My Double Life

by Janette Rallison

CHAPTER 3

  Mom had to be to work by seven A.M., so she was always gone before I got up, but just to torture myself I read her e-mail to Kari's manager. It said, “Ms. Pomeroy, Alexia appreciates your offer, but we feel she needs to stay here and finish school."

  Which I suppose was better than writing, "I’m sorry but we think celebrities are such jerks that we’d rather spend our time using cast-off towels and piecing together broken soap than ever work for you.”

  In physics Trevor was acting weird. He kept leaning toward my desk like he wanted to talk to me, but then he never said anything.

  After the third time he did this, I leaned toward him. "Is everything okay?"

  "Yeah,” he said as though he didn’t know why I asked. Then after another moment, he added, "I was thinking we should talk about the dance."

  "Okay.” I had never discussed the details with him, and suddenly I looked forward to that. It would seem more official, less awkward when we were deciding the restaurant and who we'd go with. Lori had finally asked someone.

  "I’ll talk to you after school, all right?”

  "Sure." I didn't say more. The teacher had sent a glare in our direction.

  I was actually in a good mood for the rest of school. For once I would have Trevor’s attention all to myself. No teachers to squelch our conversations, no Theresa to distract him.

  After my last class, I waited at my locker, putting my homework into my backpack extra slowly. He didn't show up. I stayed a while longer, scanning the hallways. He should have been more specific about where he wanted to meet.

  When I still didn’t see him, I walked to his locker. He wasn't there either. Had he forgotten?

  I told myself not to be disappointed and headed toward the school door. He probably meant he’d call me after school.

  As 1 walked through the lobby, I saw Trevor and Theresa standing together by the trophy case. Kissing.

  I stopped walking.

  Well, this was nice. I walked over to them, arms folded, and cleared my throat. "So, Trevor, you wanted to talk to me?”

  Trevor lifted his head. "Oh,” he said as though just remembering I existed. "Alexia.”

  Theresa slid her arm around his waist. A triumphant smile spread across her face. "Sorry, but he’s going to the dance with me.”

  I kept my eyes on him. "Has anyone ever told you that you have a lot of class?”

  He didn’t answer, didn't move away from Theresa.

  "No? Well, there’s probably a good reason for that.” I turned and walked out the school doors, without waiting to see if he ever came up with anything to say. My throat felt tight, and my stomach lurched with each step I took.

  Stupid dance. Why had I even bought tickets? What was I going to do with them now? And if Trevor didn't want to go with me, why hadn’t he just said so in the first place?

  It didn't matter, really. He and Theresa were both pigs.

  I walked faster. I wanted to run. I wanted to sprint all the way home and lock myself in my room and cry. I was probably going to cry anyway, but I wouldn’t let myself run. He wasn’t worth it.

  Guys just couldn’t be trusted. Didn't I already know that? Wasn’t that the first thing I'd learned in life, that men wouldn't be there for you?

  And now I was crying, and I wasn’t even home. I brushed a streak of tears off my cheek and forced myself to think about something else. The ugly yellow paint of the house I passed. The weeds growing in the sidewalk cracks. The big black car behind me, which was obviously lost because it was driving really slow.

  I pushed myself to go faster. What was wrong with me, anyway? Had I misinterpreted Trevor’s flirting? Was I just his second choice if Theresa didn't work out?

  I took deep breaths. The black car behind me still drove so slowly that it didn’t pass by. And then I realized what I should have known all along. It was following me.

  So apparently Trevor had come after me but still didn't have the courage to speak to me. I stopped walking, turned around, and waited for the car to catch up to me. Jerk. I would tell him exactly what he could do with his apology.

  But the driver’s tinted window slid down to reveal a woman, probably in her early thirties. She looked like a newscaster. Shoulder-length dark hair, perfectly set, tons of makeup. She smiled over at me. "Hi, I'm Maren Pomeroy, Kari Kingsley's manager. Can we talk for a moment?"

