by Paul Rudnick
The awful thing is, I can picture the whole thing. The even more awful thing is, I’m starting to understand it.
“As I start downing the pills, slowly so I wouldn’t barf them right up, there’s someone pounding on my front door. I assume it’s my dealer, or someone who’s left their monogrammed bong at my house, or even the cops, but there’s no way I’m going to answer it. I hear the door getting pried off its hinges and whomped open and I start to get scared. Because excuse me, I want to kill myself, not get murdered, so Mister Serial Killer, don’t you dare upstage my story line. I hear whoever it is getting closer and closer and I decide that I don’t care if it is a serial killer, as long as I end up dead. A serial killer, especially if he’s wearing, like, a Darkling Creeper mask and carrying a bouquet of rotting roses, it might be a nice twist: ‘Heller Harrigan, dead at seventeen, the Creeper wins.’
“The bedroom door opens and—it’s Oliver. I hadn’t talked to him for weeks and I’d stopped going to meetings and he’d been texting me like mad and so he’d figured, well, he’d figured that I might be doing exactly what I was doing. Do you know the weirdest part?”
I shake my head because I’m having trouble believing that Heller’s story can get any weirder or more upsetting. Since it’s Heller telling the story, she’s making it entertaining and even funny—for Heller, even her own suicide attempt is like the exciting trailer for the blockbuster movie of her death.
“The weirdest thing was that Oliver didn’t try to stop me. He just sat on the edge of my bed and he said, ‘Go ahead. If that’s what you want to do. If that’s how you want everything to end. If you’re in that much pain, or if you’re that kind of coward.’ I started crying, and Oliver held me. We’ve never had sex. Later on, people sometimes thought we were married because we wore these matching silver rings. He just stayed with me until the sun came up, and then you know what he said? He said, ‘You need Caitlin.’ ”
“What?”
“I’d told him all about you, the whole story. He said, ‘Hel, everything you’ve ever done, it’s all been either to make Caitlin proud of you, and forgive you, or to make yourself fall so far down the rabbit hole that Caitlin will finally have to come looking for you.’ I said, ‘Whatever, fine, and I’m not saying you’re right about anything, but Catey won’t talk to me or come anywhere within a million miles of me. She hates my guts for a very good reason. I almost killed her.’ Oliver smiled and he said, ‘You’ll think of something. Come on, you’re Heller Harrigan.’ ”
I’m not sure why but I’m starting to smile. And cry.
“I did think of something. Eventually. This whole weekend, and your coming here to be my chaperone and my warden and my nanny, it was my idea. I told Wyatt about you and he talked to my mom, who decided that the whole thing was her own idea, and then she called your mom. I had my fingers crossed the whole time and I was praying to whatever god I believed in that week to let this happen. To let us be together. I guess it was maybe the worst idea I’ve ever had and I’m really sorry. I’m sorry about everything. I’m sorry about four years ago and I’m sorry I listened to our parents and didn’t go to see you in the hospital or call you or at least FedEx you some Percocet. It’s just—I thought I’d be the last person you’d ever want to hear from. I thought our parents were right.”
As soon as Heller says this about our parents she yelps: “I KNOW! What was I thinking? And I’m sorry about this weekend and I’m sorry about today and I’m sorry that I’m the worst friend anyone’s ever had. I’m like the anti-friend. The nightmare friend. But, Catey, there’s one last thing I have to tell you …”
Heller is looking right at me and I think, Oh my Lord, she’s seeing a drowned rat with a rainbow haystack on her head and a cuff link through her nose. She’s seeing someone who used to be so organized and so punctual and so on top of everything and who’s now a hopeless, one-grimy-kneesock, sniffling mess.
“Catey—take the bandage off your arm.”
I’d completely forgotten about my tattoo. What is under that bandage? A devil-worshipping pentagram? Elmer Fudd with an erection? A musical note vomiting? I gingerly peel off the surgical tape, holding the gauze in place. The skin underneath is puffy and red and slathered with a clear antibiotic gel. The tattoo is simple and beautifully drawn. It’s a heart with the words “Caitlin and Heller Forever. God Help Them.”
Heller is holding up her own forearm, which has the same tattoo with the names reversed.
