Fangirl (16 page)

“No, just my dad. None of us knew what he was doing. But my mom said we're not supposed to talk about it. It's a legal thing. But can I ask you a favor-ski?”

“Okay.”

“Do you still have that old-school phone you used to use before you got the iPhone? I could really use it. I was thinking maybe I could borrow it until the cops give mine back.”

Ashley didn't immediately respond. After a few seconds, Josie began thinking the phone had gone dead. “Ash, you there?”

“I'm here, but, Josie, I have to tell you something.”

“If it's about the contest thing, it's cool. I was mad, but now I'm over it. I know your heart was in the right place. I mean, we are besties and nothing ever could—”

“No, Josie, not about the contest,” Ashley interrupted. “It's my parents. They saw the news about your dad. They told me I'm not allowed to talk to you anymore.”

Josie had been pacing her room. Now she stood still. “What? Why?”

“You know, the drugs, your dad, the whole thing. They're superstrict and . . .”

“Ashley, what are you talking about?” Josie would have cried if she had any tears left, but they were all dried into the grass in her dad's front yard and soaked into tissues back at
the police station. “I've known you since kindergarten. We are BFFs. Your parents know the real me. I didn't do anything wrong. The cops even said I was just a victim of circumstance. The truth will come out.”

“I'm sorry, Josie. I should go. My mom will kill me if she knows I'm even talking to you. They went through my phone last night looking at messages. They don't trust you. I'm so sorry but—”

“No, Ashley, really. Look, I can explain to them that . . .”

“I gotta go, Josie. I'll talk to ya later. Bye.”

“Wait, Ashley, no—”

Silence.

Dial tone.

“Hey, guys.
I'm Peter Maxx. Join me and all your favorite music stars on August twenty-eighth for the Hot Hollywood Music Awards. Because if it's not hot, it's not Hot Hollywood.”

“And . . . cut!”

The director, a chubby, bearded guy in his forties who waved his hands dramatically with every word, got up from his chair and walked toward Peter, who was standing in front of a green screen.

“Can we try it again, Peter? But, this time, give us a big, Peter Maxx smile? That will give it a nice, big punch for the fans.”

The director sat down in his chair beside the camera and watched the makeup artist dab Peter's forehead with some antishine powder.

“Can we give him a little more color?” the director asked the makeup girl. “More bronzer. On the cheeks.”

Peter rolled his eyes and glared at his dad, who sat next to Abby sipping from a white paper coffee cup watching the video monitor. Bobby flicked his son an enthusiastic thumbs-up. Peter flashed an obnoxiously fake smile back at him.

Although the Hot Hollywood Awards weren't for another three months, Peter was already shooting promos; his concert
tour, just into the second half, would wrap a few days before the awards show. In fact, right after wrapping the shoot he was scheduled to hop a jet for Kansas City.

Peter felt silly reading the insipid script off the Prompter, especially the cheesy last line, but it was part of the game. The Hot Hollywood execs were so pleased with how the “Sing It to the Maxx” contest went that his dad and Abby had struck a deal with them to let Peter world premiere his new single on their high-rated awards show. It was the biggest night in pop music every year. To debut a new song with a live performance on the show usually resulted in the song being the number-one downloaded song the next day. Being the opening act was pop music gold. Peter's lack of shared enthusiasm with his dad had nothing to do with him not appreciating the opportunity—because he did. Peter just didn't like the song he was set to sing that night: a romantic duet with Sandy.

Peter dutifully performed a few more takes before leaving the soundstage in West L.A. and heading for LAX with his dad, Big Jim, and Abby for a hectic week that would start Tuesday in Kansas City and end in Las Vegas on Saturday night. In the limo, Peter turned on his phone, checking if Josie had yet entered the twenty-first century and texted him yet. She hadn't. But it was only noon. There was still hope.

Abby used the car time to brief Peter on his media hits. The reviews of the Oakland show were amazing, she explained, with 95 percent of them rated as “positive” by her PR agency.

“What do the other five percent say they didn't like?” Bobby asked.

Abby scrolled through the reviews on her tablet. “Looks like the usual, mostly complaints that Peter doesn't bring enough energy to his hits.”

“Greeeeat.” Peter groaned.

“But they're the minority,” Abby said. “Most everyone loved it.”

“Son, you remember what Ricky Nelson sang, right?” Bobby weighed in from the front seat. “You can't please everyone, so . . .”

“I know, I know:
please yourself,
” Peter finished.

“Exactamundo,” Bobby said.

Abby handed him a press release. “It hits stores tomorrow, and we need you to approve this today.”

Peter Maxx has created a perfume for the girls who love him. The fragrance is called “Special” and a portion of the proceeds from sales of the fragrance will go toward pediatric cancer research. Retailing for $45 a bottle, “Special” hits stores nationwide on Tuesday. Peter Maxx says of his latest brand extension: “Let's face it, the way a girl smells is something that is very important, very special to a guy. I have a deep connection with my fans, and creating a fragrance that I personally love is another way I can bring them closer to me.”

“Fine, whatever.” He handed it back to Abby and shook his head in disgust. “Hey, Dad. Why didn't anyone tell me about this perfume launch thing?”

“We just did,” he said harshly.

Abby nervously sat beside Peter and pretended to read her phone.

A few minutes from LAX, Abby broke the awkward silence and continued to rush through her publicity report.

“Oh, and saving the best for last,” she added. “OMC is asking for comment on this story they posted today.” She showed Peter the blog post, with the headline: “Peter Maxx Getting Married—Source Says.” It quoted a “source close to Peter” as saying Peter and Sandy were so in love that he had recently told her they would get married after their summer concert tour.

