The Real Real (22 page)

“Um . . . ” Drew fumbles.

I let go. “It’s complicated, ladies.”

Drew’s turn to blush.

“Look, if you two aren’t going to order . . . ” The over-it waitress returns to free up the traffic jam we’ve created by the register.

“Okay, you have your autographs, now let’s sit down.”

The mother corrals her giggling gaggle into a booth.

“Actually, I’d love a sugar cone of strawberry, please?”

Drew leans into the ice cream case.

“Would you mind getting me the same?” I whisper.

“I’m not welcome.”

He nods and I walk outside to the bird-chirping sunshine on Main Street. After a moment, Drew slaps through 226

the door. He walks over holding out my pink-topped cone, and I try to pass him three dollars.

“Forget about it.”

“Really? Thanks,” I say, shoving the cash back in my pocket and taking a satisfying lick. “So . . . what brought you out here?” For ice cream. At ten a.m.

“First really warm day,” he says, unzipping his fleece vest with his free hand. “I was going stir-crazy cooped up inside with the TV—” Busted, he stops short and, looking away, sits down on a bench next to a curbside bed of pansies in their May prime.

A passing car rolls down its windows—“RICHIE

ASSHOLES!”—and speeds off.

Drew tilts his head. “They never stop and, say, give us their names and home numbers.”

I sit tentatively beside him. “You’d think they’d recognize me from the Pear.”

“Or that I’m their friendly neighborhood bag boy.”

“Yeah, a couple of hardworking locals . . . fresh off an international TV satellite tour.”

“God, I hated that! Talking to a taped-up paper smiley face on a three-second delay. I felt like a total idiot.

And then my earpiece gave out in the middle of the U.K.

one.”

“No worries—mine was working loud and clear, and I couldn’t follow a word. Did he call Trisha a ‘minger’?

What’s a ‘minger’?”

“My favorite was ‘slapper’—I’ve gotta look that up online.”

“You chosen a school yet?” I ask, relishing that he’s actually talking to me again, yet watching us as if from a TV screen. Feeling weird that we’re not being filmed by some interview crew. Feeling weird that not being filmed is the new weird.

“I only got good aid at my safety. So that’s good. I’m safe. But not—”

“Jumping up and down?”

“Congratulations on Georgetown. Sorry Cancun kind of stole your thunder.”

“Thanks. It’s the only thing keeping me from confirming my mother’s worst fears—that this whole time I’ve secretly been a Golden Globe–winning, product-hawking, cookbook-writing, benefit-hosting, full-time celebrity, and just want her to clean my toilet.”

He lets out a quick laugh. “So, they’re having a hard time with it?”

“That’s an understatement. I’ve betrayed the movement. It was fine if I worked
for
XTV. That’s what we’ve always done, toiled for the glamour machine. I just think I was never supposed to be glamorous in my own right—as if.” I roll my eyes. “How are your folks dealing?”

“Well, my little brother’s autistic,” he says uncomfortably.

“Oh—I had no idea—”

He carefully peels the paper wrapper off the sugar cone.

“Yeah, it’s not really something I talk about. . . . ”

“I’m so sorry. How old is he?”

“Five. He’s cool, just—I don’t have people over because 228

it freaks him out. And them out. So, yeah, my parents are happy for me, but they kinda have their hands full with how much his therapy costs. I wish there was some money attached to any of this. I mean, the scholarship is great, but I wish there was something I could give them to help.”

I nod, fully shamed out of myself and my petty problems.

“It’s weird,” he says, “talking to you after . . . you know, seeing us . . . ”

“Yeah.” I nod again. “I was feeling the same thing.”

“Jesse,” he says, twisting to face me on the bench.

“Yes?”

“I’ve been thinking. . . . ”

You love me? “Okay . . . ”

“We got off on the wrong foot.”

“I totally agree!”

“Good.” He exhales with relief while I get a giddy shot of joy—this isn’t ruined! “Because I think we’re better off as friends.”

No! “Of course.”

“I mean, if we could just be friends, that would be great.”

“Friends, sure. No, that’s great.”

Suddenly the XTV-mobile screeches to a halt in front of us, and Rick opens the door. “Wassup, bitches!” he says in his best Trisha imitation. “Ready to hit the city?”

We both stand, polishing off the last of our cones, and look into the van. Arms crossed, Nico is seated in the front row, staring out the left window, and Jase, arms also 229

crossed, is seated in the far back, looking out the right.

