My Double Life (9 page)

Maren scheduled me for an hour-long dance lesson every day and then increased the time to two hours, which I resented. Really, I am a good dancer, despite what Jacqueline (pronounced
Zhak-lean
), my private dance instructor, says. Granted, when Maren hired her and told her she’d be teaching routines to Kari Kingsley, maybe Jacqueline expected me to have more experience, but she kept shaking her head as though horribly disappointed. “Where is jour energy? Snap zose moves! Do jou think people want to see zat on MTV?”

It was like taking dance lessons from a drill sergeant.

Basically, Maren controlled my schedule from the time I woke up in the morning at six until I went to my room at ten P.M., exhausted. I had to practically sneak my phone calls to Lori in between training sessions. I told Lori I’d come to California because I’d located my dad and sister, but didn’t give her any more details. She gave me updates about everyone in school, including Trevor and Theresa. They were still dating but I’d stopped caring.

If I was on the phone for more than a few minutes, Maren would stand in front of me tapping her wristwatch until I got off. And despite what she said before about letting me finish my schoolwork online, she hardly gave me any time to do it. More than once I fell asleep facedown in my world history book.

“The key to any celebrity’s success,” Maren told me if I was less than enthusiastic about what she had planned for me, “is a firm schedule and hard work.” Then she’d add some backhanded insult like, “I’m sorry those things weren’t emphasized in your life before, but really, it’s time you thought of bettering yourself.”

I had to memorize the lyrics to Kari’s songs, and if I messed up while I lip-synched them, Maren would put her hand over her eyes like I’d given her a headache and say, “Didn’t you ever listen to the radio back in West Virginia? I thought
everyone
knew these lyrics.”

The only thing she ever complimented me on was the way I’d incorporated so many of Kari’s mannerisms. I hadn’t, of course. They were my mannerisms too.

Day after day I worked through the mundane details of turning myself into Kari. I didn’t tell my mom about most of it. I knew she wouldn’t approve of me deceiving people. She already sighed a lot every time I called her. She wasn’t happy that I left home, so I was more than a little surprised when she sent me her sapphire necklace.

My mom had only had one really nice thing her entire life: a sapphire pendant surrounded by diamonds on a gold chain. She’d never told me where she’d gotten it, but I knew it had sentimental value to her—otherwise she would have sold it long ago to pay bills.

I don’t ever remember seeing her wear it. It always sat in her jewelry box, reigning over the lesser rings and necklaces she wore day to day. Once when I was little, I took it out to play with and got in huge trouble, but Mom always told me that when I was older it would be mine.

When I found it there, nestled in a clear jewelry case next to my books, I held it in my hand, watching the light blink blue off its surface. I couldn’t believe she had sent it. Then I saw the letter explaining everything.

 

 

I put the necklace back in its box, a sick feeling of disappointment rattling around in my chest. I’d always loved that sapphire. It seemed like something a queen would own. I had looked forward to wearing it someday, maybe my wedding day. Now I didn’t even want to keep it. It should be Kari’s, not mine. Alex Kingsley had bought it for her mother, the woman he’d loved—not my mother, the woman he’d discarded.

So it sat in its box on the dresser reminding me every time I saw it that I’d started out life second best.

Sometimes when I was supposed to be doing my homework, I would type Alex Kingsley’s name into an Internet search. I must have seen a hundred pictures of him from different events, mostly old, but some new ones too: With a starlet on his arm at the Grammys, being inducted into the Country Music Hall of Fame, as a national spokesman for abused and neglected children. I found that one ironic. I wondered what people would think if they knew he had a daughter he’d neglected to take care of her whole life.

A few times Maren caught me looking at his website, but she never said anything about it. She just raised an eyebrow, gave me a pointed look, then walked away.

I found myself wondering incessantly whether Alex Kingsley’s manager had told him my mother was pregnant. Sometimes I thought my father had known about me all along. Then I felt a rage so strong it blocked out every other emotion.

I even wrote a letter to him. I poured out every angry thought onto the paper. “You don’t deserve to know anything about me,” I said. “I won’t show you my baby pictures or home videos, or tell you about myself. I will never sing for you.”

But maybe he wouldn’t care. Maybe he’d write a check to cover back child support and tell me not to bother him again.

I deleted the letter so Maren couldn’t accidentally find it. But it remained in my heart. I could have repeated it word for word.

Then, other times, I was convinced Alex Kingsley’s manager hadn’t told him anything about me. In those moments I trembled with hope and fear. Anything could happen. He could love me.

Maren said she would take me to a benefit concert he was doing on May 13, nearly two months away. Since she had been Alex’s assistant before she came to work for Kari, it would be easy enough for her to come up with an excuse to take me along backstage to see him. She would introduce me as Kari’s body double for an upcoming music video.

I wasn’t exactly sure how to segue that into a longer conversation with him, and I daydreamed different scenarios. Sometimes I slipped him a note telling him I needed to talk to him. Sometimes I said it out loud. Sometimes I dreamed that he took one look at me and knew who I was.

That scenario wasn’t likely, but still I liked to think about it.

I would probably just hand him a note with my home phone number written on it and say, “You’re about nineteen years overdue to talk to Sabrina Garcia. You might want to make the call this time.”

CHAPTER 6

I saw frustratingly little of Kari during my training, and I never got to see her without Maren carefully observing everything I said. It made it hard to have any sisterly bonding time. So one day I convinced Maren that I needed to observe Kari directly, to make sure I had everything down before my first public debut.