  I didn't move. In fact, the whole thing sort of freaked me out. The woman who worked for Kari Kingsley? Why was she here when she’d said she lived in California?

  Ms. Pomeroy kept smiling at me. "We can go to your house, or perhaps you’d like to go to a restaurant and get something to eat?”

  I took a step away from the car. "Sorry, but I don’t think my mother would like that. I mean, bringing a stranger to the house.” I took another step down the sidewalk. "Or, you know, going someplace without asking her.”

  The back door swung open, and for a moment I expected some guy in a trench coat to step out and grab me. I was on the balls of my feet, ready to sprint away And then I saw Kari Kingsley sitting in the backseat. She wore a pair of tight jeans, red spiky heels, and a red halter top underneath a loosely crocheted white sweater. She took a pair of sunglasses from her eyes and slid them onto her head with apparent irritation.

  "I’ve spent a long time on a plane to come see you. The least you could do is give me ten minutes of your time.”

  I gaped at her. I couldn’t help it. As though she might not have known it, I said, "You're Kari Kingsley.”

  "Yeah.” She slipped her sunglasses back on. "Do you want to get in the car before your little school friends come by? I didn’t plan on causing a scene."

  "Oh. Sorry.” I slid into the car, put my backpack on the floor, and shut the door. I did it without even thinking about it. It was like the president of the United States had asked me to get in the car. No wonder my mother resented celebrities. You just felt compelled to do their bidding.

  As soon as I shut the door, Ms. Pomeroy pulled away from the curb. "A restaurant or your house?”

  "Only say your house if you’ve got something five star to eat," Kari said. "I'm hungry.”

  Actually, we probably did have something good to eat, but I said, "Restaurant.” I wasn't about to bring Kari Kingsley to my run-down house or introduce her to my grandmother—seeing as the last thing Abuela had said about Kari was that she should be hit with a Bible.

  Kari took her glasses off again to better survey me. I stared back at her, comparing each of her features to my own. Her nose was sharper than mine, her lips a little thinner. But the tilt of our eyes, the rise of our cheekbones, even the slope of our chins were the same. I'd seen her picture a hundred times, but it was still surreal to see my face on a stranger; like gazing into a mirror - well... a sophisticated blond mirror.

  “So do you look this way naturally?” she asked. "Or did you go to a plastic surgeon and tell him to put my face on yours?”

  I nearly laughed at the image that painted—me strolling into a plastic surgeon and picking out lips and cheekbones like they were ingredients on a pizza. “It’s all natural.”

  She leaned back in her seat, shaking her head. "Sheesh, you look more like me than I do.”

  I didn’t think that was possible, but I didn’t challenge her on it.

  “I actually have brown hair,” she said. "My mom was Mexican.”

  I liked her more right then. Even though her life had been nothing like mine, we had something in common.

  "So is my mom," I said. “¿Hablas espanol?"

  She shook her head. "My mom died when I was baby, and my dad,” she gave a dismissive shrug, "he only knows enough Spanish to give instructions to the cleaning ladies. It sort of ticks me off now that it’s chic to be Latina.”

  "Really, it’s chic now? I must have missed that announcement.”

  Kari laughed and then glanced out the window at the row of small houses we passed. "You've lived here too long. In California nobody cares what color you are s
o long as you're beautiful.”

  “Oh. Well, that's a much better system.” I was being sarcastic, but I'm not sure Kari picked up on this. She nodded as though she agreed with me.

  From the front seat Ms. Pomeroy said, “Kari, why don’t we go back to the hotel. That way you can order room service and talk privately.”

  The hotel. Oh, no. I knew as soon as she said it that we'd go to the Waterfront Place, where my mom worked. It was the nicest hotel in Morgantown.

  My stomach clenched. I wasn’t even sure what worried me more, the fact that my mom might see me walk in with Ms. Pomeroy and Kari Kingsley after she’d already turned down their job offer, or the fact that I might have to introduce Ms. Pomeroy and Kari Kingsley to my mom while she wore her housekeeping uniform.

