Star Struck
Kevin Novalina
Satire’s the truth toned down.
Anonymous
All right, Mr. DeMille, I’m ready for my closeup.
Norma Desmond – Sunset Boulevard
Julie’s dad touches her, and she can cry on cue. Kristi’s mom hits her, so every emo song on the radio she’ll claw her hair, clench her eyes, and sing real loud offkey. Like everything’s all about her. Just Kristi, Kristi, Kristi.
My dad’s never laid one finger on me. I’m like, so out of the loop.
For reals, it’s as if a piece of my life is missing. My mom died before I stopped believing in Santa, but that’s for like, ever ago. To use her death, to be all, I miss my mommy, it’d sobe second grade drama. Attention’s only wanted if it builds your rep, boosts your clout. I need something chic and shocking. In vogue and tragic.
So one night at dinner, I say to my father, I say, “Daddy.”
“Daughter.”
“Think you might could punch me in the mouth?”
“Punch you in the mouth?” he says through a chew of fettuccine.
And I’m all, “Maybe make it swell and bleed?”
“Make it what?”
“Any teeth knocked out,” I go, “it’d just be a bonus.”
He napkins his chin. “Just why would I do that?”
And I’m like, “Because you love me.” Duh.
“That’s why I’d never hit you.”
“But Daddy,” I say, “Julie and Kristi’s parents hit them.”
“If Julie and Kristi jumped off a cliff, would you?”
“Hello,” I say. “They’re only the most popular girls in school.” I mean, anybody who’s anybody knows that.
“I’ll bet their popularity’s from exercise and good dental hygiene,” he says. “What say let’s try aerobics and Invisalign first.”
OMG. My dad’s always rambling about a better tomorrow, abrighter future, completely ignoring the shitty now.
“Please, daddy, just this once?” I curl my bottom lip. “Just one good whack and I’ll never ask for anything ever again.”
“BooBear, let’s finish your rice pilaf.”
“It’s not fair!” I say. “I hate you and I’m never speaking to you again!”
He keeps munching his stupid pasta with his stupid mouth while I show my displeasure with lots of crying and screaming and slamming bedroom door.
*
Next morning, I skip the bus to walk to school or wherever. Fantasizing about the perfect fucky childhood, I get a flash—pop!—like a camera bulb or a haymaker. If Daddy won’t abuse me like any normal abnormal father, then I’ll just abuse me myself. The way we learned in history how the government or whoever enters a war to boost the economy, I’ll beat myself to boost my popularity. Duh.
I mean, people do worse for attention.
So what I do, I step behind the Wallace’s tall hedgerows. Slipping Mom’s rings I wear onto my right hand, I turn my fist toward me like a blinged-out sock puppet. Deep breath, I swing but stop just short of my mouth.
This is like, way harder than it looks.
I cinch my eyes, imagine third period with everyone watching everyone else to see if we’re being watched. I picture the school counselor, Mrs. Tate peeking in and saying, Kristi Strode. And just thinking about Kristi sliding from her desk with her head all down, soaking up the stares, my face starts to burn. I know she’s my BFF and like, totes adorbs, but seriously. She can be a real bitch sometimes.
With this, I count to three three times, then slam my bejeweled fist into my mouth. All I taste is pennies, and when I touch my lips there’s just a dab of pink.
Not even enough for an arm around the shoulders.
Outside the hedgerows, the bus squeals and hisses at each stop along my street.
This time, I angle my face for a better shot at my lips against my crooked teeth. Another swing and it sound’s like a dropped melon inside my skull. I do it again, then again. Again, then again.
Whatevs. No one said being popular was easy.
After a few more licks I tally the damage. This time, we’ve got something to build on. Looking down my nose I see two bloody sausage links, tight and full as a Hollywood starlet after lip filler injections.
Satisfied, I step from the hedges headed for school. For the stage and spotlight. Break a leg, I think, wondering how much sympathy that would pull.
*
So this thing I did, I just keep doing. Behind the same hedgerows before school, I’m creating my very own home trauma. Sculpting the perfect childhood tragedy. If I want a black eye, there’s ringed swings to the socket. Need an earring ripped out? Hook a pinky in the loop, yank it through the lobe.
