“Kayla!” they shrieked. There was near-hysteria among the pack of girls as they screamed and jumped up and down.
Karl stood in front of Kayla. “Girls, if we can keep quiet, I think Kayla can do an autograph or two, all right? Line up here.” His accommodating offer was grunted like a military command, and the girls snapped to respectful attention. Karl scanned the girls quickly. I do believe he was looking for any potential dangerous implements hidden in the pockets of their Brownie uniforms.
Once Karl had completed his inspection, he nodded to Kayla, who turned on like a lightbulb. “Who first?” she asked, all smiles. Four girls extended pieces of paper that appeared out of nowhere. Kayla took a purple pen from Karl’s enormous hairy hand and signed away, asking each girl, “Who’s this for?” then inscribing the girl’s name along with her signature “Love ya baby, Kayla.” The girls were shivering with excitement and ohmygawds as Karl marched them away. One girl turned back and looked up at me. “Are you famous too? Should I get your autograph?” I shook my head a vehement NO, but Kayla handed me her purple pen and said to the girl, “Her name is Wonder Blake. Her first single drops any day now. She’s your next false god.” Even under all that beard and mustache, I saw Karl let out a chuckle.
As I leaned down to scribble my name below Kayla’s on the girl’s paper, I whispered into the girl’s ear, “Not really.”
Twenty
We hopped into the mammoth-size SUV. I recognized Kayla’s grandmother sitting in the first row of seats. She was asleep, her head resting against the car window. Seeing her kind, wrinkled face brought back instant memories of hanging out in the kitchen at Kayla’s house with Lucky and Trina during Kayla’s grandmother’s cooking lessons on how to make potato latkes with applesauce, pretending to listen but really just waiting at the table for her to dish out the delicious results. A young guy reclined across the backseat behind Kayla’s gram, with an expression so hostile he had to be destined to become an unpleasant memory. The guy had a mess of brown hair with random, green-dyed spots throughout it, and hazel eyes that glared at me like I’d committed some form of atrocity by daring to step into the vehicle.
Kayla sat next to her grandmother, and with Karl in the front seat next to the driver, I approached the back row next to scowl dude. He did not relinquish the 75 percent of the seat he was occupying to make room for me.
Kayla leaned over and mock-smacked the guy on the hand-painted Converse All Stars that were resting on the back of her seat. “Make room for my girl, Liam!”
Liam, whoever he was, moved his baggy pant legs to sit upright and placed his feet on the floor. He wiggled around. When he’d found a comfortable position, he pulled a Tootsie Pop from his mouth and slowly turned his head around to me. He literally inspected me, inching his way from bottom to top, starting with my cotton candy—colored toes in their rhinestone-specked sandals, working his way up to my shredded cutoff denim miniskirt, stopping on the midriff sticking out between my skirt and tight shirt, then a long—long—pause on my chest, and finally up, up, up until his hazel eyes were meeting mine. I had never felt so violated by a guy’s eyes before—who was this person? His eyes held mine in a dead-stare showdown until I couldn’t help but look toward Kayla, like, Save me!
“Oh God,” Liam finally said, “don’t tell me you’re the new pop princess. Tig must breed you all like rabbits.”
Kayla leaned back and mock-slapped him again. She turned to me. “Wonder, meet Liam. He’s Karl’s son and an unfortunate hanger-on during college boy here’s school vacations. See, it’s his spring break, when most normal red-blooded freshman males would be in Cancún ogling drunk sorority girls in wet T-shirt contests. Instead Liam came here to New York with some lame excuse about needing to do research at the New York Public Library for an anthropology term paper, but in fact just wanting to torture myself and Karl.” Liam’s scowl morphed into an ironic smile, as if he enjoyed Kayla’s ribbing him. Then she added, “Wonder, you’ll have to excuse Liam’s bad manners. He’s never gotten over the bitterness caused by his high school garage bands each sucking more than the one before it, reducing Liam to an embarrassing smarty-pants Ivy League existence at Dannon Yogurt University—”
“It’s Dartmouth,” Liam interrupted. He offered a dramatic sigh. “Not a place a high school dropout pop princess like you will ever see except from the window of a tour bus, isn’t that right, Kayla?”