  I knew without them having to tell me that they had come to reoffer the job. They didn't have another reason to be here.

  "Actually, there are some good restaurants in Morgantown,” I said.

  Kari waved off my suggestion with a set of immaculate red nails. "We shouldn’t be seen together in public. Maren told you this has to be kept secret, right?”

  Before I could answer, Ms. Pomeroy said, "I told her.” Her eyes found mine in the rearview mirror. "You haven't told anyone about this except for your parents, have you?”

  "No,” I said.

  "Good," Kari said with a sigh. "Really, I shouldn't have even come, but I wanted to judge you for myself. Not that I don't trust Maren’s opinion, it's just that—"

  "Flying out here gave you an excuse to abandon the studio,” Ms. Pomeroy added dryly.

  Kari smiled. "Exactly. And now I'm satisfied.” Her gaze ran over me. “With a few changes, you could pass for me."

  I fidgeted with the edge of my seat. "You got the e-mail from my mom where she turned you down, right?”

  Kari brushed off my words. "We got it, but you can always finish high school online, you know. We’ll get you a tutor if you need one.” She tilted her head, considering me. "Although Maren tells me you’re brilliant. You even belong to the smart club.”

  "National Honor Society," I said.

  "Well, there you have it." She lifted a hand in my direction. "That's one of the reasons why I need you so much.”

  "Need me to do what, exactly?” I asked.

  "I need you to pretend to be me at some functions."

  I laughed. I thought she was joking, and I waited for her to tell me what she really wanted me to do. Only she didn't.

  When I'd thought about what being a double meant, I'd imagined, vaguely, that I would be used as a decoy to throw off the paparazzi when she went to events or stuff like that. Like a stunt double. Not once did I ever think she actually wanted me to pretend to be her.

  "I can't do that,” I said.

  "Why not?"

  I leaned toward her, shaking my head. "We don't look so much alike that we’re interchangeable."

  She let out a sigh and wrinkled her nose. "Yeah, I need to talk to you about that. We'll have to change your hair, and you'll need to start wearing makeup.”

  "I do wear makeup," I said defensively. “Just not very much."

  Kari’s gaze ran up and down me again. "And definitely your clothes have to go . . . oh, and your walk too. We watched you come out of the school, and there’s no good way to tell you this, but you looked like you were plowing through a snowdrift." She held out her hand, palm up, as though showing me something. "You need some finesse. You know, some strut.”

  "I don’t always walk like that,” I said. "I’ve had a bad day."

  From the front seat, Ms. Pomeroy called out cheerfully, "We’re at the hotel. Let’s finish talking about this upstairs.”

  I looked out the window. Yep, it was my mom's hotel, which meant not only did I have to worry about bumping into her, but also all the employees who knew me. I gripped the door handle and told myself I should tell Ms. Pomeroy and Kari that my answer was no now, before I got into trouble with my mom. I knew I couldn’t accept her offer.

  But I didn’t. I don't know whether it was curiosity, or whether I was still star struck at being invited to come up to Kari’s room, or whether a small part of me hoped I’d find a way to make the job work.

  I could earn between a hundred and twenty and two hundred and forty thousand dollars a year. I couldn’t even imagine everything I could do with that much money.

  Kari slipped her sunglasses on and pulled a hoodie over her head. “The room is in Maren's name," she said, “so hopefully no one will recognize me.” Kari took another pair of sunglasses from her purse and handed them to me. "Here, as long as you're walking around with my face and those clothes, you'd better wear these.”

  I’d had her face for my entire life and at times wore a lot worse than the jeans and T-shirt I had on, but I didn't argue with her.

  Kari peered around the parking lot, then sighed before opening the door. “Sometimes it’s so hard to be me."

  I followed her out of the car but didn't tell her that actually I had a better chance of being recognized at the hotel.

  We walked quickly through the lobby, and I kept my head down. We went to the elevator and Ms. Pomeroy pushed the up button. So far so good. Kari was busy telling me that in California I’d stay in Ms. Pomeroy’s guest room and have my own driver and the use of other professional staff.

