Dear Rockstar (5 page)

To descend the stairs and go inside would just put me in the middle—again. It was a place I’d been in all my life. I should be used to it. What was it like for Tyler Vincent’s only daughter, Chloe, to come home every day? She was in her last year of high school—just a year behind me, although I was still stuck in school too.

I spun the fantasy out in my head—

She would come home from school, driving her brand-new Mustang, red with black interior, grab herself a snack from the kitchen, talk to her mom for a minute, and then head to her room. On her way, she would peek in and say “hi” to her dad—if his sign, “Do Not Disturb, Madman At Work” wasn’t out, that was. He would be in his studio, writing, strumming his guitar. She would talk with him for a minute, munching on her apple, about her day, about his song, about life in general, give him a peck on the cheek and say, “Oh, Dad!” when he mentioned how old she was beginning to look and how he was going to have to invest in a shotgun and a porch swing soon.

I sat down on the stairs, unable to think anymore through the bitterness or see through my tears. His voice reverberated in my head.

“You can’t do anything! Jesus Christ! Are you that stupid? I can’t
hear
you!”

My hands pressed against my ears and I hung my head between my knees, feeling weak. You’d think I could get used to it, but it always made my stomach churn and my ears ring.

“What? What did you say? What did you just say to me? Fuck you, bitch! Get your ass over here!” He went on, and he would continue, berating her, making himself feel superior.

I heard my mother’s voice—a little voice, a mouse voice, a scared little-girl voice.

“Honey, you never asked me to do that. I would have, if you’d told me, but you never did.”

No Mom,
I thought, shaking my head.
Don’t be a hero. Don’t be brave. You won’t get away with it.

“Don’t tell me what I told you! Are you calling me a liar?”

“No, but I—”

CRACK

Sudden, like a gunshot, or a whip.

And my mother’s tears, always her tears.

And mine. I cried for her weakness, for my own, wondering if there were people out there who lived normal lives, or if everyone hid things like this behind closed doors, behind scarves and sunglasses.

Tyler Vincent doesn’t.

That much I knew. He was known for being a family man, his wholesome image part of his celebrity. Just a normal everyday guy, living in his hometown in Maine, raising a family, who just happened to be one of the biggest rock stars who ever lived.

His kids never sat outside and wished him dead.

I was pretty sure of that.

     
CHAPTER FIVE     

I opened the door slowly, bracing myself. This was the worst part. If I could just make it to my room, my haven, I’d be safe.

“Well, where have
you
been?” He didn’t look away from the TV, although his words were directed at me. “You can’t just waltz in here anytime you want to.”

I looked at him, sitting in “his” chair, remote control in hand, a cigarette in the other. He looked at me now, but he didn’t
glare
and that was good. That meant he wasn’t going to keep me. This was just a show of power.

“Sorry, I was at Aimee’s,” I said softly, the door snicking shut behind me. This was a lie. I’d simply waited out on the stairs until the yelling—and the crying—had stopped.

“Well, you can forget about dinner.”

“Did I miss it?” I hadn’t been out on the stairs
that
long!

“No, but you can forget about eating it.” He flipped the channel and puffed on his cigarette.

“You were late.” He turned back to the television set.

It was my dismissal. Thank God.

“Yes sir,” I mumbled anyway, just in case he thought about it later and decided I hadn’t been humble enough to suit him. I made my way past his chair, glancing into their room to see my mother lying on the bed with an ice pack on her eye. She appeared to be asleep.

I opened my door at the end of the hall and sighed in relief when I shut it behind me. I dropped my notebook and purse and lay down on my bed.

I made it. I was safe. Well, relatively.

. It felt good to relax, to let my guard down a little. This was the only place in the world I could “be myself.” This room was me, completely and totally me, from the pictures of Tyler Vincent wallpapering the walls, to the Tyler Vincent cassettes I had lined up on the shelves.

