“Which is different from the norm, how?”
“I’ll do it. But I do hate you.”
“I want to pick the interviewer.”
“No.”
“But—”
“I have way more experience as a famous person than you. I pick. I set up the terms. I dictate which questions are out of limits, and you will listen to me. I’ll let you do this your way if you listen to my rules.”
“Okay.” I’m inexperienced but not an idiot. Fame is a minefield and I’ve just signed up with one of the most experienced guides there is. Having said that, I’m up against Jeanne Wechsler, who is unsinkable. I’m about to get slaughtered.
I get my interview slot in prime time. Not what I would have gone for, but I get the logic. It seems more serious that way and less of a publicity grab. The interviewer will be Kimberly Gregg, who interviews heads of state, war heroes, major celebrities, and now me, and it’s going to be live, because that’s how she runs her show. Jason and I debated that a lot but decided that I have the best chance to get my message out my way if no one edits me. Jason’s response to this was to say, “If anyone can do this, you can. Just to be clear, though? I’m not sure anyone can do this.”
Like any celebrity, I’ll have a publicist and manager waiting in the wings to shut it all down if things go badly at any point. I guess deep down, though, Jason’s got faith in me, which I never realized before. It’s terrifying. Dave drills me on the questions I’m to answer, heckling me and trying to push me off balance. Nothing’s off limits to him, and I suck it up and bear it, because again, I know he’s right and I’m grateful for his help.
Chloe, Jen, Lillian, Doug, my father, Steve, and everyone else in the family walk on eggshells around me. They all think this is a terrible idea, but they can see I’m determined. Each one lets me know in his or her own way that when it all comes crashing down and I’m even worse off than before, they will have my back.
I’m lucky. If I can pull this off, it’ll be thanks to them. I’ve got no illusions about that. No matter how many times I reconsider, though, I don’t waiver. I will do this. If it blows up, well, so what? My name already is mud. The concepts of being a passing pariah versus going down in history don’t really register in my mind.
Every night when I help put the twins to bed, I can’t help but stare at them and feel my anger kindle a little brighter. But I won’t explode. I won’t have a meltdown. I manage the burn of resentment, banking the coals so that the fire’s there, ready to flare up when I add the fuel, and not before. I’ve been such a bad example in so many ways in my life. I want to do this right.
The trick is to not let anyone else get to me, not to let them stoke the fire on their terms and with their desired result. This is my issue and mine alone. Even Yoko Ono ended up married to one of the Beatles.
Three days before the interview, information that it’s going to happen is “leaked.” The paparazzi respond at once, gathering in even greater numbers whenever I set foot outside my door. They all want some preview of what I’m about to do, some assurance that it’ll be spectacular, more of a disaster than the end of Triple Cross. I don’t bother to lead them along. I just live my life. If they want pictures, then fine.
When it comes time to fly to LA, I go with Jason’s security team, who escort me like I’m royal. Like I matter. Like it would be a disaster if someone touched or hurt me.
I spend the entire flight—in a jet Jason chartered—with my eyes shut, contemplating what I’m about to attempt. There’s nothing more I can do to prepare. It’s about to be showtime.
Jason also provides the makeup artist and hair stylist who work on me backstage. I just stare at my reflection, the dark-skinned girl with big brown eyes from New Mexico. It’s me against the world. Not that this matters. If I lose, people will gloat as if it were a fair fight.
I need to not indulge in self-pity. I shut my eyes again and let the hair and makeup people do their jobs.
Remember how I said it felt to have everyone in the hospital stare at me? That was nothing. When I step out into the interview room, which is on a soundstage but furnished to look like a cozy living room somewhere, I can literally feel the eyes of the world on me. Everyone’s going to watch me blow it in the biggest way possible.
So I have nothing to lose. I walk over to the chair, let the sound guys wire up my mic, ignore the camera guy as he maneuvers to make sure he can get me from every angle, and sit with my back straight and my legs crossed at the ankles. A stern expression will put people off, as Chloe’s demonstrated all too often. I opt for shy and vulnerable. I’m just little ol’ me in this biiig and fancy interview. This’ll be an acting job as much as anything else, and I did get an A in drama.
Kimberly Gregg comes in twenty minutes beforehand to break the ice with me. She looks exactly like she does on television, her makeup perfectly applied, her graying hair in a stylish, businesslike updo. She also sits with her ankles crossed, and I decide to see if I can make her coddle me a little.
“Hello, Kyra,” she says.
“Hi.” I say it too quietly. The sound guy shakes his head in disgust.
“How was your flight?” she asks.
“Um. Good. Yeah, really good.”
Everyone on set is getting nervous now. They think I’m just some stupid kid who’s going to hem and haw through the whole evening.
But that isn’t my problem. It’s Kimberly’s, and she was handpicked by Jason’s publicist. She leans forward, her hazel green eyes the picture of warmth and kindness. “This is your moment,” she says. “Your chance to tell your side of the story.”
“Right.”
“So just remember that. No one else is here. No one’s judging you.”