“Kara,” Drew greets her as he offers a friendly hand to help me up. “Can’t you ever park like you’re not about to rob a bank?”

“How much do you love that you both called to tell me to pick you up here?” Kara bubbles from the driver’s seat.

“I love it. Who called it? Who called it? Me!”

“Yup.” I nod emptily at her before Drew and I both turn to our own opposite windows.

Three hours later, the van pulls up in front of XTV’s Times Square headquarters. In the Broadway meridian the fans are already lining up for the afternoon’s live all-request broadcast. Running late after a Jase-mandated highway-side hot-dog run—complete with chili and onions he had to eat and then belch my way—boys and girls are whisked in opposite directions for hair, makeup, breath mints, and wardrobe. Apparently the less aspirational me prefers BCBG to D&G. And peachier cheeks.

I’m sitting in my chair under the brown plastic sheet, head down, watching the whiffs of steam going up from the curling iron and wondering when I can cut my damaged hair off and if my new
friend
, Drew, would even notice, when Nico says, “Mel’s running really late. You want me to call her?”

“No, that’s okay,” Kara replies from the couch behind us, where she sits nervously scrolling her BlackBerry beside Mr. Sargossi, who taps his Ferragamo loafer, today’s
Post
rolled tightly in his hands.

“So if Nic does well on this, you think the traffic to the site I created for her will improve?” he asks her. Again.

“Yes, Mr. Sargossi, that’s what we’re hoping,” she says through gritted teeth.

“Is Mrs. Dubviek driving her in?” I ask Nico.

“I think so,” Nico says, extending her arms out from under her own protective smock to grab her cell from the makeup counter. “She hasn’t texted me back.”

“Okay, guys, I have a very sad announcement.” Kara stands. “Unfortunately Fletch can’t make it today, so it has fallen to me—of course—to inform you that Melanie is no longer with
The Real Hampton Beach
.”

“
What?
” Nico stands right out of her chair, the stylist jerking up with her as she tries to release a blond curl from the iron. “She
quit
?”

“We can quit?” I ask, ready to rip off my plastic cape.

“Oh, no, no, no. No quitting.” Kara shakes her head and scissors her forearms. “So long as the show stays in the top twenty in the cable ratings, you’re under contract. No, sadly, Melanie just didn’t have any traction in the blogs.”

“So she was fired,” I say, stunned.

“Well, she wasn’t attracting advertisers.” Kara sighs, her eyes not meeting ours.

“Well, she should’ve had me,” a man says, strutting through the doorway with Trisha in tow. In a navy-blue silk dress with a 1940s-For-the-Boys-Betty-Grable-Dita-Von-Teese kind of shape. And hair to match. She strides in and perches in the empty makeup hair, one spectator pump crossed over the other at the ankle. She hasn’t been 231

this covered up since Bobby Feinstein’s bar mitzvah.

“Tom. Tom Vogel.” He extends his card to Kara from the pocket of his pin-striped suit. “Trisha’s publicist.”

Trisha’s
what
?

“You want
more
of this?” I choke as I’m engulfed in yet another cloud of spray.

Trisha looks right past me like she’s busy concentrating on keeping her carefully rolled hair from moving.

“Um, Mr. Vogel,” Kara says without bothering to look at the card. “The show has a publicist, has one in every country XTV airs, as a matter of fact. And we put out a singular message about the show and the cast.”

“It’s pretty clear where the network wants to take her, and it’s a one-way ticket down,” he levels back evenly.

“Trisha has natural gifts, and they need to be managed for longevity. You let your own U.K. interviewer brand her as a slapper. She can hire me. I read her contract.” He snaps his French cuffs over his wrists. “It’s time to tweak the message.”

“I feel underutilized,” Trisha adds stiffly. “My fan site is getting almost as much traffic as Jesse’s, but I have no way to reach more people.”

“It’s not a pie-eating contest.” I shake my head, Tandy’s mascara wand chasing after me. “You want my fans? Take

’em. Especially the middle-aged bald guy who re-creates my outfits and models them on his blog.”

“Can I see that, please, Kara?” Nico pulls out a beaming smile for Tom Vogel. All thoughts of Melanie seemingly gone, she swipes the card from Kara’s hand and turns to 232

Mr. Sargossi. “Dad?” She lowers her voice. “Can I have him? I think it would really help—”

“First you prove to me that you can be front-and-center, then I will hire you a publicist.” Her father plucks the card from her fingers.

