The finale. A scandal catapults Abigail, now Abeille, into the stratosphere of popularity, and the Prophecy inches ever closer to being fulfilled. Meanwhile, her new mega star status plays havoc with what remains of her morality as she deals with the rigours of fame. Those close to her attempt to intervene, but will it be too late for both her and the world?

Part 9

***
Chapter 67

A week after my break up with Ethan, Lauren and the girls came into my dressing room. Lauren said excitedly, “Abby! You need to put your rider together! You hardly ever ask for anything.”

I shrugged my shoulders and blinked, “What is that?”

Lauren replied, “It’s like all this stuff you can ask for. It’s fun. Like a must-have for all your performances. Everyone’s got one. Places think it’s weird that you just ask for the basics.”

I shrugged again, looking disinterested, “Why do I need that though? I have what I need.”

Lauren smiled knowingly, as did the girls around her, “Because you can! Here look at some of the stuff you can get!” She handed me her phone. It displayed a list of common and uncommon celebrity riders.

I raised a brow, “Why would I need a person to get rid of my used gum? That’s gross! And ridiculous!”

I said, “The air purifier and the humidifiers are fine. But I guess. Hmm.” I looked closely, “I mean- it’s kind of crazy? But I wouldn’t mind having my own private washroom. Like that no one can use.” My fear of germs was still prevalent, and in fact, after staying in many different hotel rooms, it had seemingly worsened. At home, I could control the germs. I could control, to a certain degree, who sat on my toilet seats, but in hotels- hundreds, no thousands of people could have sat there, pressing their ass cheeks against the soft contours of the seat. Gross!

Lauren shook her head, “No way, Abby! It makes sense to me. So like, you’d want a bathroom only you can use?”

I nodded, “As long as you don’t think it’s too weird. Or if it’s too much? I could see it being pretty inconvenient. Maybe pregnant women could still use it. If they really needed to.”

Lauren giggled, “You’re so funny, Abby. Sure, we can put a thing in there saying preggies can use your washroom. But like how pregnant? 4 months, or like about to pop preggers?”

I laughed, “Uh, let’s say at least six months. Unless she’s carrying twins!” The girls laughed, but I saw Lauren looking studious with a clipboard, although her professionalism was lessened by the hot pink nail polish she wore. She was writing down what I was saying, even though I was half-joking about wanting it. OK, I actually did want the private washroom. I hated public washrooms with a passion.

Lauren said, “OK, so we’ll make sure you get a private washroom. Oh, and every hotel room you go in will have a brand new seat. How does that sound, Abby?”

I replied, “I-I’m still not convinced it’s necessary.”

Lauren smiled and said, “Don’t worry so much, Abby! Just relax. This is to help you so you can perform without worrying about the little stuff. Can you think of anything else? Like you seemed pretty grossed out last week when that security guard in Boston tried to shake your hand, and he was all sick and gross.”

I raised a brow, “What are you suggesting? That anyone who is sick has to stay away from me? Come on, Lauren- people will think I have a crazy germ phobia.”

Lauren said, “You’re the star, Abigail. You can do what you want!”

***

“I never did that! I never even had sex with him. That video is being taken completely out of context!”

Sandra said, “I believe you, Abigail, but you have to understand that once you reach the upper echelons, the height of stardom- there will always be those that seek to topple you.”

I looked at the television with a frown. A female reporter standing outside an abortion clinic in L.A. stood grim faced and resolute. “Abeille, whose real name is Abigail Grenier, has skyrocketed to fame, shattering previous sales records by Britney Spears, and eclipsing even the Queen of Pop herself Madonna. At only sixteen years old, she is the youngest artist ever to win both a Grammy, and an American Music Award. Her album, Queen B, has already reached gold record status. But, the girl’s meteoric rise to fame has not come without controversy. Abigail, near plus-size, shortly before her album debut, lost a significant amount of weight. Shocking stories of fainting spells and hospitalizations dogged the young star, but she denied the accusations that she took diet pills or that she followed a near starvation diet.”

I shouted at the television, “This is so trashy! None of this is true. It’s this faux documentary bullshit. That’s all it is. It’s written that way to incense people. Just turn it off!”

Sandra nodded, “I believe you, Abigail. But it’s important still to watch this so we can enter immediate damage control.” I sighed and plopped down on the couch. We were back in the mansion in the Hollywood Hills. I was on a three-day break from the tour. My ‘rider’ was still mostly incomplete, however; Lauren encouraged me to add to it on a daily basis. I was hoping to have a few days of rest, but with the brewing scandal, it was unlikely.

The report continued, “Recent reports have linked Abigail with teen heart throb, Justin Bieber, but previous to that relationship, she dated her lead guitarist. A proclaimed virgin, Abigail encourages her young fans to abstain from sex, unless married or engaged. Most critics swallowed this without anything in the way of proof. That is until a tweet from Bieber, surfaced a few days ago. It read:

“Sweet time tonite w/ Abby. tonite Girl’s a Bieleber!”

I despised how the entertainment media took relatively innocuous statements and actions and blew them up into Watergate having sex with Monica Lewinsky, smoking crack and invading Vietnam. Celebrity scandals were treated the same way that credible news casts would treat an earthquake that killed millions. In their world, it was the only news that mattered. While I had accepted life as a celebrity, even enjoying extended tweet sessions with Kim Kardashian, I had come to hate those who hounded me. I had more respect for Kim now, for all celebrities who had to deal with vultures feeding off their fame.

I rolled my eyes as the camera focused on the abortion clinic. The reporter nattered on in an overly dramatic voice, “Combined with the seemingly harmless statement from Bieber and reports that she and her guitar player used to enjoy afternoon delights before performances has led to speculation that Abigail is lying about her virginity. Even more shocking and perhaps perfect evidence to Abigail’s dishonesty is seen in the following video: Here, we see Abigail arguing with a protestor outside of the D’Angelo clinic on Hollywood Boulevard, a well-known abortion clinic. A clinic staff member recognizes the young star and brings her into the clinic. The girl returns two hours later as evidenced by the time stamp on the video, led away by her friend, Harmony Sweet.”

The female reporter smiled smugly and said, “Spokespersons for Abeille have not confirmed or denied the accusations that the young star had an abortion, but we here at Hollywood Gab would like to know a few things: was it Justin’s or the now ex-boyfriend Ethan Rayner’s baby? And what will Abigail’s young fans think of their once chaste idol? Is this another good girl gone bad girl story? We’ll let you know as soon as we know more. For now, Miss Grenier has a lot of explaining to do.”