“Oh, and Catey, one more thing—that pill I gave you? It wasn’t an antianxiety med or a pill to stop smoking or anything hard-core. It was a baby aspirin.”
What? WHAT? I have broken so many laws and disfigured myself and almost died, because of a BABY ASPIRIN?
“Why?” I wail. “Why did you give me a baby aspirin? Why did you tell me it would help?”
“Because I wanted it to. Because you couldn’t move. Because I hated seeing you tied up in knots. Because I know that anxiety and panic attacks are real and I hate that you have them. Because you deserve so much better. Catey, you’re a really smart, beautiful, talented girl but you don’t believe it. So the panic always wins.”
“Not always,” I say. “Not when you’re here. I’m so sorry I never called you and I’m sorry that you had to go through so many terrible things all by yourself and I’m sorry I wasn’t there. I’m a terrible friend too—no! I’m not just a terrible friend! I’m much worse! I’m a bad CHRISTIAN!”
Heller turns her head toward heaven and asks, “Did you hear that?”
“HELLER!!!”
Heller opens her arms and I hug her so hard that our tattooed arms rub together, which really hurts.
“OWWW!!!” we both howl but we don’t stop hugging.
“Ladies?” says Wyatt, at the door. “I’m glad this all worked out and that neither of you are going to jail, at least not until your next little crime spree. We still have a problem. A big one. That surveillance footage? It’s all over the web. Everyone has a different theory about what Heller was up to and what she was high on and how badly she’s lost her mind at the most pivotal moment in her career. I’ve been trying to spin the whole thing, to tell everyone that you were making an independent student film, but I don’t think anyone’s going for it.”
Wyatt slumps in a chair with his head in his hands and when he looks up I see that he’s crying. “I’m so sorry,” he says. “I just want the whole world to know that even if Heller is certifiably nuts, she’s still an amazing actress and a seriously good person. I want them to forget all about rehab and those naked pictures and people holding up convenience stores. Hel, I don’t know what to tell you. I love you, and I’m a great manager, and I want the Angel Wars movie to be an international phenomenon, but I’m done. I can’t find a way out of this.”
Heller stares at Wyatt and I can see that she’s falling apart too. She’s worked so hard on Angel Wars and it’s her last chance. Then she says, “Wyatt, don’t you dare apologize! You’re the best manager and the best person ever! This is all my fault. You and Catey tried so hard to help me, but I fucked up this whole weekend and the whole movie and everything else! I’m the only thing that’s worse than a bad Christian—I’m a bad MOVIE STAR!”
Heller hurls herself into another chair, hanging her head. She looks even more lost than Wyatt.
“Bubbelahs,” I say, using another Jewish word Wyatt has taught me, “I have an idea.”
All it had taken was a baby aspirin, swallowed under false pretenses, to turn me into a wild, lawless, deranged creature—into Heller. We need to turn Heller into me.
On Monday at noon the Singing Singleberries are scheduled to perform at a shopping mall in Parsippany to raise money for our local children’s hospital. Wyatt spends the morning alerting the paparazzi, network and cable TV news crews, every possible website and Twitter feed and everyone else he can think of about an upcoming surprise event that may or may not involve Heller Harrigan, the once again notorious star of the upcoming, much-awaited
Angel Wars blockbuster. He’s using #AngelAppearance, #HellerBlast, #JerseyBabe and #OMGHeller!!! An hour before the concert is set to begin, April drives Heller, Wyatt and me out to New Jersey.
By noon the central plaza of the mall, the place where they do things like setting up a three-story-high Christmas tree, is packed, with more people hanging off the railings of the mall’s second and third levels. Thanks to Wyatt and his staff, everyone is buzzing, although no one’s sure exactly what’s about to happen. There are rumors that the president is planning a surprise speech and will use Heller as an example of youth in peril; other people are claiming that precisely at noon Heller is going to ring a bell and millions of dollars in cash is going to be whooshed into the mall through the air-conditioning vents so shoppers can dive for the money and get into nasty, greedy brawls, as part of Heller’s new reality show. There’s also the strong possibility that other big stars, maybe Taylor Swift or Katy Perry or a hot new English boy band, will make an appearance in support of Heller, and the boy band option is already causing mobs of tween girls to scream and faint, or scream and pretend to faint, so that Chadwin or Brock or Niall will try to revive them, preferably with kisses, autographed collarbones and selfies.