Kayla snickered, then Karl yelled from the front passenger seat like some dad on an agonizing road trip with bickering kids, “Enough back there, you two!”
This woke Kayla’s grandma, whose head popped up and eyes sprang open. “Where are we?” she asked, confused. Then she saw Kayla sitting next to her and she smiled. She caressed Kayla’s cheek. “There’s my baby.” Kayla moved over and snuggled next to her gram.
Kayla and her grandmother had always been close, much closer than Kayla was to her parents. Kayla’s parents were both prominent academics in Boston: Her mom was a professor of women’s studies and her dad a theology professor. Both of them were always being quoted and published in major newspapers and academic journals. You’d think parents would be ultraproud of a daughter with Kayla’s talent and success, but hers weren’t; in fact, they’d always seemed embarrassed by her career, mortified that Kayla had chosen the B-Kid/pop star route and not turned into the classical music prodigy they’d expected when their brilliant minds had procreated. They sure hadn’t protested when Kayla dropped their surnames for her professional performing career. It wasn’t that Kayla went by one name only just to be like Madonna, but Kayla’s mom was Korean and her dad was Jewish, and Kayla Kim-Chaimovitz was a whole lot of name for a prospective pop princess.
Kayla’s gram—Mrs. C, as she had always been called by Kayla’s friends—turned around to face me. “Is that . . .”
“Wonder Blake,” Kayla said. “Yup. All grown up. Look at that.”
Mrs. C’s face was bright and sad at the same time—always the reaction I got from people who had known my family since Cambridge. “Look at her indeed,” Mrs. C said. “Another beauty, just like Lucky, bless her soul.”
Liam perked up from his slouch. “You’re Lucky’s sister?”
I looked back at him. It was too bad about his sorry disposition; without it, his stubble cheeks, hazel eyes, and scruffy mess of green-spotted brown hair could have passed for semiattractive. But oh my, with Liam’s scowl of a stare, he looked like Angel from Buffy the Vampire Slayer—Angel from seasons one and two, when he was really skinny and moody, before he went off to his own show and got all into nasty Cordelia, before he started wearing leather pants and lost his street cred.
Kayla pointed her finger at Liam. “That’s my best friend’s kid sister. You’re not nice to her, you have to answer to me.”
He looked at me. “Oh, I’m so scared.”
Karl: “What did I just say?”
Every tabloid and teen magazine that had Kayla linked with seemingly every hot young actor or teen prince of any European or South Asian royal dynasty had it wrong—Kayla and Liam clearly were a couple, even if Kayla and Liam hadn’t figured that out yet.
I looked out the window as the car, caught in traffic, inched past the Plaza Hotel. A manure scent wafted over to us from the row of horse and buggies across the street. I had been in Manhattan for three months now, but I hadn’t seen much of the city beyond studio spaces, offices, and salons. I tuned out Kayla and Liam’s banter for a moment, fantasizing that I was the girl in the carriage, that some Will Nieves (but not gay) or Doug Chase (but not a jerk) fun great guy was treating me to a ride around Central Park. We’d laugh and hold hands and time would just stop for the two of us. I didn’t care that the whole idea was about the lamest Disney romance scene a bored, boyfriendless, sixteen-year-old almost-pop princess could have ever imagined. I sneezed from the smell of the horse manure. Forget that fantasy—I could do better. Okay, how ’bout me and unseen dream date guy go on the Staten Island Ferry like in the “Papa Don?
??t Preach” Madonna video, only we don’t dance around and worry about me being pregnant. Then maybe at the other end of the ferry there’s a limo waiting to take us to some incredible Italian restaurant, and yeah, my guy is this unbelievably hot firefighter from Staten Island, ooh, that’ll work, and . . . Yeah right, and maybe Tig would be text-messaging me every minute: Where are you? Did you learn the melody yet? Did you lose those last five pounds yet?
God, how depressing: Even my fantasy guys had reality checks. Shouldn’t my imagination, at least, be off limits? “Where are we going, anyway?” I asked Kayla.
“We’re here!” she said. The car was stopped in front of Bergdorf Goodman, only about the poshest department store in all of Manhattan, where Mom and I had gone window-shopping during the week we came for my auditions with Pop Life Records. Karl lurched out of the SUV and was met in the front of the store by two security types wearing smart suits.
