by Lauren Rowe
“Well, hello-hello.” Apparently, Mr. Kurtis Jackman is off the telephone and he’s talking to me. Of course, I didn’t notice his phone call had ended because I’d been looking out the window at something far more interesting than him. But since this is his office and all, and since I’m here anyway, and since Johnny from the club did send me to meet Kurtis right away, I deign to lay eyes on him. And when I do, he’s already looking at me like I’m the Lord’s special gift to him, sent straight from heaven and wrapped up in a “Light Blonde Number 5” bow.
“Well, hello there, honey,” Kurtis coos at me like he’s talking a kitten down from a tree. “I’m Kurtis Jackman.” He stands up and extends his hand to me.
I politely take a step forward and put my hand in his.
“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Jackman, sir.” I’m surprised at the jolt I feel when my skin presses against his. I pull my hand back, making a point of sliding my palm along his as I do. “Johnny from the club asked me to hightail it over here to meet you right quick,” I say, “but I’m sure I don’t know why.” I let loose one of my brightest, most alluring smiles, as if I’m remembering how Johnny fawned all over me yesterday.
“Please, have a seat.” He gestures to the chair across from him.
I seat myself, all the while taking great care to keep my chin up and my eyelids low—because I’ve noticed I’m particularly beautiful when I position my features this way. I sigh, just a little bit, trying to paint the picture of a girl who’s utterly and completely unimpressed, yet who has the good manners not to show it.
“Can I get you some water?” Kurtis asks.
“No, thank you. Aren’t you sweet.”
“So how long have you been dancing down at the club?”
“Oh, goodness, no, Mr. Jackman,” I say, laughing and shaking my head. “I’m not a dancer at your club. Of course not.” I wave my hand like he’s just suggested eating fried chicken for breakfast.
“Well, then, what do you do?”
“I’m an actress,” I say. “And a damned good one, too. It’s my destiny to become a legendary actress for the ages, seen by audiences in cineplexes all over the world.”
A wide smile unfurls across his face. “Is that so?” He leans back, assessing me.
“Yes, sir,” I say. I jut my chin. “You can take that to the bank.”
Kurtis leans forward, looking at me like I’m a fancy steak supper. “What’s your name, sweetheart?”
I put my elbows on his desk and lean forward, flashing him a conspiratorial grin, and then I say, very quietly, as if I’m sharing a juicy secret with him and only him, “My name is Buttercup.”
Kurtis’ eyes drift to my mouth. “Buttercup,” he repeats, letting it turn over on his tongue. “That’s quite a name. What’s your last name, sweetheart?” He licks his lips like he can’t wait to taste whatever I’m serving up next.
Well, he’s going to like this. During the long bus ride to Hollywood, I thought long and hard about what my new movie-star name should be. Whenever the passenger seated next to me wasn’t jabbering in my ear about their hopes and dreams or their best friend Ned’s cousin who’s a real-life movie extra in Hollywood, I read a biography about the most elegant woman who ever lived, Jacqueline Bouvier Kennedy—and the minute I saw her full name on the page of my book, I yelped like I’d fallen face-first into a sticker patch.
I lean into Kurtis and lick my lips just the way he did a moment ago. “Bouvier,” I whisper, drawing out each syllable like molasses to make it sound particularly alluring and elegant: “Boo-vee-yay.” This is the first time I’m saying my new movie-star name out loud, and it’s exhilarating. I sit up extra straight and bat my eyelashes at him. “My name’s Buttercup Bouvier.”
Kurtis’ eyes lock onto mine and an undeniable heat passes between us—and into my panties. I look away from Kurtis, trying to regain my composure, but gosh dang it, that throbbing in my panties is pretty hard to ignore.
“Well, Mr. Jackman,” I say. I can feel my cheeks flushing crimson. “I mean no disrespect to you, but I don’t see how the owner of a gentleman’s club would have any use for an actress like me.” I stand to leave.
“Whoa, hang on. Johnny didn’t tell you?”
I look at him blankly, making my eyes as big as saucers. “Tell me what?”
“All about me? About my other ventures besides the club?”
Looks like I’ve got a fish on a line here, folks. I suppress a smile. “I reckon I should have asked Johnny more questions, sir. All I know is that you own a nudie bar.” I say “nudie bar” like I’m saying leper colony.