The reporter interviewed a mother and her eleven year old daughter. The mother said, “I’m not going to allow my daughter to listen to Abeille’s music any more. She’s a terrible role model. She lied about being a virgin, getting all this business- if you know what I mean. If she were a politician, I could forgive it- you know it’s expected. But millions of little girls out there love her. And she’s let them down.” The girl whined in the background, but the mother, told her that it was for her own good. I angrily shut off the television.

I shouted, “None of this is true! I mean yes, I was outside debating with the protestor. I was just interested in what she was saying. I’ve always been like that. And I guess the staff member heard us arguing, and she thought I was there for- well an abortion. Well I only stayed in there about ten minutes. Some of the girls in there recognized me, and I signed a bunch of autographs. That’s it. Ask them! I wasn’t in there two hours. That video is doctored.”

Sandra said, “Then that’s what we’ll tell them.”

I blinked, surprised that Sandra would believe me so easily, and accept that no further spin doctoring would be required. I asked, “Really, you’ll let me handle this one myself? Why? You’ve controlled every word that comes out of my mouth pretty much to this point.”

Sandra replied, “Coming from you, it will sound earnest. And that’s the truth, right, Abigail?”

I nodded repeatedly, “Yes! I’m telling you the truth. I was waiting for Harmony. She was in some shoe store across the street. And here’s the other thing, this was like only a week after my album came out. I can’t believe that people are buying this. The footage has been doctored.”

Sandra said sagely, “With celebrity scandals, people will often believe what they are fed. As much as they love you and want you to succeed, Abigail, they also want you to fail. Do you know why?” I shrugged.

Sandra smiled, “They want what you have. So seeing you have these scandals, it makes them think, oh- I don’t really want that. They feel better about their pointless existence, but they are still thinking- I want that. They are jealous.”

I sighed, “I never thought I’d say it, but I miss touring. I miss the crowds. They are amazing. I-I feel incredible when I’m out there. And when I’m dancing and singing, I’m not thinking about this other stuff. You know, the diet pills, the starvation diet, how many people hate me- and now this. Can we go back early?”

The smile never left Sandra’s face, “I think that can be arranged, Abigail.”

That night, Mr. Atwater knocked on my door. With his position usurped and his raison d’être removed, the man had little purpose, other than to wait patiently for the fulfilment of Sidereus Prophecy, and his eventual end. He was dishevelled, his three-piece suit swapped for a pair of grimy jeans and a t-shirt that hugged a definite pot belly. He had remained in the mansion during the tour, likely at Sandra’s behest.

He asked, “How are you doing, Abigail?” The humanity in his voice that had once been shocking to hear was common now. His tone spoke of a man who genuinely wanted to know how I was doing.

I replied, “I’m OK. Just this abortion thing. It’s- ludicrous. It’s just a smear job.”

Mr. Atwater asked, “Since when have you actually cared about your pop career? Wouldn’t a scandal like this be exactly what you want? And what is going on with you? You fought me every inch. What’s changed? What makes Sandra so different?” There was a hint of jealousy in his words.

I shrugged my shoulders, “What do you care? You are getting your way. The Prophecy will be fulfilled, and you can have your rest finally. You had your chance to help me. To break the cycle. And you know what kind of thing Sandra is. So you answered your own question.”

Mr. Atwater sighed gently, “I suppose I did. I-I think that the Prophecy can be fulfilled without you losing your entire self. I know this may seem silly, but I miss the Abigail that fought a war of attrition with me. The one with the fiery spirit. Since you’ve come home, I’ve seen nothing of that in you. She’s broken you. You are just a puppet on a string. You will lose yourself entirely if you don’t fight a little.”

I sneered, “No! No, she hasn’t! I just- it’s easier this way. No one gets hurt. I mean Britney- she could have been killed. She could still die. The poor woman is still in the hospital. You know a machine breathes for her? The accident punctured her lungs. You might think I’ve given up- but I’ve done what I had to do. What I should have done all along.”

I frowned, “You were right from the beginning, there’s no beating the Prophecy. I just need to fulfil it and move on with my life.”

Mr. Atwater shook his head, “I have accepted that as well. There’s nothing either of us can do. But you can do one thing, cut that bubble-headed hydra from your side. Those girls will make you one of them. Your friends and family won’t- they won’t recognize you when they are done.”

I shouted, “No! They are my friends. They helped me so much when Ethan broke up with me. I wouldn’t have been able to get through this time without them. They are my girls.” I heard the clacking of heels on hard wood floor.

Mr. Atwater said simply, “What are their names?” The sound of the heels grew closer. It was clear that my girls were approaching.

I thought about it for a moment. I knew Lauren, and the Latino one, I thought her name was Tiana, or was it Tina? There were two other blondes, a red head and an African-American girl. Their names escaped me.

Mr. Atwater said, “I can’t tell you what they are. But, just know this, the more powerful they become, the more lost you become.” Lauren threw open the door, and eight sets of eyes threw nasty looks toward Mr. Atwater. He paled and immediately left the room.

Lauren said, “Grody! What did that old guy want? He’s just nasty.”

One of the girls said with a giggle, “He looks like a hobo!”

Another said, “Did you see what he was wearing? Shop at Wal-Mart much? Save money, look like a hobo!” I knew that the actual slogan was: Save Money- Live Better.

I replied, “Uh, he was just- we were just talking.”

One of the girls said, “He was totally checking you out, Abby. He’s like some nasty pedo-bear or something. Why’s he staying here? Shouldn’t he be like asking for change?”

The girls giggled in unison. It was a musical horror show that actually caused me to consider whether Mr. Atwater was telling the truth.

Lauren said, “Abby, we are going out dancing. We want you to come.”

I shrugged, “I-I don’t really feel like going. You can go though, I’m tired. This stupid scandal has got me all stressed. And I’m not even old enough.”

The girls moved gracefully toward me, sitting down on my bed. One of them began rubbing my shoulders, while another started going through my closet. Lauren said with a smile, “Stop worrying, Abby. You love to dance, right? You miss it don’t you? And like the crowds too?”

I blinked, “Uh- yeah, I do. How do you know that though? I never told you.”

Lauren smiled, “Yeah! Of course you did. You tell us everything! You said how much you missed your fans, and dancing and singing. And especially how much everyone looks at you. You remember that, right?”

I thought about it, and it did sound like something I had said. “I guess. I mean- OK, yeah I said it.”

Lauren said, “If you come out, I bet all the guys will be checking you out. Especially if you wear this.” One of the other girls held up a shimmery metallic-looking pink dress with a cute white bow at the back. I didn’t remember actually buying the dress, but I loved the look. It took very little in the way of encouragement from the girls to have me put it on, except for a simple, “Try it on!”