Yeah, sure, lady. Uh-huh. But I widen my eyes a little and nod like a frightened kindergartener just given a thumbs up by her teacher. Kimberly Gregg isn’t going to take pity on me, I don’t think, but she may try to lead me to believe she has.
The minutes tick past and I slowly warm up my performance, speaking louder and more distinctly. “I just want to tell my side,” is my mantra. Isn’t it everybody’s? Given my situation, it’s ratings gold and everyone on set knows it. It doesn’t take much to get them to eat out of my hand—or to pretend to at least.
The lights come up, the camera sets up for the opening shot, and then I can feel it. The window opens to the outside world so everyone can gawk. The interview is on a ten-second delay, and that’s the only thing between me and every person with a media device on the planet.
Anger, not fear, builds inside of me. Carefully cultivated rage that I will dole out a drop at a time. My way.
“Good evening,” says Kimberly Gregg. “Tonight I’ve got Kyra Armijo here in the studio with me. She and I have just been chatting about recent events. Kyra, how much have you seen about what’s being said about you?”
“All of it,” I say, and I let those words come out small. Clear, but small. “I watch all of it.”
“That must be overwhelming.”
“Yeah. It is.”
Short answers, the bane of an interviewer’s existence. I watch Kimberly steel herself. Her smile grows ten degrees warmer and she looks me straight in the eye. “How accurate is it?”
That’s pretty close to an off-limits question. She’s not allowed to ask me specifics about my sexual past.
“Accuracy doesn’t matter in a situation like this,” I say.
“Do you really think so?” She’s inviting me to whine. Whining would make me the laughing stock of the whole world—and drive ratings up nicely.
“People don’t watch tabloid news and think it’s super accurate investigative journalism. People know that at least some of the stories are inaccurate, but whatever I admit to or deny would probably be overanalyzed. People would wonder if I was just trying to
work an angle or cover up an embarrassment. So that’s why I say accuracy doesn’t matter. The media has created a certain perception of me and that perception is what I need to live with.” Oops, that last sentence verged on whining. I order myself to hold it together. My straight posture is clearer now. I’ve tipped enough of my hand that Kimberly knows I’m not some shy little girl awed by the glitz of national television.
Her eyebrows go up. That kind of speech is clearly not what she expected. “How does that make you feel, knowing people see you that certain way?” she asks. She’s still fishing for complaints, for me to talk about how unfair this all is.
I will, but my way. “It makes me feel like a lot of girls feel every day.”
“Excuse me?”
“Girls with a reputation for being promiscuous. I mean, my rep is bigger. More people know about it. Every day, though, girls show up to school—or don’t—because they’re too embarrassed. People judge them.”
“Was that your experience in school?”
“Yes.”
I can feel everyone’s anticipation in the air—it’s almost palpable. Any minute now, they think I’m going to break down and whine and fill the hour with an entertaining sob story that will get me ripped to shreds. I know the next question. Kimberly’s going to ask me how I feel about being the victim my whole life.
“How’s that make you feel now, looking back on that?”
Yeah, enough of her fishing for pity, I think. Time to switch it up. “You mean, was their perception accurate?” I ask. “Did I sleep around and do all those things?”
“That’s not exactly my question, but do you want to answer that one?” She’s nervous now. We’re right on the brink of Questions Not Allowed, and Jason could have my handlers pull me at any second. Which would be sensational. People would talk about it. I’m sure the show has a backup guest and program just in case, or maybe they’d just move to some kind of news desk interaction where opinion columnists from around the country could discuss my tantrum and bring it firmly out of tabloid reporting and into serious news.
This transition to mainstream news will happen only on my terms.
“Let’s just say for the sake of argument that I did deserve my reputation,” I say. “I’m not going to say yes or no because it’s no one else’s business. But assume that I have done everything people have said about me.”
“All right,” says Kimberly, going along.
I wonder if she notices I’m now in control of the interview. I’ll assume she does, and that means I don’t have the degree of control I think I do. She can snatch this back at any time.
I maintain eye contact and say, “None of that would give me the power to break up Triple Cross. It just provides a lot of gossip and distraction, which people seem really into.”
Kimberly takes my bait and goes for the meat of the issue. “So it isn’t your fault that Triple Cross broke up?”
I think carefully. Whatever I say next is likely going to be THE sound bite of the evening since it answers THE question of the moment. This is my one chance to get it right or flub it up royally. I wait, which I know builds dramatic tension, but I really am scrabbling to collect my thoughts. It’s not an intentional ploy. I discard yes and no answers—nothing beyond the first word of those would make it into the sound bite. I discard diplomatic answers, like, “It depends on your perspective.” I need to get this right. I’ve rehearsed a million possible ways to address this, but they all seem flawed. I need to make sure I push this conversation in the exact direction I want to go.
So I decide not to strategize. I show my hand. “Imagine that I’m fourteen years old,” I say.
