanwood and Billy Connors were already there, both sitting cross-legged.

  “Hey, Catey,” said Mills.

  “So great to see you,” said Billy. “I’m sorry about last night with all the fighting.”

  “I wish I’d been there,” said Mills. “Maybe I could’ve protected you.”

  “Or maybe you would’ve gotten punched,” Billy told Mills.

  “Whoa, bro!” said Mills, punching Billy on the shoulder, and then Billy tousled Mills’s hair because Mills really liked his hair and had spent plenty of time styling it so it would look as if he’d never touched it. They reminded me of my brothers, when they’d start swatting each other around the dinner table until my mom had to order them t
o sit perfectly still with their hands on their heads, a sight that my sisters and I loved.

  Mills was wearing a washed-out Angel Wars T-shirt with some holes in it so I had little glimpses of his tan skin. He was also wearing baggy sweatpants but they were baggy in a way that made me wonder if he was wearing underwear, which made me so embarrassed that I turned to look at Billy, who was wearing one of those old-fashioned undershirts without sleeves, which showed off his nice shoulders and arms, and he was wearing sweatpants that he’d hacked off into shorts and because I didn’t want to check on his underwear situation I just kept blushing and turned to Heller, who was lying flat on her back on a mat beside me with her eyes shut.

  “Are you checking out the dudes?” Heller said. “Because they both got into incredible shape for the movie.”

  “Well, I did,” said Mills.

  “That was almost a year ago,” said Billy. “Now Mills is cross-training for the role of a guy who only eats ice cream and plays video games.”

  Mills and Billy started swatting each other again and Heller, still on her back, said, “Guys! I’m trying to sleep! Why don’t you just do rock-paper-scissors to see which one of you gets to have bad morning sex with Catey?”

  “HELLER!” said Mills, Billy and me all at the same time, and I didn’t know where to look but luckily our instructor walked into the room carrying her own personal rolled-up yoga mat in a special sling over her shoulder, and the sling also had a strap to hold a bottle of water. She was in really good shape but there was something strange about her. She had long, straggly hair pulled up with a rubber band on top of her head and while she was skinny, her skin was sallow and her eyes bulged.