The Real Real (21 page)
the couch, spreading cream cheese from miniature silver Philly tubs. The coffee table beyond our knees is laden with platters of shiny baked goods and wilting fruit. I look down at the doughnut in my hand. But I don’t know how anyone can eat right now—I’m one hiccup away from hurling.
“This is crazy,” Mom says with a full mouth as her phone buzzes. Swallowing, she reaches down to the coffee table and tilts it up to her. “Oh, that’s Aunt Pat. She wants you to know Providence is watching and rooting for you.”
I give her a wan smile.
The blonde with the headset, who met us at the front door and perkily escorted us up here, peeks in. Mr. Sargossi lunges from the chair where he’s been flipping loudly through the
Post
. “Is Robin doing the segment? I want to confirm that Nico’ll be sitting next to her.”
“I have noted that, sir,” she chirps through her exasperation. “And as soon as our segment producer comes down from set, I’ll let you know, and you can take it up with her.”
Giving her an insincere smile, he returns to his chair next to Nico’s. “I’m not having you pushed down to Siberia like Ed McMahon,” he says, patting her leg.
She nods, slightly pivoted away from him, her gaze out the windows at the sun rising pink above Times Square.
“And you’ll mention the dealership?” he shouts to the departing blonde.
She turns in the doorway, all pep. “Robin has a note on it!”
“I don’t understand,” he says to Nico, raising his
Post
, his voice just as audible through the newsprint. “Explain to me again why Jesse has her own fan site and you don’t?”
“Ask the fans,” she says, her voice light, hollow.
Mrs. McCaffrey sits beside Jase on the couch opposite me, taking spit to his bangs. “Mom!” He twists away, his voice rising as he drops his cashmere hoodie string from between his teeth.
His dad reaches for a Danish and bites into it. “How much longer is it gonna be? Unlike
some
people, I have a real job. One that doesn’t require wearing makeup and having my hair done.” He gives Jase a look of withering disgust.
“
Man!
” We all turn to look to where Rick has spilled Swiss Miss mix on the beverage counter and a small cloud onto his shirt. Nico takes advantage of the distraction to slip from her father’s immediate radius, only to look momentarily lost now that a seat next to Jase has been officially deemed publicly humiliating. She busies herself touching up her lipstick with Mrs. Dubviek’s proffered gloss while Rick’s mom taps at the chocolate powder to release it from the fabric.
Kara comes back in from the hallway, slapping her cell shut, her face bright, even though her peasant shirt looks particularly slept-in. “That was Mr. Hollingstone, himself, guys. He’s watching.” She looks around the room, taking 217
us each in, stopping at Drew, whom she walks over to. He sits alone by the ficus in the corner, the only one of us without chaperoning parents. She bumps her leg into his.
“Hey, you okay?” she asks.
He looks up and gives a nervous smile.
“Folks couldn’t make it?”
He shakes his head. “They’re watching from home. My mom was worried my little brother might be a distraction.”
“I can get a sitter for her next time—just let me know.”
“Oh no. I mean, it’s cool,” he rushes. “They’ve got it covered. But—I’ll let her know.”
Fingers gripping the door frame, the woman with the headset sticks her blond hair back in. “Okay, so we’re moving into the seven o’clock hour. We have a segment on Iraq, commercial, a segment on the new cholesterol drugs, commercial, and then you. Six million watching, and I’ll be back to mike you in ten.”
And all at once it’s like someone just shouted
Fire!
in my abdomen and half my organs are scrambling over my other organs to leap for safety out of my mouth, while the rest are tumbling over one another to race out my ass.
Robin smiles warmly at us as we mike up around the coffee table, which holds a cheerful low bouquet of silk Easter tulips. “Good morning,” she says, looking impossibly crisp and well rested in a dark pink suit.
The blonde points us to our seats. “Melanie, on the end, then Trisha, then Jase, then Nico, Drew, and, Jesse, you’re next to Robin.”
Nodding, I ignore the glares on my back and take the yellow chair.
I look out from the colorful half-room to the dark industrial off-set side, where Kara stands next to the cameraman, making little U shapes next to her mouth with her pointer fingers. “
Smile!
” she mouths silently.
“And we’re back in four, three—” The camera guy shoots two and one with his hand.
