Break It Up (21 page)

Jen’s room is a cocoon of warmth and security. The press and that whole nasty world are locked away outside.

But when Chloe arrives, she looks a little worse for wear. “It’s bad,” she warns everyone. “I’ve never seen a crowd of paparazzi that big.”

Even here and now, my problems are affecting people, not that anyone in the family seems to care. I don’t know whether to be devastated or furious. Devastation seems more humble, but looking at my baby sisters and knowing this is the world they’re in, that definitely incites fury. I wish I could run outside and drive all the media away, protect these new little souls from all that ugliness. I just feel so helpless.

Chloe gives me a hug and a grin and I smile back. “I’ll leave before the rest of you guys,” I say.

“You’ll leave when you want to leave,” says Chloe. “I can say something that will seem especially frigid to distract them. They love making me seem frigid.”

Everyone laughs a little, but it’s not funny. It’s
really
not funny. I admire the way Chloe stands up to it time after time though. As she takes Angelina in her arms, I watch her expression. There’s definite joy there, but there’s world-weariness too. Chloe sees the worst of humanity in her job as a forensic scientist, and before she was that, she was a crime victim, nearly knocked out of the world by three gunshots. She’s never taken any of that lying down though. Chloe’s a fighter. Even if she can only make one little corner of the world a better place, she’ll work day and night to make that happen.

I just wish there was something I could do.

Then again, maybe there is.

“No way,”
says Dave, Jason’s assistant, on the phone. “Nuh-uh.”

“You help me or I go to the media all by myself.” A week has passed since my sisters were born, and I’m in my room. Paparazzi are gathered outside the house—
still
.

Dave is adamant. “Don’t make the same mistake hundreds of other people have made. They always think talking to the press will make a difference, but if you talk, you do it on their terms, on their turf, and they’ll use your words just like they’ve used everything else against you. So no. You will not give an interview.”

My phone beeps and Jason’s number pops up.

“Thanks for nothing,” I say as I click the line over.

“No,” says Jason. “I get what you’re thinking and I’m glad. I’m glad you want to fight, but you fight this by staying quiet.”

“It isn’t blowing over,” I say. “Aidan’s got enough movie clips to keep them coming until the concert-movie-turned-band-breakup-expose comes out, and then I’m really toast.”

“Which will feel like an eternity. You wait it out.”

“No—”

“Yes.
Go to college. Live your life. Move on. They won’t hover forever. Do not talk to them.”

Talking to him is like talking to a brick wall. I grit my teeth and think this over. What would a Vanderholt say to flip this situation? They’ve got a gift for turning any argument around to suit what they want. That’s why they make such good lawyers.

Yeah, I got nothing.

“Okay, so this is another stupid mistake I’m about to make,” I say. “Let me make it. Let me learn from it. Just let me live my life and don’t coddle me. I’ll regret it, you can say, ‘I told you so,’ and that’ll be that.”

“Well
gee
, if you’re gonna sugarcoat it like that—”

“Jason—”

“Listen,” says Jason, “you aren’t the first person who’s tried to do this. Not by a long shot. The problem is, trying to tell your side of things always backfires. Who can you think of who had the whole world against her and turned it around? Okay, before you answer? Here’s an example of someone who did do that: Anita Hill. You know who she is? Accused a Supreme Court justice of sexual harassment? People laughed at her when she testified, but nowadays most people believe her. You know how she achieved that? By staying quiet. Living her life. Letting it blow over. Read up on her. She’s a good example.”

“But—”

“Stop
arguing.”

“I’m gonna go read up on Anita Hill. Because if she did testify against a Supreme Court justice, she
talked.”

“And got ridiculed and hated for it.”

“Until people came around.”

“Kyra.” Jason’s really exasperated now. “It took years. Decades.”

“Got it. Okay. No quick fix. I’m good with that. I’m gonna get dragged through the mud anyway when the movie comes out.”

“Right, so why make it worse?”

“Because it’s worth trying to make the world
better.
Even if you fail, you know?”

Jason goes silent.

