Fan Girl (Los Rancheros)

by Brandace Morrow

  She looks at me in confusion. “Ali, you’ve been the same size for years. That’s never made a difference to me and it shouldn’t to you. Who cares?”

  “Who cares?! I care! That video is disgusting! That girl on the stage that Deklan can’t even get his arms around? She is disgusting. No wonder I’ve never had a date, and never been to prom or homecoming. I’m disgusting!”

  Stacie straightens her shoulders. “You stop it right now, Alaina Dawson Pierce! You will not talk about yourself like that! You’ve never even wanted to put up with boys or go to prom because it was what your parents wanted. And you are going to New York if I have to drag you on the plane.”

  “Stacie, you would have to roll me, not drag me,” I tell her in despair as tears roll down my face.

  Her face gets soft. “You’re exaggerating, but if you feel that way, then why not think of going to New York as a chance to start over. A whole new you. We’ll go to a gym, give you a makeover, whatever you want to do.” I plop back on the bed and notice for the first time how much the bed dips and put a pillow over my head and cry.

  ~

  So, I chickened out. I let my parents send in the tuition to Stanford and make the dorm arrangements, never telling them my grandparents had paid for my tuition for NYU from the trust. I wait anxiously in my room for my grandparent show up, and get me the hell out of here. I didn’t want to take anything that they bought, including my car, to the airport in case they went crazy and accused me of stealing.

  Watching out the window, I mutter, “Finally,” when I see a little Hyundai rental pull into the driveway. Grabbing my suitcases of mostly concert t-shirts, I drag them down the stairs making a racket as they hit each step. The doorbell rings.

  “What is that noise? And who is at the door? Alaina?” Mother calls as she click clacks her way from the kitchen. I have no idea what she does in there. Certainly not cooking.

  “I’ll get the door, mother!” I yell, trying to get there before she does.

  “Stop that incessant thudding,” she says as she pastes on a smile, swinging the door open. Bang! I make the last step down onto the hardwood floor and pause to catch my breath. Damn overweight cow! Why didn’t I notice how out of shape I was? Probably because I’ve never been IN shape.

  “I’m ready,” I say breathlessly, but my mom hasn’t stepped out of the doorway to let in the people on the other side. “Mom, it’s been… Well. Anyway, I need to be going.”

  Mother turns to me wide-eyed, her blonde coif never moving as she looks between her in-laws and her daughter. “You know these people?” she asks me incredulously. I nod briskly, trying to make things as quick as possible.

  “Victoria Pierce, meet Bernie and Estelle Dawson. Your husband’s parents. If you will excuse me…”

  “You are not going anywhere with these… these vagabonds Alaina! They could kidnap you and hold you for ransom for all we know. I cannot imagine how you’ve been in their acquaintance.”

  I wave that off as my brow starts to sweat. “Oh, they sent me a letter asking to meet me. I agreed, and they told me about my trust fund and a really cool tattoo artist named Reed. We’re going to see him now. Gotta go.” I know I’m being a bitch, but I’m almost free. Turns out I shouldn’t have said the last part.

  As I edge past my mother’s skeletal frame, she reaches her talons out and snags me by the arm. My hand drops the suitcase handle I’m holding to try to save my appendages from amputation. Her nails squeeze harder, and I feel my skin break. I struggle and turn my head as I see movement from the corner of my eye. My grandmother steps through the door as I struggle silently, in shock that this is the way things are going down.

  “You do not touch this child, Victoria!” Grandma yells and pushes her to the side, knocking her into the foyer table. I look down and see tiny rivulets of blood snaking down my arm.

  “Come now,” Granddad orders me firmly from outside of the house. I blink hard and turn to grab my suitcase and see my father striding down the hall in his perfect clothes with his perfect hair.

  He calmly takes in the scene, before putting his hands in the pockets of his slacks looking confident. “You walk out of this house, Alaina, and you will never be let back in. You will never get a penny from us. We have opened doors for you, in your college education, your future. Do you think you just made it into Stanford with your grades alone? Our name and money have acquired your future. Don’t be more foolish than you already are.”