Once it was on, and I had slipped into a matching pair of heels, I realized I looked amazing. The part of me that desperately wanted attention was already grinding at the exclusive club with some hot guy. Maybe I’d even twerk! I had to admit the part of me that wanted to turn in early had downed a few cappuccinos and was now wide awake.

We took the usual limo to the club, an exclusive celebrity hot-spot called the Palamino. I was disappointed when I didn’t see Tony. The driver already had the partition closed. I hadn’t seen Tony since he drove me to the airport immediately before the album media circus began. Lauren and the girls were right, I was the absolute centre of attention the entire night, and I loved it! I danced with numerous guys, many of them in their early twenties.

The girls even let me have alcohol! They were the best! I had a martini, which tasted awful, but it made me feel really good. None of the waiters asked for I.D. either, and they even brought my second martini right to my table The highlight of the night involved a semi-dance off between Lauren and I, where I managed to completely school her. OK, the actual highlight was when I made out with this super cute guy. I didn’t actually get his name. I think it might have been Patrick. No one said anything about my supposed abortion either!

I stumbled into the limo, giddy and giggly, alongside my girls who were in a similar state. I wasn’t hammered, but I was feeling really good. A massive smile appeared on my face as I saw who the driver was. I shrieked, “TONY! Yay, it’s Tony!” I lowered the partition and jumped into the front seat. In a terrible Italian accent, I said, “Hey, To-ny! Wassa matta you?” I put my arms around him and hugged him tightly.

The middle-aged man, with a teenage daughter of his own, frowned. At a red light, he turned back and regarded Lauren angrily, “Did you give her booze? You know she’s underage right.”

One of the girls said, “Calm down Hitler, stop being such a fashionista! This is a free country. Abby can do what she wants. Right, girls?” They nodded their heads in unison.

Tony didn’t move the car forward. I obnoxiously poked him in the arm saying, “It’s green, green, green, green- GREEN!” I shouted in his ear, but he didn’t budge the car. He said, “If you want to sit in the front, buckle up, Abby.”

Tony then turned his attention to Lauren, “I’m sure her parents would be interested in knowing their sixteen year old daughter has been drinking. And I doubt Miss Walker would want you girls taking her out like this and keeping her out late at night.”

Lauren scoffed and flipped her hair, “Whatever grandpa. You’re just the driver, you don’t get a say in any of this. Abby’s old enough to make her own choices.” I nodded my head in agreement, but Tony wasn’t convinced.

Tony said, “No, but I’m a concerned parent, and I care for Abigail. I don’t like what you girls are doing here. She’s just a kid. I-I’m going to have a talk with Miss Walker about this.” The red head rolled her eyes, “Just drive monkey!” Cars were passing us, honking angrily as they did.

I bounced in the front seat and said, “I have to pee! Like really bad!”

Tony said, “OK, OK, we’ll go. There’s a gas station on the corner here.” He pulled away from the light.

My eyes widened in horror, “Are you serious? To-ny, we don’t roll that way anymore. I only use private washrooms now. Ones only I use. You know, less of a chance of getting sick! Right?”

Tony raised a brow, “And how are you gonna use a private washroom away from home?”

He cleared his throat, “Abigail, can I drop your “friends” off somewhere, so we can have a chat?” He looked at me firmly.

I stuck my tongue out, “You aren’t my Dad. Or Mr. Atwater or Miss Walker. I don’t have to listen to you.”

Lauren nodded in agreement, “Yeah! You’re just the hired help. And we are staying with Abby in the mansion. So you can drop us off there.”

Lauren crossed her legs, and the other girls followed suit. Then they crossed their arms underneath their modest chests.

Tony’s eyes widened, “What the-…goddamn Stepford Wives?” He stared intensely at the girls. He was honked at again for idling at a green light, and quickly pulled away, jumping onto the expressway at top speed.

I crawled into the back, feeling increased pressure to relieve my bladder. I said, “Faster! I’m gonna pee my pants!”

Tony shouted, “I’m-I’m already going twenty over! There’s too much traffic! Honestly, Abby, did you really have to make such a big deal about going in a public washroom? Just hover like my wife does! Or lay toilet paper over the seat. Suck it up, princess!”

Lauren shouted, “How dare you talk to her like that! Just drive the car and shut your mouth, and if she pees in your car, well I guess you clean it up, right monkey?” I heard Tony swear under his breath, and I felt the car speed up noticeably. I started to do the pee dance, but in the confines of the back seat of the limo, it mostly consisted of me closing my eyes and shifting back and forth a lot.

One of the blondes said, “Nasty! He’s checking you out in the rear view mirror, Abby! What a gross pig!”

Tony shouted from the front, “I’m just checking to see if she’s OK! It seems like she’s had a lot of alcohol. She’s not herself.”

Lauren said, “Eyes front, monkey.”

Eventually, Tony pulled into the long drive way of the mansion. I sprinted out of the car without saying goodbye, and I spent the better of the night in the bathroom. My girls were fully supportive, holding my hair (when it was time), gently dabbing my forehead with a cool sponge, and soothing my pain. I was not a pretty puker. I screamed, held the edge of the toilet, and kicked the door. It used the wake up Amélie, who would run into the bathroom, usually just in time to see me puking my guts out. Through it all, my girls were amazing. They didn’t even flinch as I threw up the boiled chicken I had for lunch- in small bite-sized chunks.

Lauren offered me some room-temperature spring water, apparently it is was imported from Chile. She said, “Your driver has a lot of nerve. The girls and I agree with you though, you should definitely have some kind of rules for the people driving you around.”

I breathed heavily, feeling flush- the red head gently applied the moist sponge to my head, while one of the blondes rubbed my shoulders. “I-I don’t remember saying that.”

Lauren said, “Sure you did, Abby! You said it right after you finished peeing. You said it was so gross how that driver was leering at you.”

I frowned, “Tony is a decent guy though. He was probably worried about me.”

Lauren frowned too, “I-I didn’t want to tell you this, Abby, but after you ran out of the limo. That Tony guy, he said that he would refuse to drive you if we were in the car.”

I furrowed my brow and then leaned over to clutch my stomach. One of the girls, gently pulled my hair into a ponytail and held it in preparation for what was to come. Weakened as I was by my self-inflicted sickness, Lauren’s words started to make sense. I knew that Tony was upset with my girls for feeding me alcohol, and for my behaviour, but it was clear I needed to have a talk with him.

