by Deanna Roy
“Slam, bam, thank you, ma’am,” Jazz said. “Just the way I like it.”
The bass guitarist spoke up from where he was wedged between boxes near the back door. “Like that shit ever happens to you.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Jazz said. “I don’t see you getting any either.”
“Face it, friends,” Paul said. “Tennessee here is the sum total of our action. We have to live vicariously through him.”
“We’ll write songs about your pussy quest,” Jazz said. “Like the knights of old.”
The keyboardist reached back and thumped Jazz on the head. “We haven’t written an original song since you insisted they all sucked,” he said.
Jazz nudged my leg. “You write your own shit?” he asked. “If so, you can tell your own damn tales.”
I brushed crumbs off my hands. “I’ve done a few.”
Jazz let out a whoop. “He’s got a huge talent!” he laughed. “No wonder he gets all the ladies.”
We pulled up to a red light, and Paul swung his head around. “So let’s hear something, Tennessee. Show us what you’ve got.”
I wasn’t in much of a mood for it, but the boys were eager, and they’d given me a killer night. So I reached over for my guitar case and flipped it open.
“You’ve got a lot of shit in there,” Jazz said, peering through the gloom.
“Carrying my life around,” I said, pulling out the pale cherry Seagull, surrounded by tightly packed clothes. This guitar was new, but still from Tennessee, one of the few things I had from my life before this journey. I’d bought it when I knew I was going to walk away from everything and everybody I’d ever known.
“You got a song that tells your story?” Jazz asked. “Because a dude like you on the road has got to have a story.”
“Nah,” I said. “My life isn’t worthy of a song.”
“Awww,” Jazz said. “Well, give us something good.”
I strummed a few chords and adjusted the tuning. “I don’t know that this one is about anything in particular, but it tends to turn a few heads when I sing it.”
I picked out a tricky little introduction that I’d put together over a couple weeks shortly after I graduated high school, some six years ago now. I still felt pretty good about the world back then. Sometimes when I played it, a little bit of that happiness and optimism would stick. It never lasted long, but it was all right to feel it for a while.
I came back around to the C chord, and sang the opening lines.
I’ve been staring out this window all night long
Hoping maybe I will see the light
This world’s no place for an honest man
Simple but uncouth
Some people will never understand
As always, I forgot where I was once I got started, the crowded van and the rumbling floor beneath me disappearing as I went into song-space.
Just strangers to the truth
And she done left me
She done left me
Right on the center line
Then it went back around to the tricky progression and a couple more verses.
When I strummed the last chord, Jazz let out a whoop. “I knew you were country! That was seriously country.”
I flattened my hand on the strings to kill the sound. “Well, I guess I’m from the country.”
“But you sure could sing the blues too,” the keyboardist said.
I looked out the front window at the unfamiliar city whizzing by. I thought of Jenny then, and how she must be getting close to home by now, in a whole other place. I’d never even know where.
Yeah, I could definitely sing the blues.
Chapter 15: Jenny
I woke up in my rainbow explosion feeling like I’d been on a bender.
My head was heavy from the dreadlocks. Maybe I’d cut them all off. What had I been thinking adding all these extensions?
My green dress lay draped over the back of a chair, sand scattered beneath it.
Last night I’d dragged myself into the shower even though I wanted to feel nostalgic about the night with Chance. But I was just too gritty. So I washed it all away, down the drain.
I would never even know who he was. I had nothing but his first name.
I stretched, knocking a plush pink unicorn off the bed to the floor. A third grader could probably live happily in this room.
Uggh. My hair. My room. My life.
Shut up, I told myself. The world is full of haters, don’t start hating on yourself.
I kicked off the comforter and stumbled out to the hallway. No way was I up for making my own coffee. I did that all day at work.
Not that I’d been going in that much. I might be fired for all I knew. God. I had relied too much on Frankie. He’d taken over everything, paying my rent, buying me gas and clothes and grocery delivery.
This was the worst day of the rest of my life.
I decided I was too poor for Starbucks, then remembered the Keurig Frankie had bought me early on. I’d never used it. I opened a cabinet and pulled out the box. After several minutes of fumbling with packaging, I had it plugged in and the first cute container of breakfast blend percolating. Or whatever it was a Keurig did. Magic, maybe.
I plopped onto a fuzzy yellow chair and pulled my phone off the wall charger. I had sixteen text messages. What the hell? When had I gotten so popular?
A sense of unease spread through me as I read through the first page, all from Tina and Corabelle with varying versions of “Call us right away!”
Then one from Frankie, saying, “You got ’er done, all right. Call me if you feel panic. I can put some people on it.”
God. What were they talking about?
I couldn’t squint at the phone any longer, so I switched to my pink-jeweled laptop. I felt irritated at the bling and wanted to scrape it all off. This was what I got for drawing attention in every way possible.
I knew the news of my kiss and betrayal was bound to be on the gossip sites, or in the tabloids, or both. They had some pictures. How they put it all together was the real question.
I opened the laptop and waited for it to power up. Then for the wireless to kick in. Then to examine my nail polish for chips. Then to situate myself more comfortably in my fuzzy chair, which Tina affectionately called “The Baby Chick Hole.”