Kayla turned around to wink at me. “Let’s make this one fun!” She reached underneath her seat and pulled out a frizzy brown wig that had to be the ugliest hairstyle I’d ever seen. She placed the wig on her head and added a Burberry silk scarf over it, tying the scarf under her chin but pulling out several strands of electric mousy strands to frame her face. Then she reached into her handbag and pulled out a pair of wire-rim glasses. I couldn’t help but laugh. She looked ridiculous, with her hot body and ridiculous head getup—like some trampy old librarian.
“Want one too?” Kayla asked me.
“Sure,” I said. “Why not?”
Kayla reached underneath the seat again and pulled out a Cher-esque wig with thick long black hair and black bangs. She handed it to me along with a pair of large granny black cat-eye sunglasses from like 1955. I tried ’em on and knew my look was a success when even Liam laughed from his sulk beside me.
Karl came back to open the SUV door. He turned to Liam. “The driver will take you to the library. I’ll be out tonight, so you’re on your own. Don’t get into trouble.”
Kayla turned to Liam and flashed her megawatt grin. She pointed at him. “Yeah, Liam, don’t get into trouble.”
Karl helped Kayla, Mrs. C, and me out of the car. Then he sped off and the security guys whisked us inside the store, past rows of handbag and cosmetics counters I was dying to linger at, and into an elevator away from the crowds, who indeed did not recognize Kayla in her ridiculous disguise. We arrived in a private room where a tea service was set up and a personal shopper and several models were waiting to show us the latest line of clothes.
Nobody could ever say Kayla couldn’t show a girl a good time.
Twenty-one
The clock on the wall in the private room at Bergdorf read 1:25. I thought, if I were trapped back in Devonport, I would be sitting through Algebra 2 literally watching the clock tick through forty-two minutes of torture, waiting for it to end, trying to ignore the fact that Jen Burke was passing notes to her chums that they always made sure my eyes grazed as it passed between their hands: Some B-Kid bitch in this class couldn’t sing and dance her way out of that blaring D-I saw slapped against her test paper! Was this new life at 1:25 on a Tuesday afternoon school day better than the one I’d left behind? Hell YEAH.
In the short time I’d been in Manhattan, I’d been shopping with stylists for basic pop princess wardrobe—high-fashion jeans, short short skirts and tight tight blouses, cuter-than-a-teddy bear shoes—but nothing prepared me for the Kayla makeover. The shopping adventure with Kayla was like the Beverly Hills shopping scene in Pretty Woman where Richard Gere takes Julia Roberts to all the posh stores and makes the salesclerks totally suck up to her while showing her reams of gorgeous clothes, and she is laughing and smiling that horse grin and just having the best time ever—except for that icky part about being a prostitute. And except for the part about Kayla’s Sasquatch bodyguard hovering outside the showroom.
Stunning saleswoman: May I get you some more tea, Miss Blake?
Miss Blake: Why yes, that would be lovely.
Stunning saleswoman: What a figure you have! This Chanel dress is the one for you.
Miss Blake: Why thank you. I’ve been working out, like, A LOT.
Stunning saleswoman: We have scones too. Would you like a scone?
Kayla: No! (reaching into her purse and handing a protein bar to a famished Miss Blake) She can’t eat bread. How do you expect her to fit into that dress? (She points to Miss Blake’s dream dress.)
What looked on a hanger like a simple raw silk tea rose cocktail frock was, when on my body, a princess-in-waiting, Vogue cover wanna-be, unpronounceable Euro-name designer, Wonder Blake ECSTATIC dress. Seeing myself in the mirror with the dress on, I had to suppress the urge to twirl around like Belle in Beauty and the Beast—I couldn’t possibly appear that uncool in front of Kayla. I stepped up on tippy toes instead, a ballet pose. Kayla snapped her fingers and BOOM, boxes and boxes of shoes magically appeared. Kayla chose the killer match: a pair of four-inch black spiked-heel pumps, cut in a triangular shape at the toes, with ribbon at the back to wrap around the ankles and partially up the leg.
Kayla stood up next to me at the mirror, pressing her hand into my upper arm. “Go on, flex,” she said. I flexed for her and she felt around my new muscles. “Not bad, not bad.” She flexed her own bicep: completely Halle Berry-worthy, sculpted to a lean work of art. “But you still have a way to go.”