“But you’re not—”
“—or younger, even, and that I’ve had a lot of sexual partners—”
“That’s not the question-”
“—and that everyone at school and around town is saying I broke up everyone’s favorite band. A little garage band, right? All teenagers.”
“That isn’t the question,” says Kimberly. She’s not happy with me talking over her.
I don’t care. “Yeah, it is basically. Because when you accuse me of this, forget about what it does to me. I’m older and I’ve got the best family there is—”
“I am asking you—”
“When you ask me that question, if the band breaking up was my fault, you are saying to the world that it’s okay to blame me, even though the band is made up of mature adults able to think for themselves who had some deep creative differences. You’re saying that my colorful sexual past is something that I deserve public shaming for. Think about why some young girls sleep around and ask yourself, do you want to contribute to their feelings of guilt and worthlessness, to the perception they deserve to be judged? By making an example out of me?”
“This isn’t about anyone but you,” says Kimberly.
“Um, I’m on prime time television. If this was just about Kyra Armijo, eighteen-year-old girl from New Mexico, I wouldn’t be here.”
“Well, it’s also about Triple Cross, one of the top selling musical acts of all time.” She knows how to make a good, solid grab for control. “It seems to me that you’re pulling in the topic of young, sexually promiscuous girls as a shield to hide behind. You’re saying, ‘Think of them and ignore me.’”
“People do not have to ignore me,” I say. “Photographers and reporters have been following me around ever since this blew up and I don’t tell them to leave me alone or get lost anymore. If people think I’m so interesting, going to the grocery store and stuff, fine. I don’t care. I mean, it’s hard to park my car sometimes, but…” I shrug. “I’m not hiding.”
“So what is your strategy here?” Kimberly must be a little flustered to use a bald term like “strategy.” I don’t think we’re supposed to admit this is part of any strategy, us being here, even though the world knows it is.
“I’ve got two things to say.” I look her straight in the eye.
She stares back.
And I wait. I wait for her to open the door and give me a soapbox or slam it in my face and heckle me for the rest of the hour. I have played the best hand I knew how.
“Okay,” she says.
It takes me a minute to realize she’s yielded. She’s silent. I can talk now.
“First of all,” I say, “I don’t owe the world any details about my sex life. That’s personal. I’m not dating the public. I’m not leading the public on in any misperceptions of me. The only people who have a right to know about my history are people I date. People I might be intimate with.”
“Did Zach Wechsler know about your reputation?”
“He did not.”
“Why not?”
“Because I didn’t realize at first that our friendship might go that way. He has a lot of female fans. I thought he was just flirting sometimes. I didn’t know that he had genuine feelings for me. And then once I did know…” I take a deep breath. I’m about to break one of Jason’s rules and divulge a very personal detail. I just pray he’ll hold his horses and not call for his people to end this interview. “I didn’t want it to end, and I was afraid that once he knew the truth about me, he’d ditch me, so I didn’t tell. Which was wrong of me. I lied to him and I am sorry.”
Kimberly blinks, and I watch as she considers her next words. “Was Zach a good boyfriend to you?”
It’s an odd question to answer, given Zach and I were only together for a matter of hours. “Yeah,” I admit. “The best. Everything his fangirls dream of, and he’s real about it. It’s no act.”
“What about Ben?”
“I don’t know him as well,” I say. “We never really talked much.”
“Did he try to pressure you into having sex with him?” That question is definitely out of bounds.
But no one shouts out
to end the interview, and I’m glad. I can handle this. I shrug. “He never made me uncomfortable. I don’t really have anything more to say about that.”
“So his reputation for drugs and partying—”
“Yeah, speaking as someone with a reputation myself, I’m not gonna throw fuel on the fire there. People don’t know him, and that’s just the way it goes. Most will never know how much of all that is made-up hype and how much is fact. That’s how the celebrity thing works.”
“And you’re not going to enlighten anyone?”
“My words would just get put through the media spin process, so nothing I say would enlighten anyone.”
“Touché,” says Kimberly.
“I guess I’m supposed to say ‘Present company excepted’ or whatever.”
Much to my surprise, she laughs. “Well let’s hope so, for this interview at least. We’re live. I don’t know how much spin we could add tonight.”
I’m not sure I’ve read her right, but she doesn’t seem to mind my accusations at all. “True,” is how I answer her.
“All right, you said you had two things to say. What’s the second one?”
“That I know what it’s like to be the girl everyone hates and to feel worthless. Like you’ve given away so much of yourself that there’s nothing left. And I just want to say to any person who feels that way that you’re not worthless. You’re not trash. Any guy, or any person, who would be ashamed to be with you isn’t worth your time. There’s something Chloe Vanderholt, Jason’s wife, said to me once.”
“What’s that?”
“Having standards is a great jerk filter, but the downside is that there are a lot of jerks out there. She’d tell me about the long dry periods she had while dating and, I mean, look at how the media treats her because she’s too busy worrying about details like saving lives through her job rather than whether or not the paparazzi get her good side? Her standards show and people don’t like it.”
Break It Up Page 18