  Why did elevators take so long?

  Jonathan, one of the waiters from the hotel restaurant, walked past us with a dining cart on his way to the service elevator. I wanted to turn so he couldn't see my face, but Kari was still talking.

  Just as our elevator door opened, he glanced over. His eyes widened with surprise when he saw me. “Hey,” he called over, “how ya doing?"

  Kari flung her hand up like a traffic cop. "I'm sorry, but we don't have time to talk to fans.”

  And then she grabbed hold of my arm and propelled me into the elevator.

  Well, that was probably going to be hard to explain to Jonathan later.

  Ms. Pomeroy pushed the eleventh-floor button, and Kari leaned against the wall and let out a sigh. "That's the thing I hate about this business. People never leave you alone. They think they have the right to talk to you whenever they feel like it.” She gazed at me with a solemn expression. “You’re going to have to learn how to deal with the public as part of your job. You can't be nice to people or you’ll be mobbed. You have to cut them off and walk away.”

  Ms. Pomeroy nodded. "We’ll try to protect you as much as possible.”

  The elevator opened and we stepped out. Alleen, one of the maids, walked by carrying an armful of towels. She did a double take when she saw me, then smiled. "Hey, there, what are you doing here?”

  Kari shook her head and increased her pace. "Look, we're very busy and don't have time for autographs."

  Alleen's eyebrows shot up at that, but I didn't have a chance to explain.

  Great. There was no way my mom wouldn’t hear about this.

  A few moments later, we walked into one of the luxury suites. The high ceiling, large sitting room, and flowing curtains made it seem more like a high-end apartment than a hotel room. The smell of room freshener and clean sheets surrounded me.

  Kari took her sunglasses and jacket off and tossed them on the coffee table, then sank down into the couch. I sat down on the love seat and placed my sunglasses next to hers. Ms. Pomeroy picked up the room service menu and rattled off food choices until we chose something. Then she picked up the phone and ordered.

  Kari said, "Tell them to hurry. I’m starving." She leaned toward me confidentially. "And despite the National Enquirer putting me on anorexia watch, I'm not one of those celebrities who think starving is a good thing.”

  Into the phone Ms. Pomeroy said, "Can you bring that as fast as possible? We’ll give you an extra tip.”

  I wondered if Ms. Pomeroy always did everything Kari asked. It just seemed odd to me, an adult taking orders from someone wearing a halter top.

  When Ms. Pomeroy finished w
ith the phone, she sat down on the couch next to Kari, and they both looked over at me. "Well, then, we’d better get on with the interview. You’d be willing to change your clothes and hair, wear makeup, and work on your walk and mannerisms?” Before I could answer, she turned to Kari. "Is there anything else you think Alexia needs to change?”

  Kari nodded. "Her voice. She needs to lose the hillbilly accent.”

  "I don’t have a hillbilly accent," I said.

  Ms. Pomeroy pursed her lips as though considering it. "You’re a’s are a little too long, but besides that, your voices are similar enough that I don’t see any reason this won't work.” "Neither do I,” Kari said. "We'll see how well you can pull off being me for a couple of easy events. If you can do it, you’ll have the job for the year.”

  Which still didn’t make sense to me. I said, "Changing my hair and makeup won’t fool people who know you.” Kari relaxed into the couch cushions, looking elegantly at home against the rich fabric. “I’m not asking you to fool my friends or staff. But you could pass for me with everyone else. And they’re the only ones I need to fool because they’re the ones who pay to see me.”

  "You mean like at concerts?" I couldn't, even for a moment, imagine myself up in front of a stadium full of people.

  "Not big concerts. I’m talking about smaller stuff, mall openings, parades, maybe lip-synching a few songs for some state fairs and rodeos.” Before I could say anything else, she went on. “They pay me forty thousand dollars a pop, and I need the money too much to turn them down. I've got some debts that are bleeding me dry, but I don't have the time to do that stuff. That’s why I need you to do it.”