I don’t know how to read that. “Please?” I say.

“I hate you.”

“You’re going to help me?”

“And hate you for it. Hate, you got it? This is a big mistake. Jen’s gonna hate me. Chloe’s gonna hate me—”

“I’ll talk to Chloe.”

“You’re gonna blame me when this all goes wrong.”

“Which is different from the norm, how?”

“I’ll do it. But I do hate you.”

“I want to pick the interviewer.”

“No.”

“But—”

“I have way more experience as a famous person than you. I pick. I set up the terms. I dictate which questions are out of limits, and you will listen to me. I’ll let you do this your way if you listen to my rules.”

“Okay.” I’m inexperienced but not an idiot. Fame is a minefield and I’ve just signed up with one of the most experienced guides there is. Having said that, I’m up against Jeanne Wechsler, who is unsinkable. I’m about to get slaughtered.

I get
my interview slot in prime time. Not what I would have gone for, but I get the logic. It seems more serious that way and less of a publicity grab. The interviewer will be Kimberly Gregg, who interviews heads of state, war heroes, major celebrities, and now me, and it’s going to be live, because that’s how she runs her show. Jason and I debated that a lot but decided that I have the best chance to get my message out my way if no one edits me. Jason’s response to this was to say, “If anyone can do this, you can. Just to be clear, though? I’m not sure anyone can do this.”

Like any celebrity, I’ll have a publicist and manager waiting in the wings to shut it all down if things go badly at any point. I guess deep down, though, Jason’s got faith in me, which I never realized before. It’s terrifying. Dave drills me on the questions I’m to answer, heckling me and trying to push me off balance. Nothing’s off limits to him, and I suck it up and bear it, because again, I know he’s right and I’m grateful for his help.

Chloe, Jen, Lillian, Doug, my father, Steve, and everyone else in the family walk on eggshells around me. They all think this is a terrible idea, but they can see I’m determined. Each one lets me know in his or her own way that when it all comes crashing down and I’m even worse off than before, they will have my back.

I’m lucky. If I can pull this off, it’ll be thanks to them. I’ve got no illusions about that. No matter how many times I reconsider, though, I don’t waiver. I will do this. If it blows up, well, so what? My name already is mud. The concepts of being a passing pariah versus going down in history don’t really register in my mind.

Every night when I help put the twins to bed, I can’t help but stare at them and feel my anger kindle a little brighter. But I won’t explode. I won’t have a meltdown. I manage the burn of resentment, banking the coals so that the fire’s there, ready to flare up when I add the fuel, and not before. I’ve been such a bad example in so many ways in my life. I want to do this right.

The trick is to not let anyone else get to me, not to let them stoke the fire on their terms and with their desired result. This is
my
issue and mine alone. Even Yoko Ono ended up married to one of the Beatles.

Three days before the interview, information that it’s going to happen is “leaked.” The paparazzi respond at once, gathering in even greater numbers whenever I set foot outside my door. They all want some preview of what I’m about to do, some assurance that it’ll be spectacular, more of a disaster than the end of Triple Cross. I don’t bother to lead them along. I just live my life. If they want pictures, then fine.

When it comes time to fly to LA, I go with Jason’s security team, who escort me like I’m royal. Like I matter. Like it would be a disaster if someone touched or hurt me.

I spend the entire flight—in a jet Jason chartered—with my eyes shut, contemplating what I’m about to attempt. There’s nothing more I can do to prepare. It’s about to be showtime.

Jason also provides the makeup artist and hair stylist who work on me backstage. I just stare at my reflection, the dark-skinned girl with big brown eyes from New Mexico. It’s me against the world. Not that this matters. If I lose, people will gloat as if it were a fair fight.

I need to not indulge in self-pity. I shut my eyes again and let the hair and makeup people do their jobs.

Remember how I said it felt to have everyone in the hospital stare at me? That was nothing. When I step out into the interview room, which is on a soundstage but furnished to look like a cozy living room somewhere, I can literally feel the eyes of the world on me. Everyone’s going to watch me blow it in the biggest way possible.