  I stare at this man, whom I don’t know. But he doesn’t know me either. He throws insults and money, hasn’t seen his parents in how long, and doesn’t even acknowledge they’re in the room. My mother cowers against the side table like I’m an ogre ready to stomp her. I hate them both.

  Swallowing hard I tell them, “Your money may have gotten me into Stanford, but I got into NYU on my own, and paid for it with money from people that love me. They don’t judge me and want the best for me. I never want to see you again.” I’m done.

  Chapter 4

  When I get off of the plane in New York, my mind is forever changed. Stacie and I put our bags in the apartment we rented together and go straight to the gym by our apartment. It’s a kickboxing, martial arts place. I swallow my shame and request a personal trainer, who almost kills me. He kicks my ass. The day after my first workout I couldn’t get out of bed. That day I also forced myself to go back.

  We stock up on fruits and veggies, and that’s all I eat for three months. Raw carrots, apples, everything. I take them with me wherever I go. I ignore the temptations of street vendors and force myself to look in the reflection in the windows of shops instead. No hot dogs for me.

  Rolling Bridges has a concert in Madison Square Garden, and I go but don’t sit in my usual seat. I request that it be over on the side of the stage, on the incline, and swap my tickets out to some ecstatic mother and daughter. I lose myself in the music, shaking off my parents for the last time and fill myself with the energy I need to succeed in my goals.

  Two weeks before school starts, I call Reed Evans and ask for a meeting with him. He tells me to bring some of my work, so I quickly throw together a portfolio of my drawings. We meet at his shop which is bustling, people everywhere. I count six stations and additional people in the waiting room. He leads me to a back office that’s as big as a closet and shuts the door.

  He’s probably sixty years old, and looks exactly like Saint Nick. He’s wearing a flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and I can see tattoos all over his arms. His hair is white, and he has a full beard. He is, quite literally, Santa.

  He sits behind his desk and pulls open my hastily made portfolio. I clear my throat. “My grandparents suggested you would be a good fit for me if I was interested in pursuing this.”

  He looks over his bifocal glasses at me. “You know I have a waiting list to get in here, right? Why didn’t you try to get on the list sooner?”

  “I hadn’t had any art classes. I wanted to make sure I could actually draw before I committed to something. I’ve since had two years of art classes, and know I have some talent, but can get better.”

  He leans back in his chair and studies my face. “What’s your major?”

  “I want to get an MBA and minor in Art. That way I can open my own shop one day and know what to do with it.”

  I’m proud of this. I thought long and hard about where I wanted to go and what I wanted to do when I got there. Turns out, art came pretty easily to me. My grandparent’s encouragement gave me the courage I needed to follow this dream.

  He raises his eyebrows. “Ambitious of you, when you’ve never even held a gun before. Who did you say your grandparents were?”

  I clear my throat again. “Estelle and Bernie Dawson.”

  He lifts his eyebrows and watches me, then nods his head. “Are you planning on getting any work done? Unusual to have a skin virgin when we deal with distortion.”

  I swallow. “Not yet.”

  “Alright. I’ll give you a gun. You go
get a turkey from the store and bring it in tomorrow with what you’ve got, and we’ll talk.”

  I take a deep breath for the first time. “Ok. See you tomorrow.”

  I practically run out of the shop and head straight to the grocery store. Dragging two turkeys behind me, I bust into my apartment breathing hard. Stacie lunges off of the couch, scared out of her mind at the crazy girl wielding poultry. I gasp out, “Search how to tattoo. I need to know everything!”

  That night I learned about shaving the site, gloves, deodorant, disinfecting the site, how much ink is too much, and how to make trace designs on contact paper. I destroy the first turkey and concentrate hard on the second. I think it looks like shit but the next day Reed smiles and tells me I’m hired as a receptionist/intern. He tells me I can get credit toward my minor and where to get the forms for him. Stacie is totally intrigued by the process and wants to apply for an internship, too. She has to wait on the list, but we go out to celebrate anyway.

  My trainer isn’t letting me get on a scale, and we aren’t allowed to have one in the house either. So I have no idea if I’ve lost anything, but my pants are falling off and I’m on the last hole of my belt.