Fractured elbow? Just smack the joint against the Wallace’s brick wall until it’s a skin sleeve of confetti.
BFD. No one said being a heroine was painless.
But since three weeks ago Tuesday, I only do it Mondays, and there’s two reasons why. One, one might assume my dad went on a drunken drug binge over the weekend and my body’s the result. And B or whatever, healing time. After the thing with Dad’s hole saw drill bit, sympathetic looks turned sus. Seriously, I’d be in the hall with Julie and Kristi, going: “And I told Laurie, I go, ‘Oh Mylanta, Alli needs to chillax with the drama,’ and she’s like, ‘Wouldn’t you just know it,’ and I’m all, ‘She’s such a snobby beeyatch.’”
Picture this while they’re staring all amazeballs at the string of bloody drool seeping through the hole in my bottom lip. The whole time trying to like, not.
So now, it’s once a week. Just enough to get teachers wondering about the contusions and lacerations, broken teeth and shattered bones. Asking if there’s anything I’d like to talk about, then I’ll lower my eyes all emo and whimper, I might’ve tripped a bunch in the driveway.
Or: I keep running into doors.
Or: I accidentally rolled off our roof is all.
At home, Dad’s forever asking about my injuries, if things are okay at school, but I’m like, “Everything’s Dash, daddy.” Dash as in Kardashian. Dash being Cool. Dash being Hot. Awesome, Fab, Bitchin’. Or, I’ll just say I got into it with that skank bully Emily Lynne. Maybe I caught four elbows in PE. It’s possible I keep rising into the corner of my open locker. Just back-and-forth, volleying both sides while swaddling up the limelight. Not just part of the “it crowd,” but the whole Dashin’ thing.
*
Thing about high school popularity, it’s like the changing fads in all those fashion magazines. Their headlines claiming pink is the new black, scallop’s the new scoop. Leopard is this summer’s tattersall.
What’s Dash today is dumb tomorrow.
As tweenagers, girls developing early turned all the rage, and just like that Barbies and batons were out, boobs and boys were in.
Cleavage became the new covered.
Tank tops the de rigueur turtlenecks.
Me, I tried keeping pace with Kleenex, but OMG. Lopside a bra cup one itsy-bitsy teeny-weeny time and you’re so called “tissue tits” all through Junior High.
Go figure, but soon as my biology gets with the program, the fad flips, and hidden chests replace buxom breasts. Gorgeous goes goth and angst becomes the modern content.
Just when I’m ready to get wild and entitled, rags begin trumping riches and depression’s the all-new and unimproved healthy mind.
Now, each Monday morning it’s me setting the trends, creating the craze. Behind the hedges, I’m burning my arms with a Zippo. Tattooing MOM on my stomach using soot and a guitar string, then suturing a palm with an industrial staple gun.
Last week, I cracked a backrib dropping ass-up off the Wallace’s fence. In January (or was it March), I grated off a patch of hair over their stone quoining.
And soon as I get to school I have them lining up. My own mini paparazzi gazing at the star as she bleeds the carpet red.
Scars and scabs, they’re the latest blemish free.
I’ve even perfected crying without being sad. With all this attention, how could I be? Anymore, I’m the happy tortured soul. The euphoric tormented diva. I bought the book, Family Abuse: You Can Live with It, But God Does It Suck. Carrying it everywhere, the covers bent back cracking the spine, I read it page one to done. I’m like, so ready for anything.
At some point, I’m blacking out one third period when the counselor cracks the door and says, “Mallory Charles?”
All heads spin toward me as I slide from my desk. Head down, I peek at everyone’s eyes tracking me. Wishing their lives were this dramatic. Imagining themselves walking the victim runway.
At the door I wink back to Julie and Kristi, letting blood frown down from the crooks of my smile.
*
In Mrs. Tate’s office, I’ve gone through half a box of tissue feigning tears and stanching my leaky ruptured eardrum.
“Let’s get to the point,” she says, doodling on a notepad. “Mallory, is your father ever physically violent with you?”
When this counselor says, Let’s get to the point, she like, does.
