Fever

by Carnal, MJ

  “Yeah, she got here early this morning. They went walking or running or something.”

  Stretching my arms over my head, I get up. “They’re so friggin weird,” I mutter, disappearing into the bathroom.

  They really are. Half the time I don’t know how Aunt Mireya can stand my mom, but then they get together and go running before they go Botox their saggy faces, and I get it. Botox on Wednesday, collagen treatment on Saturday, that’s what my mother’s reminders on her phone look like the week of events.

  I shower, even though I have no will to today. If I could, I would stay in bed all day with the blinds shut, basking in an abyss of darkness, but I know Nina and Hendrix won’t let me, so I don’t even try it. Once I’m dressed, I step out of the bathroom and find Nina enthralled in her cell phone, typing away furiously with scrunched eyebrows. I don’t ask questions, I’m not really in the mood to talk right now. I just hope this mood passes me by soon. Maybe after a cup of coffee I’ll feel better, this is what I tell myself as Nina drags her eyes from her cell phone to my face and offers me a sad smile. These moments are totally uncharacteristic of her, so I know that whatever she sees etched on my face causes her concern.

  Again, I don’t ask and neither does she, I won’t talk about it anyway so there’s no use. There’s no reason for my moods, no specific reason that I can pinpoint. Over time I’ve realized that it’s just me. It’s not only about the memory of losing a friend or a good friend suing me. It’s not only about my parents thinking I’m not worthy of breathing their air or the guy that I want to be with more than anything turning out to be a complete asshole. It’s not only about years and years of being treated as second to everything. It’s about everything, it’s about me, and because of this, I’ve come to terms with trying to make the best of things. It just takes time for my mind to process what that even means. Thankfully it doesn’t take as long as it used to. I am the master of my own destiny. I repeat this mantra for a couple of breaths and get ready to start the day.

  We head to the kitchen, taking the stairs closest to the guesthouse to see if we spot anybody else who might be staying here. We’re both standing on our tiptoes looking through one of the tall windows at the end of the hall, when a door slams shut behind us, scaring the ever living shit out of us.

  “Hendrix!” Nina and I both scold at the same time as we turn around with our hands over our hearts.

  His shoulders shake with laughter. “Nobody told you to be so nosey.”

  Nina scoffs. I roll my eyes. Hendrix shrugs.

  “Did you eat breakfast already?” I ask him.

  “Nope,” he says, tucking his hands inside the pockets of his jeans and frowning. “Oh shit. I totally forgot. Melody gave me these to give you when I saw her last week. She said it was so you could cheer up.” He hands me three gold coins and even though the dark clouds have somewhat dissipated, I start to cry. Just like that. Three Golden Doubloons and I’m crying as if my dog died.

  Nina and Hendrix don’t make a move to console me; they just stand back and wait. They’ve learned that sometimes the best way to deal with my fucked up emotions is to take a step back and give me a moment.

  “Golden Doubloons,” I sniffle, wiping my face. I feel like a moron for crying, but I can’t really help myself. Sometimes there are scattered showers before the storm inside me completely clears out of my system.

  Hendrix smiles and tugs on my hair. That little gesture makes my eyes water again, but only because it reminds me of Nick. Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath and wonder if maybe I should skip out on this entire day. Maybe it would be best if I stay in my room for a while longer, at least until I get my emotions in check.

  “Don’t even think about it,” Nina says quietly, holding my hand in hers. “You’re going to be fine. This will pass. I promise.”

  I cry again, this time wrapped inside of Nina’s arms. Hendrix hugs me by hugging Nina and putting his arms around me too. He’s about as good with dealing with emotions as I am, so it almost makes me laugh that he’s participating in this hug, but instead I cry harder, even though it’s now turned into a happier cry. I’m sure this would make me sound like a complete crazy person to somebody else, and maybe I am. Maybe I’m okay with being a crazy person. I’d rather be crazy than perfect. There’s no excitement in perfection.

  “I’m fine. I’m fine,” I say, wiping my eyes again and stepping out of their embraces. “I dunno what’s wrong with me,” I lie.

