I'm So Sure (26 page)

“Here you are.” Jake opens our door.

We walk past the bathroom into a living room. On either side of us are two bedrooms. Per
Pile Driver of Dreams
rules, Jake and Mickey each have their own rooms on a private floor, so I pick out a bedroom for me and Mom.

Peeking into the room, my jaw drops at the king-sized bed in the shape of a wrestling ring. Microphones hang over the bed in some sort of freakish attempt to be a chandelier. I think this might be tackier than my bedroom at Dad’s.

I check the bathroom. Behind the door hang two velvety robes like a wrestler would wear after a match. The sink is a giant wrestling boot. I reach into my purse and click away with my phone. No one will
ever
believe this place without photographic proof.

When I rejoin the family in the living room, Mickey Patrick sits on the couch, his arm playfully crooked around Robbie’s neck. Is it weird that headlocks are an acceptable form of greeting in my family? Dogs sniff each other’s butts. Most people handshake. But us? We grab you in ways that make you think your neck is going to snap off.

“Are you nervous?” Mom sits on the opposite couch next to Jake, her hand resting on his knee.

He blows out a long breath. “It’s big stuff tonight. For the next two days, we’re paired with professional wrestlers from WWT and had just today to plot out a storyline and choreograph the wrestling matches. So this is the big leagues, you know? Tonight’s about pleasing the viewing audience for the votes, but tomorrow is about pleasing the judges from WWT.”

Jake kisses Mom’s cheek. “I hate to duck out so soon, but I have to get back. Lots of work to be done yet.”

“I need to go too.” Mickey stands up, his gaze averted. “I want to call and check on Dolly.”

After dinner we have time to walk the strip before returning to the hotel. Al Gore would
seriously
not be pleased with this town’s electricity bill. As night falls, we walk back through the hotel and the clanging casino to the WWT arena.

God, please let Jake win. And keep him safe. It would be really cool if he came through this without anything broken. Like his spine.

An usher guides Mom, Budge, Robbie, and me to our seats near the floor. A camera across the room is trained on us, but I don’t care. I’ll be through with cameras by next week after the wrap-up show airs. Through with America occasionally seeing my face on TV and in the tabloids. Through living
la vida
Lohan.

Some time later the
Pile Driver of Dreams
host walks to the center of the ring. He wears a tuxedo, and the crowd roars when he’s handed a microphone.

“Ladies and gentlemen! Welcome to our two-part finale of
Pile Driver of Dreams
. As you know, our contestants are working with the familiar faces of WWT. Tonight you’ll see them in action with the wrestling heroes. After the show, we’ll post the numbers, and that’s when you call or text your vote.”

I don’t have unlimited texting, but I think Mom will understand five hundred or so over my limit.

“And tomorrow night the two remaining contestants will go head-to-head for the judges. The scores will be averaged, and we will announce our winner of the WWT contract. Are you ready, America?” The yells and applause of thousands thunder in the arena. “Live from Las Vegas! This . . . is . . .
Pile Driver of Dreams
! Our first contestant will be Captain Iron Jack!”

A door on the center stage opens. Smoke billows out as Jake saunters toward the ring. He poses and works the crowd. As his professional opponent enters the same way, Jake takes the moment to slip through the ropes and step into the ring. Before thousands in the arena and millions at home, he drops to one knee. And bows his head. Oh, my gosh. He’s praying. On national television.

I think I’m kinda proud. A good portion of the crowd shouts their approval. I just hope he doesn’t split his pants while he’s down there. Wouldn’t be anything holy about that sight.

I spend the next hour biting my nails. Just another reason to get a manicure before prom. Jake is seriously good, but will it seal a victory? I’m not exactly sure how you measure the quality of a choke hold or a leg squeeze. And his competition, Sanchez the Snake, is the one who dreams of being a professional wrestler just so he can send money to Mexico for his mother’s liver transplant. How do you compete with that?

I tried to talk Budge into stepping in front of a bus for some sympathy, but he wouldn’t go for it. I guess he doesn’t want his dad to win as badly as I thought.

When the show is over, we all walk back to the hotel room with a security scort like our last name is Cyrus. Fans snap Jake’s picture and beg him for autographs. It takes us forty-five minutes just to get through the lobby.