At 12:05, Sophie walks out onto the small stage that has been set up, which is ringed by security guards.
“Yo, I’m Sophie,” she says, and there’s some grumbling from the crowd because Sophie isn’t Heller or any other recognizable star.
“Shut up, I have cancer, you douchewads,” Sophie continues, taking off her baseball cap to reveal her topknot. “I’m one of way too many kids who are getting sick, but thanks to Saint Anthony’s Children’s Hospital some of us are doing okay, or even better than that. The doctors and nurses at Saint Anthony’s are amazing, but they need our help to pay for equipment and salaries and research.”
“Where’s Taylor Swift?” yells someone from the crowd. “We want Taylor!”
“Taylor isn’t here,” says Sophie. “I love Taylor but we got someone even better, so shut your piehole, you ass-clown. Right now I wanna introduce a totally major group of people, who spent a whole lot of time raising money for Saint Anthony’s and for kids like me. I know, like, at first you’re gonna think they’re a bunch of hopeless mall dorks and you’re gonna start texting your friends to see if they want to hook up for pizza, but don’t do it. These people are secretly awesome and if you just stop getting all scrantsy and antsy, there’s also gonna be a very specialicious guest star and I’m not gonna say her name, but she’s like the biggest star out there, I mean, she’s like the person Beyoncé texts and is, like, dying to hang out with and eat microwave popcorn with and go shopping with for big designer purses to put their tiny little dogs in …”
The crowd starts to buzz and everyone is saying Heller’s name and everyone has an opinion, and I hear the words “slut,” “bimbo,” “gorgeous,” “alkie,” “druggie,” “Anna Banana” and “major hot mess with a side order of train wreck.”
“Dudes!” Sophie shouts over the chatter. “You think you know this person but she’s not what you’re thinking. Today she’s raising tons of money for Saint Anthony’s and making a totally massive personal donation and you’re gonna be really surprised, you’re gonna be all like, ‘What?’ But first I want you to meet—the fabulously fabulous Singing Singleberries!”
There’s almost no applause as the Singing Singleberries walk out onstage, all nine of us plus my mom and my dad. We’re all wearing our Singleberry uniforms with the boys in their burgundy blazers with embroidered musical notes on the breast pockets, and the girls in blazers, pleated skirts and kneesocks with the burgundy and gold stripes at the top. My dad and mom wear the burgundy sweaters that my mom has knitted with a pattern of dancing musical notes. Caleb has his guitar, Calico sits behind her drum set and Corinne is at her electronic keyboard.
I stand in the middle between Carter and Catherine. As I look at my family I feel so proud, because once I left the police station all of my brothers and sisters had been waiting outside. Everyone hugged me like crazy and asked all about my big weekend and Calico whispered, “You can tell Mom and Dad the PG-13 version but I want the hard R.” I told everyone about my plan to rescue Heller’s reputation and everyone agreed to help out. They’d missed Heller too.
My dad gives us an opening note from his pitch pipe and we all match the pitch. We start singing something that Castor has written and it’s become our theme song: It’s called “The Singleberry Stomp” and it begins with Carl, who’s twelve and who has the most beautifully pure tenor voice, singing all by himself:
I’M SITTING IN THE DARK
I DON’T KNOW WHAT TO DO
I WANT TO SING A SONG
WHO SHOULD I SING IT TO?
Then Calico, while keeping a light but steady beat on her snare drum, joins in with Carl:
IF YOU’RE ALL ALONE
YOUR SONG JUST GOES TO WASTE
SOMEONE NEEDS TO SING ALONG
EVERY TENOR NEEDS A BASS
Callum joins in because he’s got one of those freakishly wonderful, super-deep bass voices, as if his chest has its own echo chamber, and the three of them sing:
WHEN I HEAR ANOTHER VOICE
I KNOW I HAVE A FRIEND
WHEN WE START TO SING
OUR SPIRITS START TO BLEND
The rest of us join in for the first chorus:
SING WITH ME AND I’LL SING WITH YOU
WHEN WE SING TOGETHER, THERE’S NOTHING WE CAN’T DO
SING ME INTO JOY AND I’LL SING YOU INTO HOPE
SING ME AS WE CLIMB AND I’LL SING YOU UP THE SLOPE
SING ME THROUGH THE STORM AND WE’LL GIVE THE CLOUDS A SHOVE
SING ME INTO SUNSHINE
I WILL SING YOU INTO LOVE!