  "Isn't that illegal?" I asked.

  Kari rolled her eyes. "That’s why you're keeping it a secret."

  Ms. Pomeroy leaned forward, smiling at me like I was silly for asking. "Celebrities use doubles all of the time, and lip-synching is just part of the business.” I must not have looked convinced. She added, "Think of it as a win-win situation. People want Kari to make appearances. It helps them with fund-raisers, membership drives, getting people to come to their events, that sort of thing—but she doesn't have the time. She's got to work on her next album. If you go in her place, the groups are happy, Kari still gets things done, and you get paid four thousand dollars an event, five if it requires travel.”

  I looked at my hands. Unlike Kari’s immaculate fingernails, mine had been chewed down to nothing. It was one more difference between us that she’d overlooked.

  "They don’t really care about me anyway,” Kari said. "All I am is an image. If they believe they’re getting the real thing, they'll be just as thrilled."

  "We’ll help you so you'll be ready," Ms. Pomeroy added. "And you’ll get a new wardrobe, a hairstylist, a professional makeup artist, and a driver—what more could you want?"

  For a moment I imagined myself on stage, the spotlight washing over me, thousands of people screaming and clapping.

  But even as the applause echoed in my mind, I knew I wouldn't do it. If I didn't mess up and get caught—and that seemed like a risky if—wasn't it still wrong to get paid to trick people? I couldn’t imagine proposing the idea to Mom. I let the calculations of money drain from my mind in a drizzle of dollar signs. “I’m sorry. My mother is not going to let me do this.”

  Kari stared at me as though I'd told her the world was flat after all, but Ms. Pomeroy didn't lose her smile. "Well, you’re eighteen, aren’t you? You're old enough to make your own decisions.”

  “I’ll think about it,” I said, because I was too polite to say "I know, and I just made my decision."

  When my mother heard about this, she would gloat about the fact that I had sided with her in the end.

  "What's there to think about?” Ms. Pomeroy said. "If going against your mother's wishes would create a financial hardship on you, I could add another five hundred dollars per presentation." Her smile had an edge to it now. "I don't think you'll ever find a better job than this. You’ll make more than most professionals. And you're going to have to cut the apron strings from your mother sooner or later.”

  “It's not about the money,” I said.

  Ms. Pomeroy arched an eyebrow, waiting to hear what it was about.

  "There’s a difference between cutting apron strings and cutting ties,” I said. "I’d like to still be welcome at my house for Thanksgiving dinner.”

  Ms. Pomeroy didn’t blink. "Five thousand in state. Six thousand out, and you can have Thanksgiving dinner at my house. I'll throw in Christmas too, if you want.”

  She was serious. Which is why I stared at her open- mouthed.

  Kari turned to Ms. Pomeroy. "Don’t force her into it. She doesn't want to ruin things with her mother. I can understand that.”

  Ms. Pomeroy let out a sigh and fluttered one hand in the air as though brushing away the subject. "Fine. We came all this way, but if you’ve decided you’d rather do the events yourself, I won’t stop you.” Her voice changed just enough to alter her meaning. "After all, you’re fine out in the public eye."

  Kari glared at her, then turned her attention back to me. "That’s the other reason I hoped you'd do this for me." She ran her fingers across the hem of her shirt, twisting it. “I've never really liked crowds—”

  "You don’t like crowds?” I repeated. It seemed contradictory—rock stars were supposed to want crowds of people to come to their concerts.

  "I love singing, performing, doing the stuff that's scripted—but crowds are a bunch of people watching you, and taking pictures of you, and just waiting for you to mess up so they can laugh at you. I’ve said a couple things that were blown way out of proportion, and everyone made fun of me and now I..." She wiped her hands against her jeans. "I freeze up when reporters point cameras at me. I don't want to be in front of people for a while. But you're so smart, you wouldn't have to worry about saying the wrong thing."

  And then I felt bad because I'd made fun of her when I'd seen those clips too. Not once had I ever wondered how it had affected her or how hard it must be to mess up in front of the entire world.

