Spiral
Authors: Jacqueline Levine
By
Jacqueline Levine
Copyright © 2013 Jacqueline Levine
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 061580294X
ISBN 13: 9780615802947
eBook ISBN: 978-1-63002-828-2
For Lucky Nat, who always did it his way.
Sweet dreams, Daddy.
DIRTERAZZI.COM
CHERIE BELLE AND CAZ FARRELL
ROBBING THE CRADLE MUCH?
What do you get when you mix the former Kidz Channel king everyone wants and the latest Kidz Channel princess that no one can (legally) have? Oh, only the hottest maybe-couple ever! Heartthrob Caz Farrell, 25, was spotted last night leaving Fly nightclub, with his usual Kidz Channel entourage in tow, including Dominick Furst and Amber Stiles. Mere seconds later, Cherie Belle, the sixteen year old siren from Kidz Channel’s “Choc it Up” and Caz’s co-star in the upcoming flick, “This Side of Sunny,” made the same exit and fled the scene… in the same car! How the underage teen queen got into the club to begin with is still unclear. Witnesses inside the club say the two were cozying up to one another in the VIP section, well-hidden by bodyguards and friends. Some onlookers report the body language between Caz and Cherie was very telling.
Rumors have already been swirling around the stars for a few months, and many say it would be a match made in studio heaven if the television royalty were to actually date. Of course, Caz’s camp completely denies the rumors, because who would admit to dating a minor? If Caz is caught robbing the cradle, he would be labeled a pedophile for life, not to mention face serious criminal charges and spend Christmas behind bars. Since no one wants to see that, let’s just pretend this didn’t happen…
Y
esterday was the fourth anniversary of the day Dad left, but my mom didn’t cry about it this year. She was too busy learning how to make latkes for tonight’s Christmas-Hanukkah dinner, so the onions were the only things making her eyes tear up. Onions and the dozen roses my step-dad, Jim, brought home for her from the supermarket.
I’m torn from my thoughts by the angry pounding on the bathroom door.
“Ja-ack! Get out of the bathroom already!”
I groan. “I’m not done yet, Claudia.”
I breathe deeply as my stepsister huffs and storms down the hall. When I’m sure she’s gone, I resume my post-shower routine by pulling hair gel out of the drawer marked “Jack” in our bathroom’s dresser. My drawer sits above the one marked “Brenton and Britney” because they’re little and need the lowest drawer for their bath toys and toothbrushes. But mine comes after the drawer marked “Claudia,” and hers sits below her twin’s compartment, the one marked “Chloe.” This is a totem pole of products and supplies that my mom carefully designed to keep all of us organized and not spread out all over her counters. If you ask me, I’d say it’s just another large, invasive piece of furniture occupying space we don’t have in this house. More importantly, the dresser is a giant reminder that I share a bathroom with four other people and, despite being the oldest, I’m somewhere lost in the middle.
I swirl a little gel between my palms and run it through my hair, smoothing the sides and combing my fingers through the front until it has the right height. Examining my face while I wash the remaining gel off of my hands, I scowl at how young I look. I wish I could grow a beard or something. My jaw just doesn’t have that shadow yet, that look of a guy who takes a sharp, dangerous object and runs it across his face daily. I kind of want that.
Mom says I don’t want a beard though, because I will seem even more like Dad. I have his dirty blond hair and his smile, and that’s already more than she cares to look at every day. I think I have his eyebrows too, complete with little lines in the middle from all of the squinting I do. He used to squint at us when he was confused, and I’ve been confused since he left.
Claudia’s back, jerking on the locked door knob with a vengeance. “JACK! God, you are such a girl! You’ve been in there for twenty minutes!”
I tighten the towel around my waist and sigh. A guy can’t shower in peace in this house anymore. I throw open the door, meeting Claudia’s hateful glower.
“Yes, Claudia?” I lean against the doorframe casually, blocking her path as she tries to push past me on both sides and fails.
She snaps, “Move! I have to shower!”
“I didn’t know you could wash off ugly,” I sneer.
She’s not as quick as her twin with the retorts, so she releases her signature growl-scream in response. “
Moooove
– I have to get ready! They’ll be here any minute!”
I move out of the doorway and let her through. “Merry Christmas!” I call backward when she slams the door closed.
“
Hanukkah
, jerk! We celebrate HAN-OO-KAH!” she yells through the door. “God!”