Thankfully, my nausea passed, and I was able to sleep, but it still left me exhausted the next day. Sandra scolded me, but she said I could sleep on the plane. We were leaving for the airport to restart the tour, and mercifully, I didn’t have a performance until tomorrow night.

I hadn’t had alcohol in months, and my body’s tolerance was terrible on the best of days. Still, I loved dancing! I understood now why girls went to clubs. It was so men could stare at them. I felt incredible after all the hot guys in the club ogled me all night long. I was glad though that they couldn’t see the aftermath in the washroom. I still had a bad taste in my mouth over what had happened with Tony. Was it true that he had told my girls they couldn’t ride with me? I needed to have a serious talk with him.

Just after noon, I slipped into the limo, surprised not to see any of my girls. This caused me to scrunch my nose and pull my lip into a slight sneer. I barked, “Did you tell my girls they weren’t allowed to ride with me?”

Tony turned back and regarded me severely, “OK, Abigail- it’s time we had a serious talk.” He put the car in park.

I said expectantly, “Did you tell my friends they couldn’t ride with me? Where are they, Tony?”

Tony said, “Bing, bing, bing- level 2.”

I glared at him, “Answer me! Now!” I crossed my arms underneath my chest and moved my heeled foot up and down impatiently.

Tony replied, “Level 3.”

I shrieked, “Answer me now, or- you- you’re fired!”

Tony said, “BING, BING, BING- Level 4.”

I nearly spat as I yelled, “What the hell is your problem?”

Tony replied, “You said when I first started driving you around that you wanted me to call you on any, and I quote “bullshit diva” behaviour. Well Abby, you are channelling Cher, Streisand and Celine Dion- Lopez, all in one whiny, spoiled breath. What’s happened to you, Abby? You’re like one of…them.”

I said, “Nothing happened to me, OK? And I don’t appreciate you talking to me like that. Don’t you work for me?”

Tony cleared his throat, “Technically, I work for Sid Burton- he’s the owner of the company I drive for. Now, let’s get back the problem here, namely those girls.”

I shouted, “I knew you hated them! I knew you told them they couldn’t come in the limo anymore! What gives you the right?”

Tony calmly said, “I didn’t say anything like that. I’m telling you the truth, Abby. Look I’ve seen what happens with these entourage types. They aren’t there for you, Abby- they are there for themselves. They are feeding off your fame.”

I said, “They are the closest thing I have to friends now! They are the only ones I can trust.”

Tony replied, “Because they tell you what you want to hear. I’ve seen it all, Abby. Surround yourself with empty people, and you become empty. It’s real simple. It’s starting to happen to you, and you don’t even see it. Well I’m not going to let you turn out like the others. You’re different. Please, Abby, come on you can trust me.”

I narrowed my eyes, “Like when you held me down at the hospital so the doctors could poke me with a needle! Yeah, I can trust you. Sure.”

Tony said, “I didn’t do that. You were almost completely out of it. Harmony called for the doctor, and I just made sure you didn’t fall out of bed.” I shook my head, “No, I remember you holding me down. I was fighting against you.”

Tony said, “I was trying to keep you in bed. The orderlies came, and I let go of you. They held you while the doctor gave you the needle.”

I said, “I don’t believe you. I think you are just like all the other ones. You want a piece of me. I could see you looking at me in the mirror last night.”

Tony was exasperated, he fumbled with his words, “I-I don’t know- where to even…you are my daughter’s age. I want to help you, Abigail- help you understand that this road you are going down, it’s not right, and those so-called friends of yours. They are pushing you down that road- and they’ve got you on a leash. Believe me, I’ve seen it before.”

I said, “You don’t know me or my friends! Just- just drive!”

Ten minutes into the drive, I caught Tony looking at me in the rear view mirror. I shouted, “Sick! You pervert! Stop staring at my chest!” I hit the button to close the partition, and I didn’t lower it again for the rest of the ride. I didn’t say goodbye as I exited the limo.

After boarding my private plane, I texted Sandra:

Me: i dont want tony driving me again hes a gross pervert fire him do whateva i dont care
Me: in my rider i want this no driver is allowed to look backseat thru rear view mirror

A week later, after a driver asked me about my supposed abortion and tried to get into a debate about it, I added the following stipulation to my rider, which was now a full page in length:

-Driver will not start a conversation with Abigail
-Driver will not speak to Abigail’s friends
-Partition will stay closed at all times
-If driver needs to speak to Abigail, he/she will use the intercom system (required)

Then, when a driver rudely left me waiting for ten minutes, I added this:

-Driver will tell Abigail how long he/she plans to leave for, will arrange suitable replacement if Abigail left waiting longer than ten minutes

And finally, after a driver had the nerve to ask for an autograph when I was already late for dinner (I was starved!), I added this:
-UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCES WILL DRIVER ASK FOR AUTOGRAPHS

***

I was facing a legion of press. Cameras flashed constantly, and expectant journalists from around the world sat in a three-hundred seat theatre waiting to ask their questions. It was my first solo press conference. Sandra had removed my training wheels, and before I was stared down by rabid journalists, I was grateful for the opportunity to tell my story. It would not be filtered through my public relations department. I would not be reading off a script, and the questions, unlike those in the music and entertainment interviews, would not be given beforehand. I was a tightrope walker without a net.

“Did you have an abortion?”

I replied, “Absolutely not. You know it’s really none of your business, but I’m still a virgin.”

Another reporter asked, “Why were you seen going in the abortion clinic then?”

I replied calmly, “Because, like I said in my statement. The staff member thought I was there for an abortion and that the protestor was bothering me. The woman- she and I were having an informed debate. I was just curious about her views. I wanted to know why she was against it.”

The reporter asked a follow-up question, “Are you pro-life or pro-choice?”

Again, I answered calmly, “Pro-choice.”

A young woman looked at me incredulously, “Abigail, you have a reputation for having some of the most ignorant, and, frankly, stupid sounding tweets in the industry.

The reporter cleared her throat and read, “What’s with this middle east thing? They can never get along! Whateva! Watching season three of keeping up with kardashians kim’s my girl!” The woman shook her head, “Hurricanes suck and all but powers out can’t charge my phone, harmony text me.” This after a hurricane struck Florida, injuring a number of people and causing millions of dollars in damage.

The reporter said, “Are you telling us that you were having an informed debate about abortion? For two hours?”

I glared at the woman. I couldn’t exactly tell her that I was simply a pawn in a sadistic plot to control the hearts of minds of the world. My Twitter feed was actually the work of a team of writers, trying their best to make me sound like an entitled princess who cares only about her own world. Yes, there were obligatory shout outs to fans, but my tweets had become legendary for their ignorance and outright stupidity. I said, “Yes. I’m smarter than I look.” Laughter filled the room, but it is was derisive.