On Friday we go to another buffet for breakfast. With such easy access to pancakes, I eat them like I’ll never see another.

We spend the rest of the day rotating between sightseeing, finding Robbie when he flies away, and doing interviews for the media in the pressroom, which is the weirdest thing ever.

“Bella,” the reporter for
E! News
begins, “all of America has followed you through your public relationships.”

“You mean my friendships.” Would it be impolite to growl here?

“Has it been hard having your life documented on television while you sorted out your feelings for Luke Sullivan and your ex-boyfriend Hunter Penbrook?”

I feel my face flush with desert heat. What if Luke sees this? “As I have said all along, both of these guys are my friends. I would hate for anyone to make more out of it just for the sake of a story.”
Wa-pow
! Take that!

My entire family fields questions like these for hours, as does the family of the remaining contestant. When I walk by one camera fixed on Robbie, I smile as he tells them how his cape helps him save the world on a daily basis.

As Mom finishes up with CBS, I gravitate toward some brownies and snacks on a table.

A woman in airbrushed jeans and a halter top grabs two. “This stuff is crazy, isn’t it?”

“I hope you don’t mean the brownies,” I say. “Because I really need one right now.”

She laughs with a Marlboro-laced huskiness. “I mean the months of cameras, the interviews, the gossip magazines.”

“Are you Sanchez the Snake’s wife?”

She cackles again. “I still can’t get used to that name.” She wipes her black-lined eyes. “I call him Louie Heine. Though I’ve certainly called him a snake plenty of times too.” She sucks in a fuchsia pink lip. “I’m Frannie, and I am
not
Louie’s wife. I’m his
ex
-wife.”

“Oh.” I crunch my teeth on some nuts. Why do people have to destroy a perfectly good brownie with nuts? “That’s too bad about his mom. I hope she gets her liver.” Just not with winnings from the show.

She snorts loud enough to turn a few heads. “Right. His dying mom. In Mexico.”

Okay, well, her bitterness is putting a downer on my snack time. “I’ll see you at the show, Frannie.” I stuff some chocolate chip cookies in my purse and walk away. Somewhere there’s a buffet calling my name.

Later in the hotel room, after I’m glossed, CHI’d, and sprayed, I join the rest of the superprimped family in the sitting area. We all look ready for our close-up.

Mom has us say a quick prayer for Jake, then we’re out the door, walking down the hall on carpet so busy it makes my eyes hurt.

Once again we are escorted to our seats in the WWT arena. Chills break out on my arms as music swells and the host begins his intro.

“Hello, America! We’re coming to you from Las Vegas at the World Wrestling Television Hotel, and we are down to the final night. This evening our contestants, Captain Iron Jack and Sanchez the Snake, will have two matches—against each other. We will combine your voting results from last night with the judge’s scores at the end of this hour. The winner will walk away from here as

I’m Sure the new professional wrestler on the WWT team. Live from Las Vegas . . . it’s
Pile Driver of Dreams
!”

The crowd goes wild. Robbie and Budge hold up signs for Jake. I scan the crowd for more just like them.

Giant screens play highlights of the last few months, giving the overview of Jake and Snake’s lives.

“Captain Iron Jack gets up before dawn to train, then reports to work at a local factory to help support his wife and three kids. Jillian Finley and Bella Kirkwood, once Manhattan princesses, now live the Wal-Mart life on Jake’s income . . .”

Eek. No need to make us sound like we’re one paycheck away from living out of the Tahoe.

“Sanchez the Snake works three jobs . . . to pay for his five children . . .”

The person behind me kicks my seat, and automatically I turn around. It’s Frannie. Her arms are crossed, her eyes narrow slits. “Pays for his five kids.” She does her snorting thing again. “And I’m Reese stinkin’ Witherspoon.”

I return my attention back to the screen.

“Sanchez the Snake also supports his mother, who will die soon without the money for an organ transplant.” They show pictures of Snake’s kids and a pitiful shot of his shriveled up mom. The entire arena
awwwww
s.

“
Aw
, my tush!”

This lady is worse than high schoolers in a movie theater. “Frannie”—my voice snaps a little too harshly—“can you keep it down?” I dig into my purse. “I have some cookies if you want them.”