“Welcome back.” Robin smiles at the camera. “We’re very excited to have some very prominent teenagers in the studio with us today. Many of you know them already.
And if you don’t, you soon will. Picked to star in a new documentary series on XTV, these young people agreed to have their lives opened to the camera.”
We sit for a few moments while the clip rolls. The clip
“documenting” the nighttime spa day. Only I now have a line of spliced dialogue about how I hope Drew likes my new look.
“In just four short weeks since the first episode aired, these kids are becoming a real American phenomenon.
This morning we’re going to get the inside scoop, the answers to the questions everyone’s asking. So, Jesse.”
Robin leans in, resting her thumb and pointer fingers beneath her chin. I try to resist the pull of my own image, pulsing at a two-second delay from the monitors on either 219
ends of my peripheral vision, and focus on smiling into Robin’s eyes. “Let’s start with you. When did you first know you had feelings for Drew?”
FIRE!
“This is bullshit!” We can hear Mr. Sargossi as soon as we pass out of the soundproofed studio and into the hallway.
“Where is that Kara girl?! Where’s Fletch?!” he bellows from the green room. I press my arms in against the rivulets of sweat gushing down my side. I can’t look at Drew.
I can’t look at anyone. What did I even say? I stuttered and repeated myself and, oh God, babbled about Doritos Delights. I sounded like an idiot without taste buds. I just want my parents to take me home.
Kara moves each of us aside by the shoulders and motors down the carpeted hall so she can be the first one in, bless her. “I’m right here. What seems to be the problem?” we hear her ask from our unnerved huddle near the threshold.
“The problem
is
”—he spits as he talks, the corners of his mouth turning white as the rest of our parents look away—“
I
gave Fletch the idea for this show when I sold him his Porsche last summer. A show centered around Nico.
Nico
is the next big thing. He agreed. She didn’t even mention my dealership.” We turn to Nico, who stares at the floor, her jawline turning pink.
“They ran out of time,” Kara says patiently. “You and Fletch may have shared an ah-ha moment about Nico, but 220
Park Avenue Confidential
was the genesis of this show.”
“I want to see Fletch!” he shouts at Kara. “I cut him a deal on that Porsche! He owes me!”
Nico walks in to put a tamping hand on his arm. He whips it off. “Don’t touch me. You didn’t even try.” He storms out of the room, breaking apart our huddle, and all at once everyone disperses.
Mrs. McCaffrey stands from the couch. “Great job, Jason. And Nico, you looked really pretty.” She squeezes a stunned Nico’s shoulder, then pats Jase awkwardly. “Your father had to get back,” she tells him. Without so much as a glance to me, Drew darts in for his jacket and leaves with Rick and Rick’s mother, who’s still prattling on about hitting the Hershey’s store. Taking Nico’s hand, Melanie leads her over to the table to help Mrs. Dubviek pack the curling irons and makeup into her snakeskin bag.
Dad rises from the couch to hug me. “Great job,” he says stiffly into my hair. “But I don’t understand. Is he your boyfriend? Are you not telling us stuff anymore, Jess?”
I look up at him, not even knowing where to start.
He pushes up his glasses. “I’ll get the car.”
As he walks out, I sit down next to Mom, who’s staring into Kara’s laptop—her face aghast at the familiar freeze-frames from the show on its screen. I silently watch as she scrolls through the postings discussing every aspect of my body, every word I’ve said, every edited thought I’ve shared on camera. Woven throughout the smiley faces and gushing observations about my friendly smile, my shiny hair, 221
my funny jokes, are comments that are at once mercilessly vicious and gleeful. It’s evident the girls? women? men?
boys? writing this stuff couldn’t be having more fun.
My voice makes someone want to “kill themselves,” my ass looks “dimpled” in a tight skirt, olive green turns me into “homeless-man vomit,” and my “attempts to seem human are pathetic.” My eyes sting. Who
are
these strangers who are so over me? Are they in my school? In this room? Has everyone always thought my voice was suicide inducing? The multiple exclamation marks and all caps slice straight through me.
“Can we go, please?” I ask, and Mom raises her shocked eyes.