Another reporter asked, “So you just happened to “debate” the issue with a protestor, and then you went inside and did what for two hours? You say you visited with fans. It’s awfully convenient that you just happened to be inside during the usual recovery period for a standard abortion, Miss Grenier.”

I clenched my teeth. I hated everyone in the room. They were all below me, just parasites. “I did not have an abortion. Do you want me to get up in stirrups in front of all these cameras so I can prove it to you? Will that make you happy? That is my statement. I’ve told you the truth. No more questions.”

Very few of them bought my story, and over the next few weeks, the story absolutely blew up. I appeared on morning talk shows, late night television- and while some seemed to believe me, either way- I was a constant point of conversation. The water cooler effect was significant. I trended on social media and entertainment sites, the National Enquirer ran a story accusing me of promulgating a lie, and they apparently had proof in the form of doctor’s records, but they sensationalized the whole thing saying I slept with the doctor to avoid the story being leaked. The thirty-seven year old doctor. Yuck!

The woman who I had initially debated with did not back up my story, but I continued to hammer away with the truth. The media were relentless and at times, I forgot portions of the story, or I told small lies because it was easier than to face their pursuit of the “truth”. I was booked on television shows where I was butchered by parents groups and religious groups, pro-life and pro-choice groups. It felt like the world hated me, but with every probing question, I hated it back.

Still, with as many people who hated me and carried signs to my concerts denouncing my actions and the supposed string of lies I told, there were many who staunchly defended me, and they numbered in the millions. As a collective voice, they were my “Bees”. Lady Gaga had her “little monsters”, Justin his “Beliebers”, and I had my “Bees.”

When the world wasn’t discussing my alleged sexual indiscretion, it was raving about my diva-like behaviour. To distract me from the near constant bad press, the sordid tales where I apparently had a threesome with members of TWO different boy bands, my girls filled my world with luxury. They encouraged me to finish my rider, and exhausted from performances at night and press conferences by day (always with the same questions asked!), I fell easily into the waiting embrace of entitled celebrity life. I quickly gained a reputation as a world-class diva. My rider grew from one solid page of mostly reasonable demands, to four, and then eight- and sixteen and finally thirty-two pages. I learned that being a bitch, being a demanding petulant spoiled brat got me exactly what I wanted. For instance, if I had a do-not disturb sign on my door, if I was bothered, I would fine the hotel ten thousand dollars. As my star grew, so did my entourage. The original group, my eight girls, who had quickly become my best and most trusted friends became ten, then twenty, and by the time my world tour stopped in Japan, I had an entourage of fifty people. None of them had jobs. They just hung around, the nameless empty beautiful people. But I loved them, they zealously defended me against verbal attacks sometimes even physically pushing journalists aside.

As for my performances, they were controlled insanity. Concerts sold out instantly when extra shows were added. It was like Beatlemania. It was bedlam. Every night, I basked in the adoration of my fans, sometimes performing, two or even three encores. Amongst the sea of hate that was the press, and the lies they spewed about me, my fans were heaven sent. I loved them, and every second I was out there, I felt alive- electric.

Between my diva-like behaviour, my passionate performances and my denials in the face of continued scandal, I was a polarizing tour de force to say the least. I was on the lips of nearly everyone, and I adored it.

As I arrived in my hotel room in Japan, my phone buzzed, indicating a text message. And another. And another. I looked down at my phone with a glare.

Amélie: Abigail you need to stop the concerts stop your interviews everything the prophecy I think it’s close it’s winning
Amélie: you need to figure out a way to stop it now
Amélie: the 24 hour news stations they’ve got an update on you every hour
Amélie: please Abigail it’s past just us our family this is the world we are talking about
Amélie: these protests throughout Europe over a ban on Rebellion’s Mask CDs they aren’t even getting any coverage
Amélie: last night i was at laura and andrew’s place and everyone was talking about you, it’s like everyone is obsessed with you
Amélie: why won’t you answer
Amélie: come on you used to care about this stuff
Amélie: please you need to just stay out of the public eye just for a few days until the protests start getting coverage

As I looked through the texts, I started to feel guilty. The beast that I was birthing into the world, the fulfilment of the Sidereus Prophecy, it was actually changing how people thought. It was changing what was important- what was considered newsworthy. My scandals were seemingly knocking legitimate news off the front page.

I texted back:

Me: is it rlly that bad
Amélie: all the entertainment news networks they are starting to beat the credible news station in ratings
Amélie: from the research Ive done ive noticed that all of the credible news stations having to run stories about you in order to compete
Amélie: the nightly newscast here you were the top story for ten minutes last night
Amélie: its like entertainment news is taking over and worse there are more channels coming two devoted only to celebrity gossip like a 24 hour TMZ, there’s going to be a show only about you then a show after that to talk about the show
Amélie: the scary thing is no one seems to notice i guess cause i know the truth i can see whats happening
Amélie: please you need to listen to me

The moment I started texting Amélie back, feeling an inkling of guilt, Lauren and the girls entered the room. They all wore their perfect smiles, sitting down on the couch and chairs across from me, smoothing their skirts and then crossing their legs.

Lauren said, “Abby, look at these couches. They aren’t what you asked for in your rider at all. Do you want me to call up the manager so you can yell at him? The guy who dropped your luggage kept bowing. It was really funny! Total LOL moment.”

I replied, “Uh- no not right now.” I looked back at my phone and rapidly texted:

Me: its status quo remember what my dad said i dont have a choice either
Me: u dont know what Sandra is like
Amelie: if there’s any part of you in there that’s Darren you’ll fight this you’ll take the chance
Me: what do u want me to do
Amélie: cancel your performance stay off the news dont do anything for a few days let the real news come back
Me: but my fans they love me i cant do that
Amélie: there was an election recount i was following in the ukraine it isn’t even being covered anymore
Amélie: a bi-election two days ago in Toronto had the worst voter turnout since the late 90s
Amélie: on news websites the comment section for articles about you have ten times the amount for legitimate news, the top read articles are all entertainment related
Amélie: ive been tracking these trends since you started hitting big and what ive realized is two things
Amélie: people are starting to care less about well anything really and the other its making people stupid complacent and it only seems to be getting worse
Amélie: even people who hate you are talking about you that’s the problem
Me: but itll reach a point where people just get sick of it right theyll tune out
Amélie: but it might be too late by then

Lauren said, “Abby, are you listening to me? Hello! Abby!” The young woman smiled as I looked up at her, turning away from my phone. She said, “What are you shopping or something? You never look that intense on your phone. You are like super serious girl. What’s up?”