Procrastination. Did I really want to see what I had done?
I ran my hand along the yellow fur stretched over the papasan base. This wasn’t a Frankie gift, but something my mother had picked out for my bedroom long ago. I thought about her for a minute, remembering my squeals when I opened my bedroom door at home and saw it. She understood me. A good thing in a mother, maybe.
Sigh. I supposed I did have to look eventually. Face the music.
I didn’t have to go far. Yahoo was my home screen and there I was, mugging out with Chance, right there on one of the slider photos on the celebrity news. Below us, the caption read “Movie director’s heart in shambles after tawdry display at premiere.”
“After the premiere,” I corrected. This was about what I’d expected to happen. I guess my friends didn’t think they’d run a picture of an actual kiss.
Feeling a heck of a lot calmer, I got up to fetch my coffee. This was nothing. I could handle it. Frankie was the one who had to deal with people thinking he’d been a fool.
I blew on the coffee and settled back in my chair. The steam opened my pores. I relaxed. This was okay. Weird about Frankie, though. He normally didn’t spook easily. He should have anticipated what would happen, and yet he’d written me offering some help as if we’d done something unexpected.
I clicked over to my favorite gossip site, one that had actually put up a few solo pictures of me now and then when I wore something particularly fabulous. I had a bit of a fetish for five-inch platforms and short skirts. At one point, they’d done a little spread on Frankie’s pink-haired plaything, showing my skirts shrinking and my boot height growing. I had printed it out and put it in my scrapbo
ok.
I didn’t see anything obvious on the home page, although there was a “stars get wild” montage that was new. I shouldn’t have made that, since I wasn’t an actress myself. But I clicked anyway, to see what I was up against for click bait.
I felt startled when I realized the first image was of Chance, but not with me. He was talking to Vanessa Price, and she had her claws on him. They were still at the party. The caption said, “Copper Field star paws pretty boy at Hollywood soirée.”
Was it taken before or after Chance had been with me on the beach? I peered in closely. He was holding a drum. So they were packing to leave. No way Vanessa would have been there when they set up.
My stomach fell. He hooked up with yet another woman after me?
I felt seriously sick. I’d picked a real winner. No condom either. Crap. I’d have to get a VD screen.
Stupid.
I clicked to the next picture and realized this whole “gone wild” montage was from the party. The couple who had cozied up in the sunroom when I arrived apparently got a lot more daring out in the gardens. The actress hopeful was naked and holding on to a tree, black bars covering the strategic areas, and the man was behind her.
So I was definitely not going to be the hottest click from that photo shoot, if I was in it at all.
The next one was Avery Klaus, an actress who had gone for Chance when he came offstage. Her dress could scarcely be called clothing, with its outrageous cutouts. It barely covered her nipples. The angle of the shot accentuated this as she lifted her arms to the stage.
The next shot had her to one side, Chance in the middle, and me in the corner. Well, my pink dreadlocks anyway. You couldn’t see my face.
The timing of the shot made it seem as though Chance was choosing between us. Another black bar appeared to cover Avery’s nipple slip, although it was probably slapped on whether it happened or not. They did this all the time to make images appear dirty even when they weren’t.
I didn’t think there would be any more of me, since I wasn’t really the subject of the montage, but when the next image was Frankie looking perturbed, probably just a random shot taken who knows when, I had a feeling I knew what was coming.
I clicked. Yes, the kiss picture. And this one had one of those infernal unnecessary blackout bars that made it appear my skirt was hiked up and Chance’s hand was up it.
Why had I ever liked this site? Grrr. Below the image was a link that said, “See the sordid history of this cotton candy tart.”
What they hell could they possibly have on me? I was nobody until I met Frankie, and I had strictly upheld my contractual code of conduct since.
I clicked through with a sinking feeling.
Jesus. Pictures they’d used before, this time with strategic black bars, made it look like I was getting felt up, flashing girl parts, or otherwise behaving badly. They must have put a whole team on finding images where the bars could create the illusion of something raunchy going on. One of them was a random passerby on a red carpet, looking over my shoulder at no telling what, but the bar over the neckline of my strapless dress made me look topless.
Right. People went topless to premieres.
God.
I hoped my parents didn’t go to these sites. Or any of my mother’s snoopy friends, who might send links to her.
I got up from the chair and paced the room a moment. I wasn’t a public figure. Could I sue?
Did I care?
I tapped out a quick note to Frankie. “What are my options?”
He wrote back immediately. “I would ask the boy before you involve him in any court filing. It will fan the flames initially.”
Why would I have to talk to Chance? He wasn’t even in any of the worst photos, just the kiss.
Unless there were more.
My throat tightened. “I was talking about the black bars in the Falling Star Gazette,” I typed.
“Didn’t see those,” Frankie responded. “Is it worse than the video segment?”
What?
Oh, God. Surely I hadn’t made the television gossip. If so, I’d be everywhere by the end of the day.
I flipped on the flat screen to watch the entertainment news, but after ten or so minutes of commercials and the intro to a show, I realized it would be faster to go to their online videos.