  “Are you still against taking the medicine?” Hendrix asks quietly. His anxious eyes tell me that he’s dying for me to take my antidepressants.

  Slipping my fingers into my hair, I begin to massage my head with my eyes closed. “I don’t know anymore. Maybe I’ll start tomorrow,” I respond in an exhale.

  The thing about my depression is that it’s up and down. Some days I’m perfectly fine, some days I’m not. Some days I laugh the entire day and cry during the nights. Some days I don’t feel at all and those are the days I isolate myself most. For the most part, I’m fine though. It almost seems like it really hits me seasonally, like I’m one with nature, feeling as dull as the fall leaves and bright as the spring sun.

  When I’m sure I won’t break down again, I tuck the Golden Doubloons in the back pockets of my jeans and link my arms with Nina and Hendrix on either side. We eat our breakfast, saying hello to the guests that walk by us, most of them older men and their wives. My parents’ homes have always served as a sort of hotel for their friends. Anytime one of them knows they’ll be in a place where my dad has a house, they call and ask him to stay there. I’ve been greeted by a perfect stranger on more than one occasion when I’ve stayed in their Miami or New York homes in the past. That’s the biggest reason I refused to stay in their empty New York penthouse. The other reason was that it would be just another thing they can hold over my head.

  “Oh, you’re going to LA to make some microphones? Maybe we should change the locks so that you can’t get in when you decide New York is where you should be.”

  They’ve done things like that to me in the past. Getting home after a night out and realizing you’re locked out of your own goddamn house because you didn’t answer your mother’s phone calls is not fun at all. I wouldn’t bring that up, though. Water under the bridge, that’s how my dad classifies anything having to do with my past.

  When my mother and Aunt Mireya get home from their workout and revamping their faces, as they call it, they tell us that the hair and makeup people will be here at four.

  “Isn’t that too early?” Nina asks, looking at me with a frown.

  She wanted to lay out by the pool again today, even though I told her that I refuse to wear a bathing suit in front of all of my dad’s friends. They keep circling around us like we’re bait and I don’t appreciate it. What’s worse is that they keep reminding me of how cute I used to be when I was a toddler.

  It makes me want to shake their heads and shout, “YOU JUST SAID YOU KNEW ME WHEN I WAS A TODDLER! STOP STARING AT MY TITS, YOU SICK PERVERT!”

  I don’t, of course, I just smile awkwardly and avert my eyes.

  “No, it’ll be fine,” Aunt Mireya says, waving her hand. “Did you bring the dress?”

  Nina shoots me one of her “oh fuck” glances that I don’t know whether to laugh or cry over.

  “Ummm actually, Brooklyn and I went shopping the other day and I got one,” Nina mutters under her breath, her voice barely audible. Barely.

  “What?” Aunt Mireya shouts. “Nina Victoria Garcia! No lo puedo creer!”

  I bite my lip to keep from laughing, even though it shouldn’t be funny to me the way our mothers have the ability to scare us even at this age. It’s absolutely ridiculous, really. What are they going to do? Spank us? The way my aunt is looking at Nina, I think she may just take her Chanel flip-flop off, not caring whether or not she ruins her just-polished toes, and spank her. Nina looks like she wants to run far, far away. Her bony shoulders are squeezed into her body and her bro
wn eyes are as wide as saucers, completely fixed on my aunt’s hands. I know the same image is playing inside her head and it almost makes me laugh out loud. Almost. Until Mireya shoots a death look my way.

  “Why would you buy clothes knowing that I’m coming, Brooklyn?” she asks me, her voice calm but lethal.

  I slump my shoulders. “Because I knew you were going to be so busy and you have so many clients, and well … we just figured it would be much easier.”

  Aunt Mireya narrows her eyes and tilts her head to study me. “Okay,” she says, letting out a breath. “Who designed them? Let’s go have a look.”