Kurtis pauses, apparently trying to figure me out. “How long have you been in Hollywood, honey?”
“Since yesterday.”
Kurtis bursts out laughing. “Fresh off the bus.”
I bristle. “Well, sir, if you aim to mock me...” Without another word or even a glance, I march straight out the door.
Kurtis follows me. “No, no. Hang on, Buttercup.”
I march right past Kurtis’ old-lady secretary and out the front door of the building, into the blinding sunlight.
“Hang on,” Kurtis says behind me. I can’t tell if he’s distressed or laughing at me.
“My daddy raised me too well to let anyone make fun of me,” I call out over my shoulder.
“Wait, wait,” Kurtis says, catching up to me—and now, yes, it’s plain to see he’s laughing at me. In fact, he’s amused as hell. “I wasn’t making fun of you, honey, I promise,” he says, but he can’t hide his amusement even as he says it.
“Maybe y’all aren’t used to someone like me out here in Lah-de-Lah Land, Mr. Jackman, but I assure you, I do not suffer someone planting his crop before he’s built his fence.” I whirl around and gaze at him with as much ferocity as I can muster. “I will not be made a fool by anyone.”
There’s a long beat, during which it seems Kurtis has been rendered speechless.
“So... then,” I stutter. Gosh, I kinda expected Kurtis to say something right there. “Well, um, goodbye, then.” I begin stalking away again.
“Buttercup, wait,” Kurtis calls after me. His tone is so commanding, I stop dead in my tracks and give him my undivided attention. By now, we’re well on our way up the sidewalk in front of his office. “Please forgive me,” he says, his voice softening. “I didn’t mean to insult you.” He lets out a loud exhale. “My goodness, you’re a feisty little thing, aren’t you?”
I squint my eyes at him, but I don’t reply.
“I tell you what,” Kurtis continues, a grin spreading across his face. “Why don’t you let me take you out to lunch and make it up to you? It’s the least I can do for being so horribly, hideously rude to you.” His eyes flicker at me like he’s thinking something naughty.
I pause for a ridiculously long amount of time, acting like I’m thinking good and hard about whether I’m going to allow this unworthy man take me to lunch—but the truth is, I’m trying to get a grip on myself. I’m not sure why my heart is racing and my crotch is on fire right now, but there’s no denying either. “Well...” I say, suppressing a smile.
Kurtis clutches his chest, like he’s begging me to give him a chance. “Have mercy on me.”
I twist my mouth, trying not to smile.
Kurtis yelps in victory, but I quickly interrupt his celebration.
“Don’t get too excited. I’m only half-inclined to say yes.” I bite my lip. “Half.”
But Kurtis isn’t paying me any mind—he knows he’s got me right where he wants me, and then some. “We’ll consider it your ‘Welcome to Hollywood’ party, honey.”
I reckon I could try to string him along a little more, but what’s the point? We both know where this is headed on a nonstop bullet train. “Darn you, Kurtis Jackman,” I blurt, laughing. “I suppose there can’t be any harm in having lunch with you—if you promise you’re gonna behave yourself?”
He crosses his heart and holds up three fingers into a Boy Scout pledge.
He laughs. “Please, call me Kurtis. Now don’t move, okay?” He sounds genuinely excited. “I’m just going back inside to grab my wallet.” He makes a big show of holding my shoulders down, forcing me to stay put.
“My oh my, Kurtis Jackman, you’re just as sweet as molasses, aren’t you? All right then, I’ll stay put, honey. But hurry up now—I’m so hungry my belly thinks my throat’s been cut.”
Chapter 4
11 Years Old
3,197 through 3,196 Days Before Killing Kurtis
“You’re so pretty, Buttercup, you could make a hound dog smile,” Daddy says, brushing the hair out of my eyes. He’s sitting on the edge of my cot, tucking me in for the night. When he sees tears pricking my eyes, threatening to pool and fall down my cheeks, he’s instantly distressed. “What’s wrong, honey?”
“I went over to Jessica Santos’ trailer today to play with her brand new kitty,” I say, my lower lip trembling. “I was lonely and wanted to talk to someone. I didn’t mean to hurt it.” My voice warbles at that last bit, so I stop talking.