But I know how to play it. To a T. Eyes down, showing wounded yet brave, I tell her my daddy’s a great man.
“Does he ever drink or do drugs around you?”
I tell her he’s only doing the best a widower dad can.
“Does he touch you in any way that makes you uncomfortable?”
I explain that with Mom dead, he’s had to be both father and mother. Nurturer and provider. “It’s enough to like, break your heart.”
We do this for like, ever and I’m delivering an Oscar caliber performance. Faking authentic emotions. Parceling out fragments of my own handcrafted nightmare. She’s practically eating outta the palm of my stapled hand, and though my right eye’s crossed blurry since the whole clawhammer incident, I’m almost certain she might be crying.
I’m a battered girl just trying to survive, you’d cry too.
Duh.
She blah, blah, blahs about the Division of Children and Family Services, then yap, yap, yaps about meeting with my father at the upcoming Parent-Teacher Conference.
“Trust me,” I tell her. “You’ll never shake a firmer hand.”
At lunch I sit by Julie and Kristi, and they’re acting all witchy bitchy, crotches itchy. Anymore, they should be happy I give them the time of day. For realsies, I’m the new them. Sure, they did it first, but I do it majestic. The early bird gets the worm, but the early worm gets got.
“Look what the cat gagged up,” Kristi says, and Julie’s like, “Miss Counselor Cooze Kisser.”
And I’m all, “Mrs. Tate says to say your company’s no longer relevant.”
“You’re like, such a little ho-bag,” Kristi says, and all smile-sies Julie goes, “And a liar cuz not all those lacerations are real.”
Bitch, bitch. Moan, moan.
Standing, I say, “You need me, I’ll just be seated at the head of the Dash table.”
And Kristi’s like, “Dash,” and Julie’s all, “So Dash with me.”
*
Tonight’s the night, or least I think. Act III. Where the Tragedy of Me brings the house down.
Like Cinderella’s Ball without that fairy godmother spell. Because these wounds, they so aren’t healing by midnight.
It’s Parent-Teacher Conference, where all the moving parts constellate. Solidifying my legacy as victim and survivor. As Megastar.
All week, I rehearsed my climatic 11 o’clock number on a loop in my loopy mind. Picturing Julie and Kristi with the other students and parents gathered around as I melt down, sobbing, I can’t take it anymore. Yelling, “I’m just a kid!” Screaming, “I only wanna be loved!” Everyone with hands to their hearts weeping. I mean, it’s child abuse. You’d weep too.
Duh.
And though it’s Friday, I made a special trip behind the hedgerows this morning. My body shaking from excitement and my fourth concussion, I squatted on my haunches, scrunched my eyes, and slammed my face into the wall.
Three.
Hard.
Times.
The first, I pissed myself and an arm went rubber. The second, blood stretched from my face to the bricking like Radical Red Bubblicious.
That last whack knocked me unconscious I guess, because I missed first period and half of Home Ec.
No biggie. No one said Cinderella was all fairy tale.
So now we’re in the car and it’s the first time Dad’s seen my new makeover. He’s feeding Kleenex up my nose that’s turned mushy as Manwich. I’m a little woozy and it appears I’ve somehow forgotten my mother’s name.
“Just how,” he says, tissues sticking to his fingertips, “are we going to explain this?”
My head reared back, all goose nasal I squonk, “Just tell them you’re only human.”
“I mean, what’s our answer for that urine smell?”
“Look them right in the eye and tell them you are not cray-cray.”
“Wait, what?”
“They’re understanding people.”
“What would your mother think about all this?”
“That’s good, bring Mom up,” I tell him. “Say how I’ve risen above her death or whatever, then throw in stuff about my inner strength.”
“Jesus.”
“How I’ve endured so much in my young life,” I say over my ringing ears. “Tell them I had to grow up like, way before my time.”
“Are you kidding me?” he yells. “Are we completely out of Kleenex!”
At school, we park and sit a sec. “BooBear, we get through tonight,” he says. “What say let’s give some serious thought to private school.”