  Nina and I smile at each other quickly as we get up and head to our room. My aunt designs beautiful gowns, I absolutely love them, but every time I’ve ever worn one, my mom gets fully involved in the alterations and that’s where it becomes a problem for me. Then I have to hear about how small my boobs are and how I should get them enhanced or how big my butt is and how it makes me “appear fatter than I am.” I can’t deal with that, not anymore, so I buy my own clothes somewhere else even if I would kill to wear one of Aunt Mireya’s couture gowns. Nina has no excuse not to wear her mother’s clothing, with the exception that Nina’s an asshole.

  I ask the hairdresser to style my hair half up, half down. That way it’s out of my face, but still natural. My mother argues with me for fifteen minutes (I counted) that my hair has to be up because of how the dress I’m wearing is designed. After the umpteenth eye roll I direct at her, she finally shuts up and lets the hairdresser do what I told him to do. My makeup is also natural with barely anything on my lips and light gold eye shadow over my eyes, the only thing that pops is my black liquid eyeliner and dark mascara that makes my long lashes look fake. My mom reminds me a handful of times not to wash my face after they’d just applied makeup, as if I would. Sometimes I think she just likes to hear herself talk.

  When the butler knocks on my door to tell me that my date is downstairs waiting for me, I start getting butterflies in my stomach. I don’t know why, but I do. Smiling at my reflection in the mirror, I pick up my gold clutch and head out, telling Nina I’ll see her later since she’s still sitting in bed texting. I pick up the silk turquoise skirt of my dress and carefully walk down the stairs, smiling when I see Jay standing at the bottom of the steps waiting for me. He’s wearing a black tuxedo, which is what all the men will be wearing tonight, unless they want an earful from my mother, and he looks good. He’s so not my type, though, and it almost makes me laugh the way he looks at me like maybe there’s a chance. I don’t know why anybody would ever want to mix business with pleasure anyway, especially before business is even sealed.

  “You look … wow …” Jay says, his dark eyebrows rising and lowering.

  “Thanks. You look good too,” I respond with a smile.

  I place my hand on his bicep when he holds it out for me to hold, and we begin to follow the sign that signals to the front of the house. I’m assuming there will be some sort of carpet laid out there, as usual.

  “They’re going to take pictures of us and ask you questions,” I explain to Jay, assuming he’s never been to an event like this.

  My dad really knows how to sell everything to people. He invites them to stay over at his house, lets them borrow his cars, yachts, and jet. He sees it as an incentive to show these people that they too can live this way. It’s complete bullshit, of course. They don’t live like this, even if they say they do, and that’s part of the problem. We’re selling them all of these tangible things: the money, the cars, the clothes, the hoes, but we’re not letting the consequences of it all sink in. As a matter of fact, I would bet money that even if I sat here and went through the cons of what this lifestyle holds, only one out of ten would turn it down. People want to own what they can grasp in their hands, what they can take photos of and show off. They don’t stop and think about the loneliness that comes with it all, the backstabbing, and the lies. And they wouldn’t care, even if they did.

  “So, what should I say?” he asks, tilting his head at me.

  I shrug. “Say you’re my date. Say you’re a rapper. Say you’re the best. You can even rap out there, for all I care. I’m just warning you so it won’t take you by surprise,” I respond with a smile.

  Jay laughs in amusement. “Got it,” he says with a wink.

  “All right. Let’s do it,” I say, walking out and welcoming the instant flashes that hit my face with a warm smile.

  “Brooklyn! Brooklyn!” one of the photographers says. “We haven’t seen you in a while! You look gorgeous.”

  “Thank you,” I say, squeezing Jay’s arm so that he can fall into step beside me.

  “What’s your name?” the photographer asks as another yells, “Hey, aren’t you the YouTube guy?”

  “Yeah, Rapture,” Jay says. “Actually, that’s my YouTube name. I think I’ll just stick to Jay from now on. Makes life easier.”

  My smile widens at his words. I am so freaking glad he dropped that name. I’ll have to ask him about that later.

  “So you’re with Harmon now?” a reporter asks, the video guy coming up closely behind her. Photos don’t make me nervous. I’ve been around them for so long that all they do is annoy me at best. Videos on the other hand, scare me. Those are there forever and they can show your actions, your words and the way you say them. Photos may lie; videos rarely do. I hold my breath waiting for Jay to respond.