“Sorry, kid.” She smacks on a big wad of gum. “This whole thing is about over, and I’m officially at my breaking point.” She points toward the screen. “They’re making him out to be some stinkin’ saint. That man’s never paid a dime of child support to my five kids.” She blinks rapidly as if holding back tears. “And little Tommy needs . . .”

I hand her a Kleenex. “Shoes?”

She sniffs. “A Wii.”

“But if your ex-husband hasn’t paid you in all these years, why are you here?”

“Because I want that money. He owes me.” She blows her nose. “But now . . . my tummy hurts, you know?”

“From all the brownies?”

“No,” she whines. “From keeping his secrets.”

The heavens open and angels sing above me. “What are you talking about?”

“And tonight he tells me he knows he has it in the bag—and won’t be giving his kids their share.”

I’m so in her space, I’ve all but leapt over the seat. “Frannie, what secrets?”

Her dark brown eyes lock onto mine. “Sanchez the
Snake
does
not
have a mother in Mexico. She lives in Scottsdale, Arizona, in a condo on the ninth green.”

“But the little old lady? The video footage?”

She waves a hand. “I did some acting in my skinny days—small parts in sci-fi movies. We don’t even know that lady. I spent
weeks
Googling to find someone in Mexico who needed an organ or something. I found one other lady, but she was Chinese and spoke clear English.”

“So Louie, er, Sanchez the Snake just went and filmed this woman in the hospital?”

“That lady don’t speak no English. Apparently neither do any of the reality show crew because nobody’s called Louie’s bluff.” Frannie digs in her purse and pulls out some Maalox. She opens the bottle and chugs it like water. “I ain’t proud of this. And I haven’t slept in, like, six months since he hatched this plan.” She grabs her cheeks and pulls. “And I’m getting wrinkles from the stress.”

I glance at my mom and my stepbrothers. The first match has started, and they are so in tune with that, they haven’t heard a word of this.

My heart pounds in my chest. “Frannie, wouldn’t you feel better if you came clean?”

“I know, right?” She tightens the lid on her Maalox. “I tried to talk to the producer this afternoon, but he told me that Louie had warned him about his ‘bitter, delusional ex-wife.’ I’m not bitter! I’m furious! And
I’m
the one who showed Louie all those wrestling moves. Who do you think he’s been training with? And those pants he has on? Mine!”

Ew.

I move to the empty seat beside her. “If you want, I could go with you to try and convince them to listen to you again.”

“It’s no use. The producer kicked me out of his office. He had security tailing me all day.”

I stare at the ring where Louie has Jake pinned against the ropes. See, the dirty secret to wrestling is that it’s all planned and choreographed. So while the moves are real, your opponent knows exactly what’s coming so he can minimize the hurt if possible. Jake is supposed to win the first match and Sanchez the Snake the second, to keep it all fair.

But nothing’s fair now! How dare Sanchez the Snake pull the old dying-mother card?

“Security may be following you, but not me. I’ll be back.” With no time to lose, I don’t even bother filling my mom in. I run down the steps and sprint toward the ring.

“Mickey! Mickey!” I stop right in front of Jake’s manager. “You have to listen to me. Louie, er, Sanchez the Snake—he’s a fraud. His story about his mother—”

With his eyes zoned on the ring, Mickey moves me aside. “Later, Bella.”

“No, you have to hear this!”

He walks away, yelling toward the ring at an illegal move.

Augh!
Think, think, think.

I spy the black-haired camera guy who has followed me around like my own personal paparazzi. “Hey! You!”

“Don’t block my camera! Are you nuts?” he yells.

“Crazy camera guy, I have urgent news. Sanchez the Snake—he’s no good. He’s been playing you guys from the beginning. His mom—”

“Beat it.”

I tug on his shirt. “Look, if you don’t listen to me—”

“You’ll what?” His look is withering. “Shoot me with some more refried beans?”

Sheesh, a girl starts one teensy-weensy food fight. “Dude, the contract the wrestlers signed—that we all signed. It said something about being disqualified for misrepresenting the facts.”

“Look, I don’t have time for your chitty-chat, but I will tell you that it’s too late. We can’t do anything about it now. The votes have been tabulated, the judges are set to make a decision after the second match. This is a live show, and we have twenty-five minutes left. It’s over.”

But this is Jake’s dream. He can’t lose out to some lying snaky scumbag.