Spiral (6 page)

“You don’t have to say anything, Jack, you just have to be there for them. We have a lot of people here who are very deeply hurt by this tragedy. I know you can shut everything out, but – ”

“Mom, I’m not shutting it out, I don’t feel like being out there right now. I don’t even know any of these people!”

Mom purses her lips at me because she knows the truth. She knows I’ve seen enough crying and hurt to try to avoid it at every turn. She cocks her head and murmurs, “Treat them like family, Jack. That’s who they are. It’s not Brenton and Britney who need you to step up this time.”

I’m annoyed with her for bringing
that
up. We don’t talk about
that
.

I’ll do anything to stop this conversation from going forward. I close my laptop and cast an icy glare at her. “Fine. Where’s Cherie?”

She waves a hand toward my window. “She’s with her publicist and her manager, I think. They’re helping her prepare statements for the press.”

Mom pauses before adding, “But Jim’s sitting downstairs by himself. Why don’t you ask him to watch a game with you?”

Because he doesn’t watch sports, he watches the History Channel
, I mutter in my head. But I can offer, especially if he is alone, and especially if Cherie is already occupied. I nod and grunt as I roll off the bed.

J
ust as Cherie had imagined, the word of this catastrophe is all over the news, and Mom tells us to leave the TV off so our houseguest doesn’t have to listen to any of it. I genuinely feel bad for Cherie. She is bratty and self-centered and all, but she doesn’t deserve this kind of attention at a time when she just wants to disappear. I know exactly how she feels.

The Jewish religion insists on quick burials, so it’s 48 hours before we find ourselves standing in the cemetery, dressed in suits and dresses. Everyone is ankle-deep in fresh New York snow, watching the two caskets descend into plots that Jim’s parents had purchased for themselves many years ago. Today, they’re using those plots to bury a child and his wife who hadn’t bought their own plots because they hadn’t planned to die the way old people do. The thought makes my insides curl.

Cherie had been right about the paparazzi, too, who are suddenly everywhere, snapping photos, following our cars and the hearse. Her limo leaves the funeral home first, and ours follows.

“Don’t say anything to the reporters,” Mom warns all of us as we pile into the limo. “Let Cherie’s publicist handle the questions.”

You would think people would be respectful and give a family space at a time like this. I’ve never seen such chaos over one person before. It doesn’t help that some of her celebrity friends show up, too. Danika made sure to call her agent, her manager, and her every last co-star. It’s like Hollywood threw up in my neighborhood. Naturally, I don’t have a chance to feel star struck. Instead of meeting starlets and rubbing elbows with guys I’ve seen on TV, I’m officially in charge of rounding up the youngsters and making sure we are all ready in time and no one is bleeding or dirty.

The service is sad and crowded with a motley crew of Hollywood C-listers and average suburban New Yorkers. Cherie, donned in black from head to toe, has the aura of a tragic victim more so than any regular girl. With big, face-swallowing sunglasses, a large black hat and a black fur wrap, she looks like the wealthy widow from a cheesy movie. She stands stoically beside the caskets, dabbing occasionally beneath her sunglasses with a small handkerchief. Her grandparents clutch tightly to her and can barely stand as the rabbi reads the burial prayers. But Cherie doesn’t waver; she doesn’t even flinch when she is given the shovel to throw dirt onto each of the caskets. Like a dainty china doll, she deposits a tiny smattering of earth upon each casket. Then she stands off to the side as the rest of us do the same. Mom is behind her every step of the way, waiting to be needed, but she is more of a mess than Cherie has ever been in the last few days.

Megastar Caz Farrell is here, much to my dismay. The women all ogle and obsess over him as he does his part and tosses dirt onto the caskets. Aunt Darla makes it a point to introduce herself, and he is generous enough to give her an autograph discreetly. He makes his way to Cherie as the relatives and friends begin to disperse. Cherie greets him with a warm smile and sparkly eyes and a kiss on the cheek; I am close enough to smell the confidence on him, and it is nauseating. I can’t see what the big deal is, but I do notice that he is definitely
my
definition of a pretty boy.

“Thanks for coming, Caz,” she says softly.

He smiles the perfect, white smile of a modest hero. “Of course. I’m so sorry, Cherie. I’m praying for you. If you need anything, please don’t hesitate to call me.”

He’s
good
, I think bitterly. I hadn’t thought to say anything like that.

Well, whatever. Isn’t he 25 years old or something – and an actor? He’s supposed to know what to say and what look to give.

She eats it up and grins a little brighter. “That means a lot. Thank you.”

“Will you still be joining me for the New Year’s special?” he asks.

She nods emphatically. “Yes. I should be fine by then. Just have to get some things straightened out.”

He grins again. “Well, I look forward to seeing you then. If you’re back in the Hills this week, text me; we’ll get lunch.” I resist shaking my head, thinking over and over how a 20-something year old taking a 16 year old to lunch has to be against the law somehow. He nods briefly at me and smiles, but I can only glare at him when I tip my head in response.

With that, Caz is off, headed for his own limo, accompanied by glamorous and extravagantly dressed celebrifriends and assistafriends, and they’re all swarmed by photographers as they reach the cars. When I look back at Cherie, she is listening half-heartedly to the rabbi. He tries to give her words of encouragement before she departs. She’s all polite smiles and head nods.