As I walk down the long hall to my room, I hear my mother scurrying around downstairs, followed by the clink of glasses bumping into one another in her hand as she sets the table. The warm smells of turkey and sugar cookies waft into the hall and surround me. Frank Sinatra, Mom’s go-to holiday, family-is-coming-over artist, sings an indulgent ballad through the sound system of our home.
I’d trade in all the smells and sounds of Christmas for just one more holiday without the step-twins from hell.
Passing my little brother’s room, I poke my head in just to check and make sure he’s almost ready for dinner, which is starting in less than thirty minutes. As expected, Brenton is stretched out face-down on his bed, chin propped up in his hands as he watches some stupid video on my laptop.
Even though Jim is the new “man of the house,” it’s still my duty to play dad with my own siblings. I shake my head and walk over to him.
“C’mon, bud, time to get ready,” I huff, swiping the computer up and snapping him out of his trance.
“Hey!” he whines, then he pouts and folds his arms. “I
was
getting ready, for your information.”
My gaze moves from him to the computer screen, which is in the midst of displaying one of starlet Cherie Belle’s cheesy music videos. Correction: one of her newer, cheesier music videos for a song that sounds like all of the other songs she makes for little kids like Brenton. She’s one of those up and coming kid celebrities that little girls love and guys my age drool over. I don’t get why Brenton’s so obsessed with her, though; she’s hot and all, but Brenton’s ten year old mind can’t possibly be thinking that. Or maybe he is finally noticing girls?
Rather than entertain that thought for a second more, I chuckle at him and stop the video, saying, “Are you singing this dumb song for us later or something? Putting on a little Christmas play maybe?” I turn to his closet and pull out a pair of khakis and a miniature button down shirt that looks like it would maybe fit around one of my arms.
He squints at me as I plop the clothes down beside him. “No, Cheecho and I want to make sure we have plenty to talk to her about. Duh.”
If any other person in the world had said such a thing, I probably would have inquired further with something along the lines of, “Huh?” or “What do you mean?”
But this is Brenton, and Brenton is a weird kid who has an imaginary friend named Cheecho, and he says weird stuff all of the time. For all I know, he is making a plan to have an imaginary play date with Cherie Belle and Cheecho later tonight.
So I simply shake my head at him and sigh, “Whatever, bud, just make sure you do it after you get dressed for dinner.”
I turn and walk off with my computer just as he calls, “Do you have any idea who she is?”
I close my bedroom door to tune the hallway music out, but it’s inescapable, blaring from the wall speakers that are littered in every hallway of our house. Jim had them installed right after he installed himself and his daughters in our home last October.
I stand back and examine my closet. Last night, Mom told me to look nice for this dinner, which means I have to wear stupid, shiny dress shoes and a shirt with a collar. I choose the same black pants and button-up shirt that I wore last month to awards night at the end of football season because the outfit is Mom-tested and girl-approved. Well,
was
approved by my now ex-girlfriend, Katrina. She picked out my clothes for the better half of a year before the twins moved in. Then she just started picking fights, and I wasn’t prepared to juggle another drama queen in my life.
I check my hair one more time in the mirror and fix a few pieces that have already fallen out of place. I look down at my shirt and can’t decide – undo the top button or keep them all closed? One way looks a little stiff and nerdy, and the other looks kind of dumb, showing too much of my chest like those New Jersey guidos. I try it all the way buttoned. Then I undo a button. Then I redo it.
Finally, I shake my head, wondering what happened to me and when I started giving a damn about how many buttons I button.
As I make my way down the steps, I can hear my sister Britney’s antagonistic giggle and
tap-tap-tapping
of her own shiny, dress-up shoes as she evades my mom’s red-nailed grasp.
“Britney, no! I said no more cookies before dinner!” Mom chides as my sister smiles devilishly, reaching for the dessert platter on the table. Mom looks harried, a dishtowel slung over her shoulder, a flour-dusted apron protecting her ornamental dress. Her eyes are harsher than normal, framed with dark eye shadow. Her hair is curled and looks nice and smooth for a change. One of Jim’s daughters must have given her a makeover.
That’s their way of being nice to someone on our side of the family.
The first floor of the house looks like it got a makeover, too, but that’s all my mom’s doing. On holidays, my mom used to go nuts with expensive decorations and the crystal ornaments that only the adults were allowed to put on the tree. She took a long vacation from playing Holly Homemaker after Dad left. First, she had to recover. Then, she had to go to work, where she met Jim. Now they’re married, and she doesn’t work anymore, so I’m not exactly surprised that she is reverting back to her perfect hostess ways. Mom’s been reborn ever since Jim and his daughters moved in, which is great for her, I guess.