“This one says you’re a Paris-in-training who hangs with a jet-set clique.” She flips to the next tab. “Here they say you’re carrying your books in a ten-thousand-dollar tote. And here—they point out your thin frame might suggest a coke problem—readers should keep their eyes peeled. Who
are
you?” she asks with a tight voice, pointing down at the picture, a pose I’d struck for Diane’s files in a Chanel jacket against a paper backdrop in the RV.
“I’m the star of a job you wouldn’t let me quit.”
D
ear Fancy Lady, I don’t want to intrude on your valuable time, but if you could possibly let me and your father
know how many tickets we have for graduation—if you’re
even planning to pen it into your whirlwind social calendar
next month, that’d be great—Mom.
“Can I help you?” the waitress behind the counter asks as I toss the note I’d shoved in my pocket on the way out my door in the trash. She rests her hands atop the speckled counter, and the morning light streaming in from the window makes the hairs on her meaty arms glow yellow.
“A double wafer cone of Coffee Almond Fudge, please?” Craft service Twizzlers, my on-set breakfast of choice, have now been replaced by green room doughnuts. Because, on the rare morning that I’m not doing 223
a press event, microwaved eggs just aren’t cutting it. In the two weeks since the
Good Morning America
interview, Fletch has pretty much yanked us from school completely to, quote, “fan the flames into an inferno.” Whatever. Just hand over the sugar and tell me where to smile.
“You want a bagel with that?” she asks with a glance at the clock over the kitchen.
“Just the ice cream, please.” I watch as she scoops out my breakfast—brunch?—struggling against the months-old frost. Just then the door to the diner jingles behind me, and a gaggle of grade schoolers piles in with one of their mothers bringing up the rear.
I watch uncomfortably as their eyes pool into saucers.
“Jesse!” they squeal, the pom-poms on their pigtails jiggling. They pluck lollipops out of their mouths as they crowd around, their sneakers squeaking on the linoleum.
“Can we have your autograph? Please?
Please?
”
“Um, sure.” I blush.
The waitress rolls her eyes, probably figuring I’m a Hollywood celeb in town for some preseason R&R, not a local who’s spent the majority of her Saturdays scraping out Smucker’s jars down the street.
“Jesse, we love you! Your hair is so pretty! We love your clothes!”
The waitress takes one more look at the scene my presence is generating and dumps my cone in the trash.
“Freezer burn,” she mutters with barely concealed contempt before walking back to tend to the locals finishing their morning coffee.
The mother appraises me over her sunglasses.
“Mom, we need a pen and paper!” One of the girls tugs at her arm.
Keeping me in her tinted sights, she removes a pen from her purse and what looks to be a receipt, which she tears into small strips for each girl. “You know,” she says as she hands them to me, “it would be nice for them to have a local role model who doesn’t behave like the summer people.”
“
Mommmm,
” her daughter groans, going as pink as her velour hoodie.
“Oh, it’s not—uh—you know, it’s edited,” I say, scribbling my name on each strip of thin paper, my handwriting messy as I try to hold my palm still.
“Hm-hm.” She’s not buying it.
I shift my attention to the girls, who gaze up at me like I have fairy dust puffing from my ears. “Here you go, thanks! So, why aren’t you guys in school today?”
“Parent-teacher conferences! Why aren’t you in school?”
they sing in response, giddily hugging my hips.
“She’s too famous for school,” I hear from behind us.
My third-grade entourage and I spin to see Drew standing in the front door.
“DREW!! Oh my God, Drew! It’s
Drew
!” The girls go nuts, running to pull him inside by the hand.
“What is this, the Bridgehampton chapter of the Jesse Fan Club?” He laughs as they tug at him.
“I always try to attend in my best sweats,” I say sheepishly.
“Me too.” He gestures down to his running pants.
“I was hoping to grab a cone on the down low, actually,” I comment on the obvious futility. Although I’ll take awkward autograph signing over being stuck in the house where the most recent episode, in which Drew and I seem finally about to get together, is perma-running like some haunting breakup song playing whenever you turn on the radio. But I have to give it to them for cobbling it together when we were pretty much never alone on camera—or off.
“Are you on a
date
?” “Do you
love
him?” “Is he your
boyfriend
?” Giggling, squealing, and hopping, the girls drag him to my side and then try to join our hands. We awkwardly hold sweaty fingers as the entire diner stares at us, adults confused, girls riveted.