  We go to a sushi bar, and I have carbs for the first time in over three months. Afterwards, I feel fuller than I have in a long time, and kind of sick. As we are leaving there is a commotion across the street, and we hear screaming. It’s a hotel, and from the sound of the names being called out, Rolling Bridges is over there. Stacie and I watch in silence as flashes go off from what seems like a hundred cameras, and high pitch screams fill the streets. The men’s names are yelled out in frantic voices as several black SUVs pull out into traffic with people running after them.

  Stacie and I look at each other and shake our heads. Crazy that people want a piece of them like that. We go back to the apartment in silence. Stacie opens her mouth and closes it before she takes a breath and starts stuttering. Finally exasperated, I yell, “What?!”

  She takes a deep breath and says in a rush, “Are you doing all of this because you want him to notice you?”

  I stare at her stunned. “No, I’m doing this because I never realized I was a statistic. I was self-medicating with food. I am going to die or have diabetes by the time I’m thirty if I don’t get in shape. This doesn’t have anything to do with a boy!” I am only partially lying. I’m an eighteen-year-old virgin, and while that isn’t an outrageous age yet, the way I am going has the potential for it to get out of hand.

  Stacie looks comically relieved. “Ok, good. I was going to be so pissed if I’d been eating produce for three months and working my ass off for some guy. You’re already beautiful, you just don’t see it. I don’t think you’re ready to see it yet. When it’s time, you will know, and you’ll trust me to give you a makeover.”

  Chapter 5

  Four Years Later

  I am tattooed, pierced, and seventy-five magnificent pounds lighter. I’m now a healthy one hundred and ten pounds. On my five foot two frame it looks damn good, if I do say so myself. The day Stacie did my makeover was another day that changed my life. I had been going along, working out, eating mostly produce and lean chicken for so long that, when she had my hair and makeup done at a salon and put me in an outfit that actually fit my body, I was introduced to the new Ali.

  This Ali was HOT! I think I looked in the mirror for about a week. This Ali didn’t have shit-brown hair, it was more auburn. This Ali had boobs and her bra said 34C, thank you very much. This Ali had eyes the color of the sky, which I had never noticed before the application of mascara. We went to the Florida Keys for spring break, and she schooled me on the importance of waxing and a base tan.

  One more semester and I’ll have my MBA. I never went home to California, just stayed in New York City and took summer courses, so I’m going to get a six year degree in four and a half. Sadly, my grandparents died in a plane crash somewhere in Africa two years ago. They were the only family I had. My parents never tried to contact me after I left. I left my car, and they canceled my cell phone shortly after I had moved to New York.

  My grandparents wound up leaving all of their assets to me, which was shocking and surprisingly sweet. I hired a financial advisor who recommended I deposit the money and tailor my lifestyle by living off of the interest like my grandparents had. I got a sleeve tattoo, covering from my shoulder to wrist in fluorescent color, over the scars my mother left on my arm. There’s also a huge intricate back piece along with my tongue, nose, belly button, and several ear piercings.

  Stacie’s newest revolution to making me over is yoga. Apparently bruises aren’t sexy. I went with her the day before. Considering I’ve been kicking ass every day for four years, it says a lot that I was in so much pain the day after yoga. Deklan Thomas is an advocate of yoga, so suddenly everyone wants to do it. I get on twitter and post:

  DirtyDozen: How many yogis does it take to change a light bulb #ihateyoga #deklanthomas is #high

  45 minutes later I get a reply as I’m in the bathtub soaking.

  RedyGo: @Dirtydozen lame

  DirtyDozen: @RedyGo tell me a better one then

  He posts a picture that has all of the yoga poses just renamed to things like ‘The reason guys stand behind girls in class’ and ‘the murder victim’. I burst out laughing and write back. Who is this?

  DirtyDozen: @RedyGo Ok that’s not a joke though I’ll let it pass

  RedyGo: @DirtyDozen made you laugh though right?

  DirtyDozen: @RedyGo true nuff

  RedyGo: @DirtyDozen if you go back tomorrow I’ll make you laugh again.