I replied, “It’s nothing.”

The red head girl said, “Is it a boy? The cute one you met last night at the press conference?”

I nodded, “Sure, yeah- it’s a boy.” Instead of leaving me be, the girls quickly crowded around me, trying to see my phone.

I sighed gently, realizing there was no need to try and hide this from my girls. They were my friends. They would understand my trepidation. I asked, “What do you guys think about all this? All the craziness that has happened. These scandals. Do you believe any of it?”

Lauren shook her head, “None of what they are saying is true, Abby. You’ve never told any lies. Right, girls?”

The girls nodded their heads in unison. I frowned, unconvinced. I booted up my state-of-the-art laptop, and it took only a few minutes to realize that Amélie was right. Stories involving my alleged sordid antics were reported on before anything else, and because of the nature of newsworthiness and the concept of timeliness in journalism, there was an abundance of other news involving celebrities behaving badly. Even the BBC, the New York Times and the Washington Post, bastions of journalistic, integrity were inundated with these stories. The other news was there, but no one seemed to be paying attention to it. It seemed that everyone was salivating for more sordid celebrity misbehaviour.

I looked up during my research, noticing my girls sporting worried looks. They were all texting rapidly. After ten minutes, Lauren interrupted, “Hey Abby, there’s a marathon of Keeping up with the Kardashians starting in five minutes. You must be tired after the flight, why don’t I order a massage for you, we’ll brew some Camomile tea, get you all relaxed for bed. You’ve got a big day tomorrow. A huge press conference, a tour of the Imperial Gardens, a meet-and-greet session in downtown Tokyo and then a sold-out concert! You shouldn’t be worrying about this stuff. It doesn’t matter. The only thing that matters is making you happy and relaxed. Right, girls?” Again, they nodded their heads.

I looked at my girls seriously, “I know I have a big day tomorrow. But- I just want to know, do you think all this, you know all this stuff I ask for, how I act, the crazy amount of press everything gets from this tour, do you think it’s bad?

One of the blondes asked, “Bad how? Like for your career?”

I shook my head, “Bad for the world. What if it makes people not care about things that are important? Things they should care about.”

Lauren replied with surprising severity, “I never want to hear you talk like that, Abby. You are a sweet, sweet girl, and what you do makes people happy. You bring this, um, light into their lives. You know?”

The red head said, “Yeah exactly. What you do is really, really important. Without it, people would be really sad. Like totally depressed- all the time.”

Lauren added, “In a lot of cases, in my opinion, you keep people going. Without you, they have nothing.”

I raised an incredulous brow, “Really? But I mean, what about the other news?”

Lauren replied, “What like killing and politics and junk? It makes people mad, and it makes people hate. You are like the opposite of that. The world needs you.”

I shrugged my shoulders, “I-I don’t know about that. I think maybe what I do distracts people. From what is really important.”

Lauren said, “Relax, Abby. You worry about way more than any teenage girl should! What does it matter as long as your fans love you? You love performing for them, don’t you?”

I frowned, “Why can’t teenagers worry about stuff? I care about the impact I’m having on the world.”

One of my girls brought me a Camomile tea. Then another slowly guided me to the table where my personal masseuse waited. I hadn’t even seen them bring the table in. Expert hands were soon working out my kinks, the stress and worry that I carried in my neck and shoulders. The other blonde turned on the massive plasma TV and soon enough the adventures of the Kardashian family were being broadcast into my brain, dulling the immediate need to deal with Amélie’s concerns.

I fought the urge to watch, and said, “No, this is important. I want to have an intelligent discussion with you girls. Do you think I’m a bad influence on the world? On girls? I mean look at some of them, even in middle school, showing their panties and thongs! It’s kind of- well it’s disgraceful. Right?”

I was waiting for my girls to agree with me. Instead, Sandra walked in, the masseuse left, and the TV was turned off. Teetering on their high heels, my girls left a few seconds after.

Sandra entered the room with a frown, “What is the problem here, Abigail?” Sandra rarely had to admonish me these days. The threat of becoming an obese nothing and the near constant distractions from the tour, my girls and the rigours of fame had removed much of my rebellion.

I said firmly, “I-I don’t like- I don’t like how the Prophecy is changing things. How it’s influencing people. It-just feels wrong. And people are writing such nasty things about me. I hate it! It makes me feel like I’m horrible.”

Sandra smiled, but she maintained firm contact with my eyes, “I’ve asked you not to read those nasty articles about yourself. They are all lies.”

I said, “No- not really! I read one about the interest in the upcoming US Presidential election- people are hardly paying attention to it. They did a poll and half of the people they asked said they weren’t even voting! I-I’m starting to see what the Prophecy is doing. Don’t you think it’s wrong to do this people?”

Sandra replied, “Let me explain something to you, Abigail. The people who succumb to the Prophecy are weak minded. They would never amount to anything either way. The intelligent ones, the critics and cynics who sit atop vaunted perches to pen venom about you, the ones who reject what you stand for, the message in your music, they are not swayed by the Prophecy. But they are in the minority.”

She added, “Without the Prophecy, the balance is ruined, and these essentially stupid people, they become very dangerous because of their numbers. The Prophecy exists to control them. Without the order that the Prophecy brings, there is anarchy. So without you, and the Kim Kardashians of the world to hold their feeble minds, they band together, but without purpose and without cause. It would be the end of civilized society if the masses were given a voice.”

A tiny smile appeared on Sandra’s face, “So you see, Abigail, you exist to save the world from itself.”

I blinked, regarding Sandra with incredulity, “I-I do? Really? Why should I believe you? Of all people. You have the biggest stake in all this. Mr. Atwater, he said if the Prophecy isn’t fulfilled, you die.”

Sandra asked, “Well- what did Lauren say about this, and the other girls? About how important you are?”

I sighed gently, “Lauren said that people need me, they depend on me.”

Sandra nodded and smiled, “And you believe her, right?”

I shrugged, “Well kind of. I really trust my girls, especially Lauren. But I have some doubts.”

Sandra said, “What happened before you really started to become popular, what was happening in the world? Do you remember?”

I nodded, “There were lots of protests. People speaking out against their governments especially. I remember that Rebellion’s Mask was at the heart of it with their anti-establishment message, and people were grabbing onto that. I remember there was even a coup somewhere in South America. Some people died.”