The saleswoman finished fitting the dress on me. “I wish I had a prom to go to!” I said to Kayla when I saw the reflection of myself in the mirror. The saleswoman was behind me, adjusting the hems while a tailor stuck pins into the dress.
“Prom?” Kayla said. “Wake up and smell the G.E.D. That dress is for like a movie premiere or a record release party. Paparazzi and shit.”
“You think I can go to one of those parties?”
“Wonder! Snap to attention! This is your new life. You chose it. YES. Live it, love it, wear it!” Kayla sang that last sentence, jumping up to treat the room to a hip-hop dance grind accompaniment. “Ooh,” she added, “I think I have a new song.”
The dress didn’t have a price on it. I asked the saleswoman, “How much does this dress cost, anyway?”
Kayla said, “This trip’s on big sister Kayla. Think of it as a present from me and Lucky.”
I knew better than to protest with Kayla. She always said what she meant; this was case closed. I smiled at her in the mirror. “Thank you so much.”
Not like I could argue: Almost all of the advance payment from the record company had gone right into a trust fund for me, and the rest had gone toward a new living room ceiling and other home improvements for the house in Devonport. I was glad the money was being used to help my family, but at the same time, I wouldn’t have minded having a little income available to me. I didn’t even have a credit card. All Mom’s and my expenses so far had been taken care of by Tig.
The saleswoman tried to be discreet, but she was ogling my boobs, adjusting them to fit into the dress properly. I’m like Excuse me! but I was too intimidated to protest. The saleswoman said to her assistant, “Call the lingerie department. Have them send up a line of (completely not understandable French name line of lingerie that sounded like a major spit) for Miss Blake.” She looked at me in the mirror. “You’re wearing the wrong bra size. Your . . . assets can be accentuated much better with the proper garments.”
I turned beet red, but Kayla laughed. “Get used to it! I wish I had what you’ve got. Demure Lucky, you are NOT. I can already see the message boards on the Internet from every horndog high school boy in America. They’re not even going to care about your voice—just look at you!”
“Ew!” I exclaimed. I instinctively crossed my arms over my chest. “That is so gross! Anyway, I don’t see what the big deal is. These things always get in the way, they’re embarrassing, and my dance teacher says I have to work twice as hard just so their force of gravity doesn’t keep me off half a beat. Guys writing about my chest on the Internet? I don’t think so! Th
at’s disgusting—no way!”
Kayla turned to the saleswoman, the saleswoman’s assistant, and the tailor. “Would you mind excusing us for a minute?”
They left without a word, and Kayla turned to me, eyes blazing Serious Moment. She said, “I think there’s something you’re not getting in this picture. Your first single is about to come out, and the people behind you are prepared to take it big time. This is not a school musical, this is millions of people seeing you, recognizing you, criticizing you. This is it. Public person—the good, the bad, and the ugly. Are you ready?”
In Kayla’s voice I heard echoes of Lucky—without Lucky’s sweetness, but with her natural concern. I muttered to Kayla what was my deepest fear. “What if I’m not good enough? This all happened so fast . . .”
Kayla said, “You ARE good enough. I didn’t spend two years listening to you singing backup for Lucky—and drowning her out—on Beantown Kidz not to know that. And Tig would not have you here if you weren’t. He played the raw tracks you’ve laid down so far for me. You sound great—and when Tig’s record producer finishes with those tracks, I guarantee you’re not going to recognize your own voice.”
“But other people work so hard to get what I was just handed. What if I can’t pull it off?”
Suddenly Kayla was no longer a concerned Lucky substitute. Now she was mad. “So you were chosen by Tig and Pop Life to be one of their factory pop prospects. So WHAT! Do you know how competitive it is out there? Do you realize that for every time you doubt your own ability there is another pop princess wanna-be cutting a demo, trying to knock you out of contention? So listen up now, because now might be your last chance. If you are in this, you’d better be in it all the way. I am NOT going to be putting my ass on the line for you, supporting your record and telling every veejay and journo out there about you if you’re not ready to play in the big time.” Kayla stopped, looked me dead cold in the eyes. “So tell me, Wonder Blake, are you in this or not?”