As we sing, our voices wind around one another, pushing the song’s energy higher and higher. At first the crowd is skeptical, especially because of our outfits and our scrubby-clean faces, but as we sing and Callum adds his underscore of deep-voiced bop-bop-bops, and Corinne, Calico and Catherine move into a girl-group dance routine, the song gets hotter, more complicated and jubilant. People get caught up in the swirling counterpoint and start to clap along with the rhythm and some people even start to dance, which is just what I’d had in mind when I figured out the vocal arrangement for the song. I wanted the song to begin simply and then gradually explode, as if our voices are challenging one another and finally blasting into a combination of a gospel choir, a pop song and the booming, hands-in-the-air finale of a big Broadway musical.
Ever since I was little I’ve been fascinated by what voices can do, as if each voice is a separate color that can be used as an accent or in bold contrast, or overlaid with the other colors to create something brand-new. Over the years my dad has taught me how to write down my ideas, to annotate them, and to create arrangements for our concerts. I’ve done this so much it never feels like work, especially because I have so many wonderful voices to use. That’s why I’ve always worried about a college major in choral arrangement, let alone performance studies, because getting credit and a degree for having that much fun would feel sinful.
As the song keeps building, Heller walks out onstage, wearing her own Singleberry blazer, skirt and kneesocks, which Catherine and my mom pulled together overnight. Heller’s hair is tugged back into a neat ponytail and Kenz has done her makeup so that Heller looks like a ten-year-old schoolgirl who’s not wearing any makeup at all. Heller stands next to me and she weaves her voice into the melody, without trying to stand out in any way. As I’d told Wyatt earlier: “If we want people to think that Heller is a nice person who would never take drugs or kidnap anyone or have sex, let’s turn her into a Singleberry.”
Heller has a great singing voice and she harmonizes expertly with my family as we sing:
WHEN YOU’RE FEELING DOWN AND GLOOMY
I WILL SING AWAY YOUR FEAR
WHEN I’M LOST AND FEELING FRIENDLESS
IF YOU SING I’LL KNOW Y
OU’RE NEAR
WHEN THE WORLD CAN’T GET ALONG
WHEN EACH RIGHT HAS GONE SO WRONG
WE CAN HEAL IT, WE CAN FEEL IT
IF WE SING EACH OTHER’S SONG!
As the crowd realizes, one person at a time, that Heller Harrigan is not only singing onstage but that she’s a Singleberry, the mall goes berserk, as everyone grabs their phones and starts forwarding Heller’s picture and live-streaming the song—Wyatt has taught me what all of these things are. The teenage girls are screaming Heller’s name and the teenage boys are rubbing themselves and moaning and then punching one another on the shoulder, and Wyatt has made sure there’s a group of nuns right near the stage, smiling and bobbing their heads in time to the music.
As we keep singing, something strange happens: I start singing by myself. At first I’m confused because this part of the song isn’t supposed to be a solo. As I keep singing I turn both ways to look at my family and I see that Heller has her arms spread wide, cuing everyone to take a step back, and she has a forefinger to her lips as a signal for everyone except me to stop singing.
For a second I pause in midnote because I don’t like to sing by myself. When I hear my own voice it embarrasses me. Not because I can’t sing or hit the notes but because the whole idea of singing by myself seems prideful, as if I’m showing off and saying, Hey, look at me, I’m such hot stuff, I’m better than everyone else. But right now as I keep singing I give myself permission: to go for it, to enjoy the moment and to let the world hear my voice.
Here’s my darkest and most precious secret: While I’m singing, I never feel anxious. Before I open my mouth I can get nervous and even frantic but once I produce that first sound, a sound that pleases me and a sound the world might like to hear, I’m golden. It’s not that I get lost in the music; in fact it’s the opposite. I find myself. When I’m singing I feel like I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be and until the end of the song, the demons and the twitching nerve endings and the paralyzing fear can’t touch me; there’s no room for them. The music always wins.