Sandra replied, “And it would have only gotten increasingly worse without your influence. You are the stabilizer. The fringe and fanatics have no one to bring under their banner now. You are so special, Abigail- you are maintaining the age old balance. You are more important than any president or prime minister. Once the Prophecy is fulfilled, the world will be saved from the anarchistic element for a decade at least, maybe longer if your influence is lasting. It’s all you, Abigail. Only you.” These words fed my self-love. Of course, I didn’t really have an ego. I was still the same down-to-earth girl that I had been before becoming an international pop sensation. That is what my girls always told me, and now that Sandra and my girls were seemingly speaking the same language, she was making a lot of sense too.

After all, she was the one who had demonstrated what a fat cow I was. I knew I looked better now because my girls always told me I looked amazing. Thin and pretty. Perfect. I still had one last niggling thought before I could fully bury my conscience.

“When the Prophecy is fulfilled, everything will go back to normal, right? Amélie, she’ll get her job back. Alyssa will stop having the nightmares, and my parents’ money problems too- they’ll be gone, right?” I regarded Sandra severely.

Sandra nodded her head, “Absolutely. Even poor Alexandre and Véronique. They’ll be returned to their former selves once the magic is completely spent. And that harridan social worker too. Oh, and let’s not forget Miss Spears.”

Sandra asked, “So, do you understand now, do you understand your place in all this?

I smiled and nodded, “Yes.” I was basically the most important person in the world.

***
Chapter 68

A few days later, after we had arrived in Australia, Sandra disappeared. My girls couldn’t explain why beyond, “She went back to the agency.”

On my way back to the United Stated, I picked up a litany of awards for best new female artist, best single and best album from various European and Asian countries, and one other interesting record- I had officially become the most talked about and viewed person on the entire Internet. My YouTube channel had over a billion hits, and whenever a new video was posted, it received well over a million hits within a few days.

During my Australian tour, I also went house shopping. The lease was up on the mansion/recording studio where I stayed during my first few months in Hollywood, so I was eager to find something suitable to my expanded taste. I chose a veritable palace in the Hollywood Hills, just a few doors down from my BFF, Harmony. It featured an indoor swimming pool, tennis court and a full-sized theatre- not to mention, a professional recording studio that made the one I recorded my album in look like an amateur basement operation. I bought it immediately, without even seeing it in person. In Sandra’s absence, Lauren became my new guardian, and she loved to shop. She and I bought mountains of shoes and clothing online and in exclusive boutiques, and while the house was a huge purchase, I didn’t care. I wanted it, and I would have it. I wasn’t sure exactly how Lauren managed to do the mortgage, but I didn’t worry about the details.

We performed concerts in Brisbane, Adelaide, Perth and Melbourne and finished with a huge show in Sydney with massive laser display in front of the Opera House. It was an exhausting three weeks, but I enjoyed myself, despite the near constant attention from the paparazzi. By this point, they were hounding me on a daily basis. Anywhere I walked, I was followed by hundreds of media. On the flight back to North America, Lauren gave me an envelope. Inside was a letter from Sandra, and a gorgeous diamond necklace. I looked at it in my private cabin. The letter read:
______________________________________________________________________________
Abigail, my angel:

I have left this for you to show my full appreciation for what you have done. The necklace is yours to keep, and when you arrive at your new home, there will be a surprise waiting for you in the driveway. Don’t speed too much now, but enjoy yourself!

Though your road was not easy, you have become a shining star, more brilliant than any of those who came before you. Your reach, with the invention of mass media and the rapid transit of information through the Internet, is unprecedented. Revel in your victory, Abigail, for you have ultimately saved your brethren from a pointless extinction.

Congratulations, to you my beautiful, talented angel, your work has fulfilled the Sidereus Prophecy. Though those below you will never truly know of your work, you will forever be their saviour.

Enjoy your life- the gift bestowed upon you by the Prophecy.

Love,

Sandra
_____________________________________________________________________________
***

To say that Alyssa was excited to see me was an understatement. She stood in the lobby of my Ottawa hotel suite practically hovering in place, her body rigid, yet her arms flailed wildly. She embraced me tightly, to the point where I struggled to breathe momentarily. Then, she looked at me with a goofy grin and practically gushed, but she didn’t say a word. She was having trouble formulating a sentence. I took the initiative.

I smiled, “Hi.” Alyssa responded with a garbled collection of syllables strung together into something that was barely English.

I said, “I’m still the same person, Alyssa.”

Alyssa shook her head resoundingly, “No- you are- I can’t believe that I’m getting the chance to- I just love your music so much Abby. Seriously- it’s all I think about sometimes. Like when I’m in class in get the lyrics in my head, and I’m like, Like WOW, girl you kiss so hot! I just- I can’t…I can’t believe I’m finally getting to see you! You were like in my classes, and we were like best friends! Can I really go to the Junos with you and Lauren? That would be so amazing!!! I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep at all the night before!” She wrapped her arms around me and said with vigour, “I’m so happy to see you!” Alyssa was going to accompany me to the Juno Awards, the Canadian music awards.

Alyssa said, “I kept telling my mom, Abby’s coming back for me! I’m going back with you, right? Your tour’s only got a few months left though, right? I can come this time? Please?”

Sandra and Mr. Atwater weren’t around any longer, and Lauren and I agreed about everything, so I didn’t really see a problem with it. Plus, Alyssa worshipped the ground that I walked on, so it was hard to say no. I smiled, “Of course. You can definitely come with me. I mean your mom, I guess she’d have to let you go.”

Alyssa asked, “How come you aren’t staying at your sister’s? The hotel is nice, but- I thought for sure you’d go there. I mean- don’t you miss them?”

I replied, “We don’t really get along anymore. She doesn’t like what I’m doing. And she thinks I’ve really changed. I think she’s just stupid, I mean- I offered for her to come and live in my new house in the Hollywood Hills. You’ll love it when you see it!”

Amélie and I had barely spoken since her text asking me to lay low. I told her about the Prophecy being fulfilled and how she would likely be able to work again.

Alyssa shrieked, “I can’t wait! Oh my god, I can’t believe this is really happening. No one believes that we were ever friends! Stupid Véronique too, last week, she was like, Abby was my BFF. God I hate her so much! I’m so happy you are here, Abby! School sucks too. I miss you so much! Ethan tries to help me, but he’s not as patient as you. He gets mad at me. I can’t help it, but I’m just really tired a lot still.”

I raised a brow, “Really? Are you still having nightmares?” A small lump formed in my throat. The Prophecy was fulfilled, and yet, Véronique was seemingly still a bitch, and Alyssa looked only slightly more rested than when I saw her last.