Daddy puts his finger under my chin and tilts my face to the side. “You’ve got a scratch on your cheek.”
I bite my lip, trying to make the tears stop flowing, but I can’t. I’m just too darned sad. The truth is that Momma was sleeping, as usual, and Daddy was out at who-knows-where again; I was tired of reading my latest book for my education; I didn’t have any money to go down to the 7-Eleven for a Slurpee; and there’s never anyone to talk to around here. So when I saw Jessica just sitting by the big rocks behind her trailer with that cute little black-and-white kitty, I just wanted to talk to her and maybe get to hold her kitty for a while.
Well, how did I know that Mrs. Miller’s dopey grandson was gonna walk by with his scruffy dog on a leash at that very moment and scare the bajeezus out of that kitty with his barking? All I was trying to do was hold the kitty extra tight so he wouldn’t run away on account of that crazy dog, that’s all. But I can’t explain any of that to Daddy or else he might get mad at Jessica for getting mad at me—or, worse, feel bad about how I’m always so lonely. “Jessica said I was too rough with her kitty, that’s all,” I say. Tears begin streaming down my cheeks in big, soggy droplets. “She said I’m not allowed to hold him ever again.”
Daddy grunts and curls his lip. “She said you’re not allowed to hold her kitty, did she? That girl with the frizzy hair and dime-sized eyes thinks she can tell you what you can and can’t do?”
I’m shocked to hear Daddy say those mean things about Jessica—I think Jessica’s curly hair is awfully pretty and her eyes are as sparkly as diamonds. But Daddy looks so worked up, I don’t dare tell him what I’m thinking.
“Christ Almighty,” Daddy huffs, “has that girl looked in the mirror lately? That girl’s so ugly she’d make a freight train take a dirt road.”
I nod, but only because it’s what Daddy wants me to do.
“She’s so ugly,” Daddy continues, “her momma had to tie a pork chop around her neck so the dogs would play with her.”
Well, that one makes me smile, even though it’s mean.
“She’s so ugly,” Daddy says, “the doctors slapped her momma when she was born.”
Now I burst out laughing. My daddy’s always got the cleverest ways to call someone ugly.
Daddy pauses, staring at me, and I know exactly what that look on his face means. He’s waiting on me to say something clever, too, because he’s Charlie Wilber and I’m Charlie Wilber’s Daughter.
I clear my throat. “Jessica’s so dang ugly she has to sneak up on breakfast,” I mumble, but I feel kinda bad saying something so mean about Jessica, even if she did say I was too rough with her kitty.
“That’s the spirit,” Daddy says. He looks at me thoughtfully. “Is Jessica’s trailer the one with the green awning out front?”
I nod. “Yes, sir. Next to the big rocks.”
Daddy grunts. “She probably lives next to the big rocks so her nose don’t look so damned big.”
I nod again, even though, honestly, I think Jessica Santos’ nose is perfect.
“That girl’s as ugly as homemade soap,” Daddy says. He grins at me briefly, but then he glances away.
Oh no. I don’t like it when Daddy glances away like that. “She sure is,” I say, hoping to catch Daddy’s attention before he slips away. But Daddy doesn’t respond. “She sure is, Daddy,” I repeat, hoping to reach him before his eyes glaze over.
But, shoot. It’s no use. Daddy’s gone, even as he’s sitting here with me—as surely as if he’s stepped into one of those teleportation configuration systems he’s always talking about.
I’ve learned to wait patiently for Daddy to come back from one of his daydreams. But, gosh, Daddy remains lost in his thoughts, his jaw muscles pulsing in and out, for what seems like forever this time. “Daddy?” I finally mutter softly. He looks at me, but it’s like his eyes aren’t seeing me. “That girl’s so ugly,” I say, “even the tide wouldn’t take her out.”
But Daddy doesn’t react.
“Daddy?” I smile hopefully at him. “Even the tide wouldn’t take her out.”
All of a sudden, Daddy’s eyes sparkle again and his face softens. He’s back. I breathe a huge sigh of relief. I hate it when Daddy leaves me like that.