I looked around and wondered how long it would be before I could get out of here forever. My ticket out was sitting on an easel in front of the window. Like everything else in my room, it was Tyler Vincent. This was special though. This was the painting that would get me out of here—I hoped. I had taken my favorite picture of Tyler from
People
magazine and made a portrait of it.

The original picture was one of Tyler and his daughter, Chloe, in a warm embrace, her cheek resting against his black t-shirt. They were smiling, happy, and it looked as if the photographer had snapped the picture a moment too late, because instead of looking at the camera, they were half-looking at each other, their eyes locked, and the look in their eyes was of something secretly hilarious, some inside joke. The love there made me ache all over. The warmth between them was almost tangible, all the love in the world caught in that one single look.

I had painted Tyler exactly as he was, but instead of Chloe, I had done a self-portrait, putting myself in her place. The painting was almost finished. I just had a little work to do. I contemplated getting out my paints and brushes, since I was going to be in here all night without any supper. Thankfully I had a stash of granola bars in my closet and a whole case of apple juice. Pete—the stepbeast—drove a truck delivering juice and he stole it from work.

I got myself a granola bar and some juice, my stomach rumbling its thanks as I ate, looking through one of the brochures from my night stand. I’d flipped through it so many times, the edges were ragged. There was a Bulldog on the front, near the words “University of Maine at Orono”—Tyler Vincent’s alma mater. Inside, though…I opened the slick, folded sheet of paper, staring at the words:
“Maine Difference Creative Competition. Open to writers, musicians, painters, photographers—artists of all creeds.”

I double-checked the prize, as I had a hundred times—an all-expenses paid scholarship to the University of Maine to the top winner in each category, and an invitation to an open house to see the campus and accept their award. The keynote speaker was, of course, Tyler Vincent himself, whose music career had started, of all places, in a Maine state university. I folded the brochure up, carefully tucking it fully back under my alarm clock.

That was my golden ticket. Tyler still had a house only five minutes away from Orono, in Bangor. I had my dreams of meeting him, my little fantasies. Maybe I’d run into his son, Michael… who says we couldn’t fall in love and get married? Or I could end up babysitting his youngest son, Ian. Or meeting Chloe if she decided to go to the University of Maine like her father.

I knew all of my little scenarios were unlikely, but they were absolutely impossible if I stayed in New Jersey and never set foot in Maine. So I was going. I would win the contest and go to Maine. I had to. If nothing else, it would get me out of here.

I looked at my painting and then at the original photograph I had tacked to the wall. Chloe Vincent. I was so incredibly jealous of her. Why should she have such a wonderful father, when I was stuck with the stepbeast? There was never a day that passed when I didn’t wish it was me, in his arms with all of that love, for real, and not just in my painting.

I sighed, shaking my head to clear the reverie.
Forget it,
I thought.
Just get to work.
I put on my painting smock and grabbed my palette and a clean brush. If I finished it tonight and let it dry, I could send it out tomorrow. The thought spurred me on, and I opened my paints, beginning to mix a skin tone. I had just gotten the right color when the phone rang.

My first thought was of Dale Diamond and the little heart I’d drawn around my phone number on the back of his hand. I’d been trying hard not to think about him at all, not even realizing how tense and expectant my body had been, waiting for him to call.

I grabbed the phone on the first ring, hoping my stepfather wouldn’t pick it up.

“Hello?”

“Sara! Where in the hell were you? I had to go home with Carrie and Wendy!”

Aimee.
I’d forgotten all about her. I put down my brush and palette and sat on the bed.

“I had to stay after chem.”

“What for?” She crunched something in my ear.

“It’s a long story.” I looked longingly at the paint drying on the palette.

“So?”

I gave up, stretching out on my bed, and told her what had happened, from the moment Dale Diamond walked into my chemistry class to my invitation to give him a ride to and from the academy.

“He’s supposed to call you
tonight?”
Aimee was practically vibrating with excitement—I could feel it even through the phone line. “We better get off, you don’t have call waiting. Oh my God, it’s like a romance novel!”