So I have nothing to lose. I walk over to the chair, let the sound guys wire up my mic, ignore the camera guy as he maneuvers to make sure he can get me from every angle, and sit with my back straight and my legs crossed at the ankles. A stern expression will put people off, as Chloe’s demonstrated all too often. I opt for shy and vulnerable. I’m just little ol’ me in this biiig and fancy interview. This’ll be an acting job as much as anything else, and I did get an A in drama.

Kimberly Gregg comes in twenty minutes beforehand to break the ice with me. She looks exactly like she does on television, her makeup perfectly applied, her graying hair in a stylish, businesslike updo. She also sits with her ankles crossed, and I decide to see if I can make her coddle me a little.

“Hello, Kyra,” she says.

“Hi.” I say it too quietly. The sound guy shakes his head in disgust.

“How was your flight?” she asks.

“Um. Good. Yeah, really good.”

Everyone on set is getting nervous now. They think I’m just some stupid kid who’s going to hem and haw through the whole evening.

But that isn’t my problem. It’s Kimberly’s, and she was handpicked by Jason’s publicist. She leans forward, her hazel green eyes the picture of warmth and kindness. “This is your moment,” she says. “Your chance to tell your side of the story.”

“Right.”

“So just remember that. No one else is here. No one’s judging you.”

Yeah,
sure
, lady. Uh-huh.
But I widen my eyes a little and nod like a frightened kindergartener just given a thumbs up by her teacher. Kimberly Gregg isn’t going to take pity on me, I don’t think, but she may try to lead me to believe she has.

The minutes tick past and I slowly warm up my performance, speaking louder and more distinctly. “I just want to tell my side,” is my mantra. Isn’t it everybody’s? Given my situation, it’s ratings gold and everyone on set knows it. It doesn’t take much to get them to eat out of my hand—or to pretend to at least.

The lights come up, the camera sets up for the opening shot, and then I can feel it. The window opens to the outside world so everyone can gawk. The interview is on a ten-second delay, and that’s the only thing between me and every person with a media device on the planet.

Anger, not fear, builds inside of me. Carefully cultivated rage that I will dole out a drop at a time. My way.

“Good evening,” says Kimberly Gregg. “Tonight I’ve got Kyra Armijo here in the studio with me. She and I have just been chatting about recent events. Kyra, how much have you seen about what’s being said about you?”

“All of it,” I say, and I let those words come out small. Clear, but small. “I watch all of it.”

“That must be overwhelming.”

“Yeah. It is.”

Short answers, the bane of an interviewer’s existence. I watch Kimberly steel herself. Her smile grows ten degrees warmer and she looks me straight in the eye. “How accurate is it?”

That’s pretty close to an off-limits question. She’s not allowed to ask me specifics about my sexual past.

“Accuracy doesn’t matter in a situation like this,” I say.

“Do you really think so?” She’s inviting me to whine. Whining would make me the laughing stock of the whole world—and drive ratings up nicely.

“People don’t watch tabloid news and think it’s super accurate investigative journalism. People know that at least some of the stories are inaccurate, but whatever I admit to or deny would probably be overanalyzed. People would wonder if I was just trying to work an angle or cover up an embarrassment. So that’s why I say accuracy doesn’t matter. The media has created a certain perception of me and that perception is what I need to live with.” Oops, that last sentence verged on whining. I order myself to hold it together. My straight posture is clearer now. I’ve tipped enough of my hand that Kimberly knows I’m not some shy little girl awed by the glitz of national television.

Her eyebrows go up. That kind of speech is clearly not what she expected. “How does that make you feel, knowing people see you that certain way?” she asks. She’s still fishing for complaints, for me to talk about how unfair this all is.

I will, but my way. “It makes me feel like a lot of girls feel every day.”

“Excuse me?”

“Girls with a reputation for being promiscuous. I mean, my rep is bigger. More people know about it. Every day, though, girls show up to school—or don’t—because they’re too embarrassed. People judge them.”

“Was that your experience in school?”

“Yes.”