  “I’m with Brooklyn. I think she can make things happen for me,” Jay says, and I blink my eyes, turning my face away from the camera and focusing on the green grass behind them so I won’t cry. They may be just words to him, but Jay just paid me the biggest compliment anybody has ever given me in my entire life. Twelve words. Those twelve words make me feel so whole, that I want to take a snapshot and put it on my bathroom mirror so I won’t miss them every morning when I wake up.

  “Who are you wearing, Brooklyn?” another reporter asks.

  “Naeem Khan,” I reply, smiling brightly as we walk by, pose for one last photo and continue walking to the tent in the backyard.

  “Holy shit,” Jay breathes. “That was intense.”

  I laugh. “Get used to it!”

  He nods with a smile, his eyebrows high. “I was trying to remember that moment, you know, enjoy it and remember it forever so that even if it doesn’t happen again, at least I can look back on it and say: I walked a red carpet once with the prettiest woman on my arm.”

  I chew on my bottom lip to keep my emotions in check, but not because I feel sadness. “You’ll walk more red carpets and you’ll have more beautiful women on your arm,” I tell him, squeezing his forearm.

  “Maybe, but you’ll always be my first and I’ll always remember this one,” he replies with a bashful smile.

  I’m afraid to say anything to him because I don’t want him to take any of my compliments the wrong way, so I just smile back. “I appreciate what you said back there.”

  “About you making things happen for me?” he asks, his face confused.

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, I believe in your belief in me.”

  “Geez, you’re making it hard for me not to cry tonight,” I mutter, fanning my eyes with my hands.

  “Aw shit. I didn’t mean to make you cry,” Jay says, chuckling a little.

  “I’m not crying,” I insist.

  “Sure. Want a drink?” he asks as one of the servers makes his way to us.

  “Vodka. Anything with vodka.”

  He smiles. “Coming right up.”

  Thankfully, this is a business where anything goes and drinking is completely acceptable and as my mom says, encouraged.

  Jay and I make our rounds as I introduce him to some people, we talk about his family and where he’s from. He seems like an all-around good guy.

  “I know why you asked me the thing about my friends,” Jay says suddenly when we take a break and sit down on one of the white loveseats near the empty dance floor. “You think they’re going to
either use me or turn their backs on me.”

  I nod, agreeing, and let him continue.

  “They’re not. Not these people. I’ve been through way too many bad things with them for them to only want me when things are going up,” he explains.

  “I’m glad to hear it,” I say with a smile, even though I’m skeptical of his statement.

  “You’re still being sued by your friend over those microphones?” he asks.

  My heart stops beating for a second before it readjusts itself. I hate that everybody and their mother knows about Allie’s lawsuit. I hate that everything my family does is scrutinized under a microscope.

  “Yeah,” I respond with a shrug.

  “Sucks. I’m sorry,” Jay says compassionately.

  I shrug again, not wanting him to know how much the lawsuit really bothers me, and more than anything, wanting to relay the message I was trying to get through to him about his friends.

  “Business is business. Shit happens.”

  The music starts on stage, startling us out of our conversation, and I instantly smile. This is my favorite thing about my dad’s parties. Most of the singers attend the event and are encouraged to sing, but the catch is that they can’t sing their own song. They have to sing songs from another artist, preferably one at the party. It’s my dad’s way of making sure everybody feels accepted in a business that so often turns into who’s better than who, or who makes more than who. Art is art, and that’s what my dad tries to establish in the company. It doesn’t matter who you think is better because it’s all up for debate. Shea may sing better than Jay, but Jay could have better lyrics. And still, listeners feel their music differently.

  A singer/songwriter I’ve heard before walks on stage and adjusts the microphone to his level as he sits on the chair. I stand, muttering that I’ll be back, when I notice the microphone he’s touching is one of mine. It’s as if I’m walking on air on the way over there, extending my hands to touch it. It’s one in my Rat Pack collection, round and wide with a black thin band around the middle. That particular collection is vintage and very dear to me since it’s the one my dad saw and loved. Still, I never thought he would actually buy one. I trace the tiny bee with the crown over its head that sits over the black band and smile.