I laughed. “It’s not that exciting. He’s a nice enough guy, I guess. But he’s
not
Tyler Vincent.”

I reminded myself of that fact, touching Tyler’s picture, one of my favorites taped to the wall next to my bed. This was the man I lived for, would die for. He filled my thoughts, my dreams. I had pinned all my hopes on him.

Aimee stopped crunching and groaned. “You are
way
too hung up on Tyler Vincent. You meet this
incredible
guy and all you can say is he’s
not
Tyler Vincent?”

“Hey, let me have my fantasies, would you? What are you eating?”

“Cheetos. But I’m going to throw them up later. Hey, speaking of Tyler Vincent, don’t tickets go on sale this Saturday?”

“Oh my God, I forgot to tell you the best part!” I squealed, forgetting all about Aimee’s Cheetos comment for a moment. “Dale says he can get us front row seats!”

“What?
You’re
kidding
me!
How?”

“He says he knows somebody.”

“Oh my God, I don’t have to stand in line overnight again? I can’t
believe
it!”

I laughed. “You lucked out this year.”

“Sounds like
you’re
the one lucking out.”

“Maybe a little.” I twisted the phone cord around my finger, looking at a picture of Tyler Vincent on my wall, but thinking about Dale Diamond. “Hey, are you really eating Cheetos?”

“Don’t judge me.” Aimee crunched again. “I’m having a bad day.”

I knew how she felt, between Woodall and washing desks to coming home to the stepbeast in a beastly mood. The only bright spot in my day had been Dale Diamond.

“I don’t care if you’re eating them, just don’t throw them up.”

“But the
calories!”
she wailed.

“You were fine at lunch. What happened?”

Aimee sighed. “Carrie’s older brother picked us up. That’s who I rode home with.”

“So?”

“So he’s
amazing,
not to mention
gorgeous
, and I made an absolute
fool
of myself in front of him!” she cried.

“You did not. It couldn’t be that bad.”

“You weren’t there!” she choked. “He pulls up in a red Firebird—
a red Firebird!
—and the car is hot enough, but the guy? Oh my God, have you seen Carrie’s brother? Matt Green? Do you remember him?”

“Ummm…” I vaguely remembered him from high school, a nice-looking guy, tall, with short sandy hair, basketball player. He was a senior when we were freshman. 

“So he pulls up and he starts talking to me, and I didn’t even know it was our ride, I just thought it was some cute guy who pulled up and was hitting on me, and Carrie and Wendy were just standing there grinning and not saying
anything
.”

“So he liked you?”

“I thought he did.” Aimee morosely crunched more Cheetos. “But that was before the bee.”

“The bee?”
Uh-oh.
Aimee was deathly afraid of bees—like I was afraid of spiders. She wasn’t even allergic, she was just terrified of them and freaked out every time she saw one.

“It was
huge!
And I screamed like an
idiot
and started running around and swatting at it but it was
chasing
me and I ended up tripping over Carrie’s bag. Now I’ve got a hole in the knee of my
new
Jordache jeans and I can
never
talk to Carrie’s brother ever again.”

I was trying hard not to laugh at the image. “I’m sure it wasn’t as bad as all that.”

“Sara! He teased me the whole way home!” Her voice dropped an octave as she imitated him. “‘You know, you should
BEE
more careful’ and ‘I do
BEE
lieve this is your house, Aimee.’”

I snorted laughter. I couldn’t help it. “Did you tell him to
buzz off?”

“Oh my God, I hate you.” More crunching.

“I’m sorry,” I apologized, swallowing my laughter, but I couldn’t help myself. “I was just kidding…
honey.”

“Sara!’

“Okay, okay…” I relented, trying to make her feel better. “Don’t they say if a guy teases you, that means they like you?”

Aimee scoffed. “Yeah, in
grade
school! We’re not in grade school anymore!”

“I suppose that embarrassing moment was Cheeto-worthy,” I admitted. “Just don’t throw them up, okay? Promise me?”