Holding me up, he walks me down the hall like a father giving his daughter away. I keep my head down, showing weak yet strong. Gaga with nerves and brain injuries, I see in my smeared periphery classmates and parents all frozen, starstruck. Someone whispers, “My God.” Another gurgles, “I’m gonna be sick.”
I mean, people do dumber things for glory.
I tippytoe to Daddy’s ear and tell him to chillax. “Dead silence,” I whisper, “is today’s roaring applause.”
Julie and Kristi, they’re giggling and snorting hisses as we pass.
Bitch, bitch. Moan, moan.
I stick my gnarled tongue out and a tooth goes with it, tick, tick, ticking across the tile toward them.
The meeting’s in a classroom, but instead of my teacher, Mrs. Tate’s behind the desk. Two officials beside her, DCFS on their nametags. Their six eyes all OMG wide.
“Clumsy girl,” Daddy says, chuckling. “Tripped in the parking lot.”
“She trips a lot,” Mrs. Tate says.
“She does, now you mention it,” Dad says. “Especially on Mondays.”
I’m still shoegazing, but after a minute I glance back at the crowd around the doorway. Clamoring to see the storybook ending where the little glass slipper fits the princess like an orthopedic cast.
And now. Time for the showstopper.
Throwing my head back, I clench my eyes like, Kristi tight, and fake sneeze hard as I can. My head goes helium light, blood spraying the papers on the desk. My dad’s face somehow flushes and pales in unison. Still chuckling, he dabs at the soupy goopy pages with his shirtsleeve.
One official gags, the other looks away.
Dad and Mrs. Tate are locked in like, a really awk stare down, and I can see in his eyes he knows she knows my nose is broken.
The two officials stand and one says, “Sir, may we speak with you.” Rounding the desk, the other says, “In private.”
“I’d be delighted,” Dad stutters, and tells me he’ll be right back.
As if.
FWIW, it’s kinda sorta sad. And someday, I may even come to like, regret everything. This living a better today, a brighter present, completely ignoring the shitty later.
Whoopty Doo. No one said being a legend’s without sacrifice.
Jesus gave his life on that cross or whatevs and just look how Dash He turned out.
For my curtain call, I gimp back out in the hall to bask in the loyalty of my fanbase. And wouldn’t you just know it, but Julie and Kristi step in to like, steal my spotlight.
With my good eye, I notice they’re both decked out in slut-tastic Gucci slingbacks. Prada silk tops with Hermès Birkin handbags. Their forearms are beaded rainbows of stacked friendship bracelets, some flashing neon lights.
And by their hairstyles, I’m guessing the Romantic Updo’s replaced the oily unwashed. Retro Sleek’s the brand spanking new hand chopped crop.
I wink but the gore tacks my eyelid shut. How Dash is this, I tell them. My daddy’s getting arrested as we speak. A blood bubble swelling and popping from a nostril with each breath, I say: “Jealous?”
They look at each other as if.
“Didn’t you hear, Swift is the new Dash,” Julie says, and Kristi goes, “Swift as in Taylor.”
“Swift being superior.”
“Swift being elite.”
“Haut monde.”
“Crème de la crème.”
They both sweep hands over their designer threads. “The Haves,” they squeal together, “are the enhanced Have-nots!”
“Anyways, abuse is like, so yesterday.”
“Love’s the new hate, duh.”
“Lord, what’ll become of thee,” Julie howls, and all outta key Kristi trills, “Now you’ve lost your like, novelty or whatever.”
“And being a Swiftie, it’s the revamped…,” Julie says, her stupid eyes slicing around for the stupid words, then Kristi flings a hand at me and goes, “Being you.”
I know she’s my BFF and like, totes ensembly Swift, but seriously. What. A. Bitch. Like everything’s all about her. Just Kristi, Kristi, Kristi.
“Besides.” Julie slips a Charles Mallory accessory mirror from her bag, pops it open before my face. “Anybody who’s anybody knows Swifties so don’t hang with fugly Dashians,” she says, snapping the compact shut before I ever see who’s staring back at me.
Kevin Novalina has had Fiction, Non-fiction and Poetry published in over 200 Literary Journals, Magazines and Anthologies. He won numerous writing competitions and was nominated for multiple prizes and awards, including three Pushcart Prizes.