“What?” she says, echoing my own bewilderment at his logic.

“You become someone worth publicizing, Nico. Make me proud, and then I’ll throw more money at this. I’m not going to keep looking like a chump.” He drops the card into his empty Starbucks cup and snaps open his
Post
in disgust. Blinking, Nico shakily retakes her seat.

Fifteen minutes later, we line up in the wings, waiting to go on, our adrenaline revved by the live component—no chances to do over any tripped tongue or mispronounced words. Then the VJ announces, “And now, the stars of
The Real Hampton Beach
!” and the chanting starts. But instead of “Hamp-ton Beach,” they’re saying something else. I hear it before I believe it.

“Jes-se! Jes-se! Jes-se!” Holy crap. As the two hundred members of the live studio audience chant my name, we shuffle onto the circular set in front of the windows overlooking Times Square. With Tom Vogel just off camera, I nervously take my place behind Trisha, as instructed. She and Nico have matching tight smiles as they actively try to ignore the chants. I give little encouraging waves to as many jumping girls and guys as possible, hoping no one feels unappreciated. I can’t believe they’re so excited to see 233

me. Or the me they think I am.

Despite Tom Vogel’s vision, the VJ reaches into our huddle and maneuvers me in front to introduce the Rihanna video. And then we “chat a bit,” but I’m so distracted by the kid in the front row’s homemade Jesse T-shirt that I forget the question mid-answer. At the commercial break, to my relief, Tom Vogel climbs onstage to re-position Trisha front and center. “
Jesse!
” The T-shirt kid lets out a strangled sob, his arms outstretched toward the stage. Awkward, unsure if I should climb down to comfort him or run far, far away, I instead hide my widening sweat stains behind Jase and Drew. Back from commercial and trying to ignore the kid’s wracking sobs, we watch clips from the first six episodes, which Trisha has been edited into with about the same finesse as Forrest Gump meeting JFK. Mostly she whimpers about how
she
could give Jase what he needs. A de-Axe’ing hose down? Etiquette lessons?

But that’s not why she’s here today. Oh no. Today she has a much loftier purpose. “And then I realized,” she intones to the VJ with the gravitas of an oncologist, sticking out her demurely sheathed boobs, tilting her head to light her nose. “After
Us Weekly
called me, that I could share my story about my struggles with weight loss and food issues, and it could inspire others to get help.”

Drew reaches around behind Rick to pinch my arm. I turn my listening smile to him, telegraphing,
Yes, Trisha
is full of shit
.

“That is so brave of you to come forward,” the VJ says 234

earnestly. Perfect. Let them each get publicists one by one, sharing their trumped-up stories of dyslexia and arachnophobia and glue addiction, and I’ll get to retreat from the limelight and go to sleep at night knowing my mere presence isn’t reducing anyone to sobs. “Okay, so before we go to commercial break we have a special surprise for Trisha and the cast. Guys, go to the windows and check it out!”

Following Trisha, who teeters at breakneck speed in her pencil skirt like a mad geisha, we go to the glass and look down. One lane of traffic in front of the building has been cleared, and there are six gleaming Lexuses parked with humongous red bows on the hood.

“Courtesy of XTV and the great folks at East Hampton Luxury Motors, you have each been given a
brand-new
hybrid car
!” I stare down at the row of bows, my face hot.

Rick, Trisha, and Jase pump their fists. Drew, his forehead against the glass, just pivots his head to me and gives a small smile. Because he finally has a way to make some money for his family. And I know this. Because I’m his friend.

“Thank you so much, Mr. Sargossi!” Trisha squeals, holding her new vanity plate, courtesy of XTV, TRHB-TRISH, in her hands. “I’m going to take this one to college so my Beemer doesn’t get dented.”

We’re all piled into Mr. Sargossi’s office, where Jase is the last of us to fill out his paperwork. “No shit. With the gas money I save shelving the Hummer, I can score a Ducati.”

While Jase waxes on about his future crotch-rocket, I pull yet another makeup-remover towelette out of my bag and continue wiping down my pancaked face. “At least that went well,” Mr. Sargossi says to no one in particular, his loafers up on his glass desk, an unlit cigar in his teeth.

“I have a solid market with the parents, but I want more kids to think of our dealership as a place they can come and get something cool.”