Jim lays a hand on my shoulder and murmurs, “Can you keep an eye on Cherie while I get everyone to the limo?”

I nod and stay by her side, hands shoved deep into my pockets, watching as Jim shields his parents from the same photographers. He helps his old, shattered mother into the limo with a gentleness I’ve never seen him use, even with Mom. Then he returns to help my mother through the snow, holding out his arm for her like a gentleman from the 1800s. The twins and Leroy follow, and Aunt Darla carries Britney and holds Brenton’s hand. It feels like a scene straight out of a drama Caz would probably star in.

A stout older man and an Aunt Darla-type woman approach us. “Hiya, sweetheart.” The man hugs Cherie, then holds out his hand to me, and I shake it, staring at his bulbous nose.

“Carl Schwartz. I’m Cherie’s manager. This is Betsy Calves, her publicist. And you are?”

“Jack Hansen,” I reply, hoping my handshake is firm enough for Hollywood bigwigs. I don’t add a title; I don’t think I have a title. Cherie’s step-cousin? That just sounds weird.

Her manager looks me over before turning his beady eyes back to Cherie. “Coming, sweetheart?” he asks, and he points a fat thumb toward their Rolls Royce limo.

She smiles and shakes her head. “It’s okay. Maybe you can take Danika with you?” She turns to Danika on her left side, who looks disappointed to be dismissed. “I’m going to ride with my uncle and grandparents this time, and their limo’s pretty crowded.”

I’m surprised by this revelation, and I’m almost tempted to ask,
“Why?”
It seems so unnatural that she’d want to continue to mix with us commoners.

Betsy, a pretty, middle-aged woman, gives her a big hug. “Okay, baby. We’ll be in touch with you soon, okay? Don’t worry about the press; I’ll take care of it. Just keep your phone off. Don’t even look at
Dirterazzi.com
– just keep clear of the internet completely. I’ll update your blog in a few hours with a thank you to the fans or something.”

Cherie nods gratefully. “Thanks, Betsy.” She looks up at me. “We should probably be going, right Jack?” I nod quickly, realizing she needs me to get her out of the conversation.

“Yeah, they’re waiting,” I say stiffly.

As we turn to leave the cemetery, I take a cue from Jim and give my arm to Cherie, helping her brave the ocean of snow that covers the cemetery grounds.

“Thanks,” she whispers tightly, resting one hand in the crook of my arm and the other on the top of her drifting hat. She plods along in giant heeled boots that bring her head to just above my shoulder, and I wonder inwardly if she couldn’t have chosen a more unfortunate shoe for this event. She tries very hard not to stumble or struggle as we walk, and I immediately realize why when I hear the distant sound of cameras snapping away. I look up to see photographers intently capturing her every step through the cemetery, cursing at each other to get out of a shot.

They’d love nothing more than for her to fall right now, wouldn’t they? They’d love a shot of this overdressed little girl, this Hollywood princess with the not-so-fairytale life, falling in public. I scowl at them and make sure Cherie, in her high heels, with her fancy black dress and big hat and big fur wrap, makes a graceful exit into the waiting limo. I scowl at the photographers again before sliding into the empty seat next to her.

As the car pulls away and we are encased in silence, Cherie makes a sound like she is releasing the longest breath ever held by a person. Her head drops and her sunglasses slide down her nose, revealing eyes tightly scrunched in agony. Her mouth twists into a silent scream, and she doubles over onto herself. She’s disintegrating, the prim and proper façade gone, and now I realize why she wanted to be with us. No one else gets to see what’s behind the elaborate outfit, the passive line her lips make. No one else gets to see the stuff that happens once the door of the lavish limousine hides all of us from their prying eyes.

I’ve only seen one other person this hurt before, and I shudder from the memory of my mother lying on our kitchen floor, my father’s farewell note clutched in her hand.

Looking out at the sea of red, worn faces in our limo, each set of eyes welling with fresh new tears at the sight of Cherie’s breakdown, I realize I’m the last person who should be sitting beside her. While the picture moves everyone else to sobs, I feel like I’ve been punched in the gut, and I don’t know what to do.

“Oh, sweetheart,” Mom murmurs. She moves from her seat and trades places with me, throwing her arms around Cherie’s shoulders and crying with her. She is finally needed.

Britney crawls into my lap, which is the distraction I need.

J
ewish people do something called Shiva when a person dies. They gather at a house to visit with the family members of the deceased and drink coffee. At one point in the night there are some prayers said and some songs sung. It’s a lot like a wake, except it goes on for days and the overpowering smell of flowers is replaced by an overwhelming cloud of freshly-brewed coffee. Fortunately, there’s a lot of food. There’s a lot of talking, too. During the very first hour, I overhear family members debating Cherie’s future, both as an actress and as a person.

“Terrible, just terrible – a girl that young?” their great-aunt Elyse whispers to a distant cousin over the top of her lipstick-stained Styrofoam cup. “Eh, no good. I imagine she’ll wind up on the path of some addict and get arrested, or worse.” She nods her head and gives a raised eyebrow,
“that’s-a-fact”
look. I load a small plate with cookies and pretend I can’t hear her, but the comment sits inside of my gut and ferments, making me anxious. I try to imagine Cherie doing anything that would mess up her hair, let alone her reputation, and it’s laughable to me.