“Now that's funny,” Peter said. “Where do they get these so-called ‘sources'?”

“So there's nothing I should know about?” Bobby cracked.

“No, Dad. I am definitely not getting married.”

Peter still hadn't broken the news to his dad that he and Sandy had split. He was waiting for the right time and, well, he was too tired to have to endure his dad's motormouth chattering over how to spin the split and, most important, what to do about the duet. Maybe, Peter thought, he would from now on treat his dad like he was treated, like with the fragrance launch: On a “need-to-know basis.”

OMC, short for “Oh My Celebrity,” had no shame to their game. There was no story too nasty or mean for them to run for the self-promoted “#1 Source for Celebrity Sleaze.” The site even had an e-mail address where “tipsters” could anonymously send in information that fell within the tabloid holy
trinity of hookups, breakups, and screw-ups.

Some of the tips were true. Some, like the Peter-Sandy marriage story, were total fiction. It was the job of OMC news desk editors to figure it out, and when they couldn't, they would throw a story up crediting a “source”—even if they had no way of proving the story. As OMC's British-born Editor-in-Chief Johnny Love said, “I don't care about the facts. Give me the gossip!”

OMC readers would click on anything Peter Maxx, so much that they had begun a branded blog post they cheekily called “Your Daily Peter.” It was consistently the site's number-one read item every day. Even if it was total garbage.

“So I will tell OMC you are not getting married?” Abby said.

“No, just say no comment. Don't give them the satisfaction of an actual comment. I will just Tweet that it's crap.”

On the plane, Peter sunk into his leather seat and typed out a Tweet on his phone.

@PeterMaxxNow for those of you wondering, I am not getting married. Don't let the facts get in the way of a good story @OMC.

As the plane door was about to close, he got a text from a 661 area code.

hey 16. It's Almost 15.

Peter's mood instantly lightened.

P—hey josiebrant. I c u got a phone. Niiice.

J—yup. My friend saved the day!

P—Im literally on the plane, about to takeoff. Text ya later! Something I really want to ask u!!

J—what?!

Ten seconds later . . .

J—Um . . .

Ten more seconds later . . .

J—r u really gonna leave a girl hangin?

“Josie, what's wrong?”
Christopher asked. “You all good?”

Josie had been texting furiously in front of Christopher in her living room. Literally two seconds after he handed her his phone, she began texting Peter.

It was a Monday, the last day of school before summer break. Josie, embarrassed to walk the halls of Lawndale High with everyone whispering behind her back, stayed home. Christopher came by with the phone right after school let out and had been quietly checking Facebook on his phone while she texted. But, like any sane human being, he grew worried when she started grunting and huffing and puffing at it as if it were a really annoying (not to mention, tiny) person in the palm of her hand.

“Is it the phone?” Christopher asked. “If it's dying, I'm really sorry. It's a piece of junk, and the battery dies easily, so . . .”

“No, the phone's fine.” Josie still stared at the tiny screen. “I'm just frustrated. It's okay.”

“Is it your dad?” he asked.

“No, no, not my dad,” Josie said, clutching the tiny cell like it was glued to her palm. “He can't text in jail. And that's the way it is gonna be a for long time.”

“How long?”

“Well, my mom went to his arraignment today and the judge set bail at five million dollars.” Josie glanced down at her phone. “So, basically, he's in jail until his trial, which could be like next year. So, like, I won't see him forever. I'm most worried about Connor. I'll be fine. But he's pretty freaked out. Whatever.”

Christopher looked at Josie in an affectionate kind of way that a boyfriend might, and she noticed. As he reached to touch her knee, Josie crossed her leg to keep him from touching her.

He pulled his hand away in an awkward silence.

“How much did you say your dad's bail amount is?”

Josie was relieved he changed the subject.

“Five million,” she answered with a sigh.

“So if he pays five million dollars he can go free for now?”

Josie let out a breath. Make that half a breath. Her tight chest couldn't relax enough to release all the air pent up behind her ribs.

“No. Mom said a bail bondsman or someone like that would post up the money if we could come up with ten percent of that as, like, a down payment.”

“So, really, you only need $500,000 then.”

“Yeah, only
half
a million.”

Josie buried her face in her phone and texted as she talked. “Christopher, it's not worth talking about. My family is broke, and your mom can't even afford to give you an allowance. It's
not like Bakersfield is filled with rich people who will pay it. Especially because they don't want people to think they are connected to a drug dealer.”

“Farmer,” Christopher corrected Josie. “He was farming.”

“Whatever. He is like a total pariah now. And, by association, so am I, and it totally sucks. He should just rot in jail.”

“So you can't even, like, go and visit your dad?”

“No, you gotta be eighteen. So, poor me, I'm not allowed to go to jail and talk to my shackled dad through glass. Poor, poor me.”

Josie began laughing—but more like a hobo on a street corner than an ironic, bemused teenager.

“Who are you texting, by the way?” Christopher asked.

“Me?”

“No, the little green man sitting next to you on the couch.”

Josie had promised Peter she wouldn't tell anyone about their friendship, even her closest friends. Plus, she assumed Christopher would just cop her a bad attitude and remind her how lame Peter's music was.

“Just my mom,” Josie lied.

Maybe she used to feel guilty when she didn't tell the truth. In the past, she would always share everything with Christopher. But now, everyone and everything in Bakersfield annoyed her. Her secret connection with Peter was her escape from all the stress, all the eyes on her now that her dad was in jail. She knew what kids at school were saying. She saw the Facebook comments of kids gossiping about her being a
pothead—not to mention about her being so “desperate” for attention she flirted with Peter Maxx in front of the cameras.