Maren drove me down to the recording studio so I could see what went on during a session. She told me that when Kari was finished, we could both go back to Kari’s house so I could study her firsthand. It was a bigger deal than I’d imagined. Before we arrived, Maren made Kari’s bodyguard and personal assistant clear anyone with a camera out of the parking lot. Maren didn’t want to clue in anyone from the press that she had a Kari double with her.

She phoned ahead and told Kari’s staff and the music technicians that I was an actress working on a movie about Kari’s life, but even then, I wore no makeup and had my hair pulled up in a baseball cap so I looked as little like her as possible. We didn’t want the staff to put two and two together when I started doing events for Kari.

“Her driver will take both of you back to her house when she’s done recording,” Maren said as we walked into the studio. “Don’t let Kari do anything stupid.”

“Like what?”

“Like going out together in public.” After a moment’s thought, she added, “Also no skinny-dipping where paparazzi might be present, no driving to Vegas, and no going online to try and refurnish her house with antiques from Italy. Returning stuff overseas is awful.”

We walked to the control room, and Maren spoke to Kari’s assistant for a few minutes, then left to run errands.

I stood among half a dozen people watching Kari through a large window. Kari’s staff pretty much left me alone. Every once in a while, her bodyguard sent stony glances in my direction, but he did that to everyone, so I didn’t take it personally. Kari stood in the recording room, earphones on, swaying to the music as she sang into the mike.

I’d heard her songs on the radio, but it was still odd to see her creating one. It made it seem more real, more amazing. She had a beautiful voice, deeper and richer than mine.

I wondered for the hundredth time what it would have been like to grow up knowing we were sisters. I imagined Kari and me on camping trips, at amusement parks, running through waves at the beach, with our arms flung around each other making silly faces for the camera. She would have given me fashion tips and told me how to act around guys.

Instead of those memories, all I had was an empty aching spot. I wanted to somehow make up for everything I’d missed out on even though I knew it was impossible.

After a couple hours of Kari singing and stopping and changing backup singers, and rewriting parts, and then resinging parts, she decided to call it a day. The tech guys weren’t happy about this. Apparently she hadn’t made any progress.

It didn’t matter. Kari took off her headphones and walked into the control room unapologetically. Even in jeans and T-shirt, she was all flash and confidence. She dismissed her staff, telling them she was going out with me, then nodded in my direction. “You ready to ditch this place?”

I glanced at the clock. I’d heard Maren tell Kari more than once that she needed to get this album done. She was supposed to debut some of her new songs at a mega concert in San Diego on May 6. “Won’t Maren be mad if you leave now?”

Kari rolled her eyes and grabbed her purse. “I’m not making this album for Maren. I’m making it for my fans, and they’ll be a lot madder if it’s garbage.” She put on her sunglasses, then walked out of the door and motioned for me to follow. “You can’t beat a dead horse,” she said over her shoulder, “and I’ve not only beat this one, I’ve dragged it through eight octaves and a chorus. At this point, the dead horse could sing better.”

“That’s not true.” I hurried to catch up with her. “You have a great voice.”

I had thought a driver was taking us to her house, but there was no sign of one. She walked to a silver Porsche, took out her keys, and unlocked it. “I’ve got a good voice, but you can find good voices in every high school chorus and church choir. I want to be a good songwriter too. It takes real talent to write hits. Not many singers can do that.”

“You’ve done it before.”

She opened the door and slid inside. “My dad helped me write the songs on my last CDs.”

“Oh.” I got into the passenger side, casually letting my hand run across the seat. I had to. I wanted to know what a Porsche felt like.

“I wrote most of my hit songs,” she said, and started the car. “My dad would just come along and change a chord. Add a bridge or something. Redo a few lyrics.”

“Well, I’m sure he’d help you again if you asked.”

“I’m not asking him.” She checked for traffic, then pulled out of the parking lot, going too fast. “I can do this by myself, and I’ll prove that to him and everybody else. I don’t want to live underneath his shadow anymore.” Her expression was terse for a few moments, looking ahead fiercely. Then she sighed and slid me a glance. “Sorry for snapping at you. It’s just . . . you have no idea what it’s like to grow up with a dad everybody loves and thinks is perfect.”

Well, she was right about that.

“I can write hits,” she said. “I just need some inspiration. Songs never come when you’re under stress. They come when you’re having fun, when you’re in sync with life . . .” She paused for a moment considering her own words, then switched lanes. “Which is why I’ve decided that instead of going to my house so you can study me like some sort of science project, we should go do something fun.”

“Okay,” I said, a little nervous about what that might mean. “But we can’t go out in public together, or go skinny dipping, drive to Vegas, or buy Italian home décor. Maren’s orders.”

Kari took her gaze from the road long enough to give me a conciliatory smile. “I bet it’s a ton of fun living with Maren. Does she give you a schedule and a whole list of rules to follow every day?”

I sat up straighter. “She said I had to because that’s how you lived.”

Kari snorted. “That’s how she
wants
me to live. The woman has no concept of what an artist’s life is like.” She switched lanes again and slowed for a light. “Luckily she has the hots for my dad, so she never gets too mad about anything I do. She wants to stay on my good side.”

I’d been right. My stomach twisted. I’m not sure why. I knew Alex Kingsley had dated lots of women, but I didn’t want him to ever date Maren. She was so cold and judgmental. How could he like her when he hadn’t been interested in my mother, who was warm, funny, caring, and whose beauty came not in the form of practiced poise, but was just there naturally?

I kept my voice even. “So are they an item?”

“Not yet. Dad doesn’t have a clue, and I’m not about to tell him. If she gets in good with him, then she’ll stop working for me altogether.”

My expression must have shown I wasn’t happy. Kari looked at me and said, “Sorry she’s such a downer. Now I bet you wish she had a crush on your dad.”