  DirtyDozen: @RedyGo I was right you are crazy

  RedyGo: @DirtyDozen probably. I’m pretty Zen about it, yoga helps with that.

  DirtyDozen: @RedyGo Fine I’ll go tomorrow, I want to bring out my inner psycho

  The next day I make sure there are no weird guys behind me in the class and struggle through. Right after I get home I click the Twitter app.

  DirtyDozen: @RedyGo pay up douche bag.

  I have to wait three hours for a reply.

  He sends me another picture, this one is of a jar of pickles with a sticker that reads ‘Turtle Dicks' and has the Ninja Turtles on it. I roll my eyes, but chuckle anyway. Definitely a dude.

  DirtyDozen: @RedyGo immature. That has nothing to do with working out

  RedyGo: @DirtyDozen you laughed don’t lie. Music is the key to any workout. What are you playing for yoga?

  DirtyDozen: @RedyGo I don’t have a playlist yet, I’m thinking my kickboxing fighter music isn’t going to center my chi or whatever. Suggestions?

  RedyGo: @DirtyDozen I can’t put the whole thing on here, give me an email

  I sit back on my bed and debate this. Should I really be giving out my email? I quickly make a new one and send it off.

  DirtyDozen: @RedyGo dirtydozen@kbar.com

  I chose that one because it will show up as a text message through another app on my phone. A second later my phone makes a ding sound.

  RedyGo: I have this app too. Free texting

  DirtyDozen: EXACTLY. Send me some music to redeem yourself for making me go through that hell

  RedyGo: Yes ma’am.

  I paint my toe nails while I wait and think about my life. Am I destined to be a virgin forever? Thirty, or God forbid forty, until someone teaches me what it’s all about? Having gone unnoticed for so long, I’m acutely aware of the attention I get now. But no one has made a move. Maybe I need to be more proactive. He sends a playlist that has Guns 'N Roses and Bruce Springsteen on it. Intrigued, I play some of the songs on YouTube, then decide to buy them on iTunes to try out tomorrow.

  DirtyDozen: Looks interesting. I’ll let you know how it goes.

  The next day’s workout is much better. I turn the music down so I can still hear the instructor and am actually able to settle my thoughts or whatever you’re supposed to do. Usually that only happens when I run. After class, I sit down on the subway with a magazine that has Deklan
Thomas on the front cover. It happens to be Men’s Health, and it also happens to have several pictures of him in tight yoga shorts. I’m thankful Stacie is reading her own magazine across the aisle and not paying any attention to me.

  I snap the magazine shut five minutes later and yank out my phone.

  DirtyDozen: Fraud!

  RedyGo: WTF?

  DirtyDozen: cheater!

  RedyGo: again, WTF??

  DirtyDozen: you said that was your playlist! That’s Deklan Thomas’ playlist.

  RedyGo: Who

  DirtyDozen: The lead singer of Rolling Bridges

  RedyGo: Wow stalker much?

  DirtyDozen: I just read an article in a magazine smart ass.

  RedyGo: What is up with you calling me names?

  DirtyDozen: I don’t know, maybe it’s the yoga.

  I look up and see a blond guy in a suit checking me out in my yoga gear. I quickly write out a reckless reply to Redy.

  DirtyDozen: Gotta go, it’s time to lose my virginity.

  There’s a ding before I can get the blond to take the initiative and move to a closer seat.

  RedyGo: WTF?!? How old are you?!?

  DirtyDozen: 22 don’t judge me

  RedyGo: Thank Christ. Do you know this guy you’re about to give it to?

  DirtyDozen: Not yet, he’s eyeing me up though

  RedyGo: DD listen to me, coming from a guy, please listen. Use a damn condom and tell him you’re a virgin before you do anything. If you’re set on this don’t get your emotions involved. Chicks are too sensitive.

  DirtyDozen: Thank you Redy. You’re like the brother I never wanted.

  I get up to talk to the guy just as the car slows and I look up to see we’re at my stop. I sigh. Foiled. Probably better this way, seeing as I’m all sweaty from working out. Stacie comes up beside me typing on her phone.

  I ask casually, “Hey, can we go to a club this weekend?”