  I said, "Everyone says the wrong thing sometimes. It doesn't mean you're not smart.”

  A knock sounded on the door. Ms. Pomeroy stood up, but Kari was closer. "There's the food." As she walked toward the door, she added, “Thank goodness they're fast.”

  That had been fast. For a moment I worried that when Kari opened the door it would actually be my mother, her hands on her hips, chewing me out in Spanish, like she did whenever she was angry.

  But it wasn’t. When the door swung open, Don, one of the older waiters, stood behind a dining cart. "Your Caesar salad, fettuccine Alfredo, and bacon cheeseburger, well done.”

  "Thanks.” Kari pulled the cart into the room and then went to shut the door.

  Don held out a clipboard and a pen to her. "If I could get you to sign this—”

  Kari huffed out an exasperated sigh and put one hand on her hip. "Don’t you people know when to stop? Really, there are times to leave celebrities alone, and this is one of them.”

  She shut the door with a thud.

  "Kari," Ms. Pomeroy said, getting to her feet again, "he was asking you to sign for the food."

  A blush spread across Kari's face. "Oh."

  The knock came at the door again.

  This time Ms. Pomeroy opened it. Don still stood there, clipboard held out in his hand. She took it from him and scrawled a signature on the paper while Kari took her fettuccine Alfredo off the cart. Kari cast Don another glance. "You should have told me you needed my signature for the food."

  "Sorry, miss." He looked over at me while Ms. Pomeroy handed him the clipboard back. His eyebrows rose when he saw me, but he didn't say anything else.

  Ms. Pomeroy shut the door and brought my plate to me. I wished I hadn't ordered anything. I didn’t want to stay here with them after I’d already told them no, and my resolve was slipping. I could see why Kari didn’t want to be in front of reporters who could br
oadcast every mistake she made to millions of viewers.

  As Kari handed me my cheeseburger, I said, "Isn’t there some other way you could make money? You know, maybe some product endorsements?"

  Ms. Pomeroy took the lid off her salad and sifted through it with her fork. "Kari actually lost a product endorsement after her MTV awards speech. What she needs is to get her next CD out, and that won't happen unless she has time to work on it.”

  Kari cut into her pasta and her voice took on a bitter tone. "My father could help me, but he won't.”

  Something else we had in common, apparently. That same sentence had run through my mind during my mother's talk about college expenses. "Why not?” I asked.

  "We're not really on speaking terms. Mostly because he doesn’t speak, he lectures.” She shrugged as though it didn't matter, but the tenseness didn't leave her face. "He doesn’t like my spending habits, but I don’t see why he cares so much. He doesn’t need the money. He actually turns down product endorsements.”

  I picked a french fry off my plate and nibbled at it. "Your father gets asked to do endorsements? Because he’s your father?”

  Ms. Pomeroy leaned toward me like a teacher explaining directions on a test. "Kari’s father is Alex Kingsley.”

  Even though she’d said it in a way that indicated I should know him, I didn't.

  She added, "The lead singer of The Journey Men."

  "Oh, The Journey Men," I said. "We have all their CDs. My mother is a big fan.”

  As soon as the words left my mouth, something clicked into place in my mind. No, actually that isn’t the right word. It wasn’t a click, it was a push—the push of a row of dominoes, each falling into another, tumbling, dropping, scattering until everything was a mess.

  Kari took a forkful of fettuccine, then glanced over at me and didn't eat it. "Are you all right? You’ve gone completely white.”

  "I'm okay,” I lied. I could be wrong. I mean, what were the chances? I tried to picture the CD covers of The Journey Men and the posters I’d seen in my mother's closet. The lead singer—he had sandy blond hair, but what color were his eyes ... ?

  "Which one is your father?" I asked, and my voice came out almost normal. "Is he the tall one with sandy blond hair and blue eyes?”

  "Right,” Kari said. "That's him. Usually front and center.” I stared back at her without blinking. The last domino had hit the ground.