I tapped in the link with trepidation, feeling even worse than when I’d first started looking. If it went that high, they felt they had something really good.
The doorbell rang. Crap. Who could that be? I felt paranoid that some reporter or photographer had tracked me down. I peered through the peephole, flooding with relief when I saw Tina and Corabelle.
I opened the door.
Corabelle had a stack of tabloids. “We bought them all!” she said. “I mean, it’s just the one daily that got you in this fast, but we bought all the copies.”
She dumped them on the coffee table. I hadn’t been the lead story, but a small photo in the corner hinted at a scandal inside.
“Have you seen the video segment?” I asked them. A summary from them before I saw it might calm my rising panic.
Tina plopped down on the sofa, pushing a sequined pillow out of her way. “I haven’t seen any television stuff, but I see you’re waiting for it.” She pointed at the entertainment channel. “You going to record it?”
“I was just about to go to their website to see what it was about,” I said. I pointed at the stack of tabloids. “How is that article?”
“Not too bad,” Corabelle said, flipping to it. “A lot of destroyed love stuff, like you’d planned. They also hinted at a love triangle, but not with you and Frankie and this boy.” She turned the page to me. “Some actress named Avery?”
They had the picture with Chance between us. “Great,” I said. “That’s probably what’s feeding the frenzy.” I hadn’t considered the possibility that an A-list actress would be in any of the pictures and boost their popularity.
“Lover boy is a singer?” Tina asked. “You picked a pretty one.”
My heart hurt a little to see the picture in front of my friends. The loss stabbed me acutely now that we could talk about him. “Yeah, he was.”
“So what happened?” Corabelle asked. “Did you like him? Is he local?”
I gave them the rundown on the evening, the band, the song, the interested actresses, and the beach.
“And that’s it? You haven’t heard from him?” Corabelle asked. She pulled her feet up to sit cross-legged on the sofa and tweaked her black ponytail.
“I don’t know his name, and he didn’t ask mine,” I said.
“Well, he knows it now if he’s paying attention,” Tina said, pointing to the article. “They have you listed right here, Jenny Gillespie, a UCSD acting major who has been seen on the arm of movie director Frankie Sharp for the past four months.”
“Acting major, whatever,” I said. “They sure did their homework.”
“Acting, liberal arts,” Tina said. “All the same to them.”
I grunted. “Did they figure out who Chance was?”
“No,” Corabelle said. “He’s just listed as a new member of the Sonic Kings, the band playing at the party.”
“He isn’t a member,” I said. “They picked him up hitchhiking earlier that day.”
“Oh, wow,” Corabelle said. “Then he really isn’t someone you can easily track down.”
“Yeah.” I dropped back into my yellow chair. “I guess we better see what this video is all about. Frankie already wrote me about it, asking if I wanted to put his people on it. He acted like I might want to take legal action.”
“Whoa,” Tina said. “That’s hardcore.”
I pulled up the website, but before I spotted the video, Corabelle pointed at the television. “I think this is it,” she said.
Just looking at the opening image, I thought I might faint.
Chapter 16: Chance
I woke with a start at Jazz’s apartment, the rough cushion of the ratty s
ofa imprinted on my cheek.
The front door was swung wide, drenching the cave-like living room with light.
“Rise and shine, country boy,” Paul said. “You’re famous.” He sauntered into the room with some guy I hadn’t met before.
I sat up and fumbled on the floor for my bag, pulling out a clean T-shirt. Yesterday’s jeans were still drying in Jazz’s bathroom. I’d washed them in his sink, definitely leaving the porcelain cleaner than I found it.
I jerked the shirt over my head and yawned. I normally didn’t sleep late, but something about the dark room must have kept me out.
Paul tossed a tabloid news magazine on my lap. “I was grabbing some cigarettes for breakfast and saw this.”
A giant headline pronounced that some big actor had left his bride at the altar. I wondered why the hell Paul was shoving this in my face.
Then I saw it.
In the corner, a picture from the party. Me and Jenny in the gardens, kissing.
I shoved it aside. “I knew they took that picture. No big deal.”
“I thought you said she was single,” Paul said. “Says here she’s some big movie director’s chick.”
I frowned. Jenny told me the guy was her boss.
But it didn’t matter. I was sure her little angry rant in the limo at the end had to do with making sure I didn’t follow her around. Probably due to that guy.
“I don’t exactly plan on proposing to her,” I said. “It’s in the past.” I tossed the newspaper beside me on the sofa.
Paul plopped down in a brown recliner with the stuffing falling out. His friend headed toward the kitchen. That guy had presence, and I wondered if he was a musician too.
“You getting back on the road?” Paul asked. “Because we’ve got another gig tonight. The way you rocked it, you could definitely sweeten our take. We get tips on this one, and you can get a cut of that action, since you draw the ladies.”
“Maybe,” I said. I hadn’t really thought about what I’d do next. Probably walk around a bit. Spot any smallish coffee shops that would let me play. But if the Sonic Kings gig was decent, I might make more there, maybe enough to cushion a day or two without having to worry about my next meal.