“That’s right, baby,” Daddy says softly. “That’s a good one.” He smooths my hair out of my eyes. “So, okay, enough about that.” He beeps my nose with the tip of his finger. “Tell me about what you read today to get your mind good and educated.”
Chapter 5
11 Years Old
3,195 Days Before Killing Kurtis
Momma’s in bed and Daddy’s out, as usual, so I sneak out of our trailer with a bologna sandwich and head straight over toward Jessica Santos’ trailer. I don’t care what Jessica said yesterday about me not getting to hold her kitty ever again—I reckon if I’m really nice to her, if I tell her how pretty I think she is—how much I wish I had long, curly hair just like hers—she’ll let me hold her fuzzy kitten today, especially if I promise to be extra careful and gentle with him and make sure Mrs. Miller’s dog is nowhere in sight.
I rap on the door of her trailer. I wait, but nobody answers. Gosh, I really want to hold that cute little kitty today.
I wait.
I kick the dirt.
Nobody’s home.
Shoot.
I amble over to the big rocks. A warm wind’s blowing like perfume through the prom. I climb to the top of the biggest rock and look around. I have a good view of the entire trailer park from up here. I wonder when Jessica’s coming home. I think about what I’m going to say to her to convince her to let me hold her fuzzy little kitten or at least let me pet him while she’s holding him.
Hey, I wonder if Jessica’s inside her trailer right now? Did she hear me knock but ignore me, maybe, because she’s still so mad at me? I stand up on the rock, peering over at her trailer. I don’t see any movement in the trailer. But ... wait a minute. What’s that? I squinch my eyes, trying to make out the black-and-white blob I reckon I see on the ground, just to the side of Jessica’s trailer. Is that...? I continue squinting and squinching my eyes. Could that black-and-white blob in the dirt be the kitty? With that last gust of wind, it sure looked like the surface of that blob rippled a bit, like it was covered in fur. But if that blob down there is Jessica’s kitty, why isn’t he moving?
I get up and move slowly toward Jessica’s trailer, toward that little mound on the ground, clutching my bologna sandwich. With each step I take, my stomach twists tighter and tighter and my heart pounds harder in my chest, until I’m just about ready to worry the warts off a frog. When I’m finally standing over the blob, I throw my bologna sandwich down on the ground and my hands over my face and burst into tears.
“What happened, Buttercup? Did Chevrolet stop making trucks?” Daddy asks, sitting down on t
he edge of my cot for bedtime. I’ve been lying here for hours, crying buckets and buckets into my pillow.
“Jessica’s kitty,” I whimper. “I went to pet it today, and—”
“Shh, now,” Daddy soothes. “There’s no call for crying over that kitty anymore.” He wipes my tears. “What’s done is done.”
“But, Daddy, I went to pet the kitty, and...” I can’t choke out the rest.
“Aw, honey. That girl, Jessica Santos? She’s just a big bully is what she is—an ugly bully. Don’t you waste any more tears on her.”
I can’t get the picture of that poor little mound of black-and-white fur out of my head. “But, Daddy, the kitty was dead.”
Daddy’s eyes narrow to slits. “Is that so?” A smile curls up on one side of his mouth. “I reckon Jessica Santos won’t be telling Charlie Wilbur’s Daughter what she can and can’t do anymore, huh? Well, ain’t that a funny coincidence.”
My mouth hangs open.
“Serves her right.”
Is Daddy saying he...? My mind won’t finish the thought. I sit up in my cot, my fingernails digging into my cheeks. “Daddy?”
“I reckon it was that kitty’s destiny to teach Jessica Santos, and the whole world, that nobody tells Charlie Wilber’s Daughter what she can and can’t do.”
“Daddy,” I choke out. I clamp my hands over my mouth to keep myself from screaming. I can’t believe my ears. I know Daddy wants me to fist-pump and shout “Nobody!” right now, but all I can do is lie back down and cover my face with my hands. I can’t stop picturing that poor little kitty, dead and bloodied in the dirt. How could Daddy have harmed a hair on his cute little head?
“And don’t forget that kitty scratched you, Buttercup,” Daddy says. “He was a bad kitty, anyway.” Daddy pulls my hands off my face and makes me look at him. “He was a very shitty kitty.” He smiles at his own joke.