Alyssa nodded her head, “Yeah. But it’s not every night. My mom, she saved a bunch of money, and she’s been sending me to this sleep therapist. She’s really nice, and she’s definitely helped a bunch. Like she has me go through these relaxation exercises. A lot of weird breathing, but it works- sometimes.”

I said, “Let me- let me send you to the Mayo clinic or something. It’s one of the best in the world. They can help you. I’ll pay for all your sessions too.”

Alyssa beamed, “Wow, Abby! You are so nice! I can’t believe there’s so many mean stories about you! I stick up for you at school. Like if someone is talking, like saying, oh her music is crap, or like when they say you are so fake and stupid or whatever, I’m like- no that’s my girl, and now I know it’s true.”

I smiled, and Alyssa said, “So I noticed you like don’t wear Ethan’s necklace anymore? All the pics I’ve seen of you lately, you’ve been wearing that beautiful necklace- um, do you think, do you think you guys will ever get back together?”

Before receiving the diamond necklace from Sandra, I had continued to wear the necklace with the two crossed guitars- my sweet sixteen present from Ethan. My girls had encouraged me to forget Ethan, to wear something else, something that wasn’t a cheap trinket. A part of me had hoped that he was still looking at me in publicity photos. The same part that sent desperate and somewhat risqué ‘selfies’ that featured me and only part of a bikini, and the necklace. I had wanted him to know that I still thinking about him. Now, I didn’t care. Mostly.

I shrugged, “What does he say about me?”

Alyssa bit her lip gently and kicked her legs back and forth. She threw herself back on the king-sized bed and sighed heavily. I said firmly, “Tell me.”

Alyssa frowned, “When I talk about you, he rolls his eyes. He says you are a fake, a poser He thinks you’ve completely sold out and that you have, in his own words, minus twenty-five thousand rock credibility.” The girl sighed heavily, “I hope you two will get back together soon! You guys were perfect! And it took you SO long to get with him! Almost a whole semester! What- what happened between you guys anyway?”

I said, “He didn’t tell you?”

Alyssa said softly, “I want to hear you say your side of it, Abby.”

I replied, “Well we snuck back to my hotel room after rehearsal. I went into the bathroom, got the hot tub ready and- I put my bikini on.”

Alyssa asked, “The one you were wearing in those ‘Here’s what you’re missing’ pics?”

I nodded, “Yeah. Exactly. Well I go out there, looking amazing and everything, and he’s in the bed and watching TV. He’s barely paying attention me.”

I continued, “So I go up next to him, and I’m like climbing on him, kissing his neck and everything, and he’s sort of getting into it. And then he gets like all weird all of a sudden. Basically, he likes fat girls. That’s what I think. He couldn’t handle the new me. But it’s like a sickness in his head. I was like that too before- I mean you remember, I was actually OK with being that weight.”

Alyssa frowned, “Yeah, but you had trouble with it too. I remember lots of texts you sent me about feeling fat. But when you were with Ethan, it was like it didn’t matter. That’s what you told me, Abby. I’m not sure you’re right about Ethan either. And why is it bad to like girls who were your old size? I hate being so skinny, I would rather look like you used to look, Abby. No offense. I still have like no boobs. It sucks.”

I shook my head, dismissing Alyssa’s words as fanciful, “Anyway, I’m all over him, and I caught Ethan watching TV! I ask him what the hell is wrong, and he basically tells me that he liked the old me. So the fat me.”

I added, “He’s not even on my mind anymore. I’ve got so many guys who are into me. Every time I go out dancing with Lauren, there’s like twenty different guys who try and get my number. It’s like- I never would have gotten that kind of attention if I was still a fat ass.”

Alyssa said, “Well you are a celebrity now. A lot of guys probably like that.”

I said, “Yeah, but I mean, look at me. Celebrity or not- I think guys would want this. Don’t you?”

Alyssa seemed to consider her response, and then replied gently, “Sure, Abby.”

***

It was the day after the Junos. I was a winner again, bringing home best Canadian female artist, best new artist and album of the year. I performed too. I was disappointed that the crowd wasn’t as frenzied as usual, but with award shows, it was a mixed crowd. I caught the eye of musicians in the audience that I respected, whose music I loved, staring at me disdainfully- hating me. To cleanse my mind of the realization that my musical heroes hated me, I went to an after party with Lauren. In the tumult of the crowd, the ever present paparazzi and my awards, Alyssa was mostly forgotten. I thought nothing of it because, after all, I had allowed her to come. She got to see me perform, and that was reward enough.

I sat in the limousine outside the girl’s home, trying to decide whether or not to take her with me. I hadn’t invited her to the after party because, honestly- the girl was tremendously embarrassing. She gushed over every performer before me and chatted with celebrities in the audience that didn’t want to be bothered. She was an annoying fan- the kind of fan I despised. For this reason, I was having second thoughts about bringing her on the tour. Even though she was an interminable super fan, it was a hard decision to make because she was Alyssa- my one-time school saviour, my confidante, my pre-Hollywood BFF.

I texted her:

Me: hey
Alyssa: hi
Alyssa: going to apoligise for yesterdy
Me: what
Alyssa: u left me @ the junos
Me: i told the limo to get u
Alyssa: no u didnt i waitd 45 mins u never answered ure phone
Me: i was out w lauren i really thought i sent the limo for u
Alyssa: u didnt abby im rll sorry i went u ignored me all nite
Me: i thought u wanted to go to the awards really bad
Alyssa: i wanted to spend time w u abby
Alyssa: u had autograph siging tv show then u went shopping wo me
Alyssa: i heard they closed the store for u
Me: yah so people just come up to me all the time even w bodyguards
Me: im tired of being bothered all the time i love performing but i just wanna try on jeans in peace
Alyssa: u dont get it u r supposed to b my friend abby
Alyssa: i got to talk to u for like 5 mins in ur hotel
Alyssa: and u ignored me in the limo u were on ur phone the hole tiem
Me: i was tweeting w people its important u dont get it
Alyssa: rlly u were talking to kim about a new diet u 2 r on
Alyssa: i just wanted to spend time w u that all abby hang out like we used to
Alyssa: i got mybe ten minutes and u were here 3 days

I was growing angry with Alyssa’s tone. I stared down at my phone. Lauren, who sat across from me, asked, “What’s up, Abby? Are you going to leave this shit stain you call a hometown? We going to Malibu tomorrow? Tour doesn’t start up for a few days still!”

I nodded, “Soon. And yeah, I wanna show off this bikini body.” It would be one of the few times I would actually welcome the paparazzi. Snap, snap, smile!

Me: r u coming or not
Alyssa: no my mom wont let me
Me: well screw her just tell her u r leaving w me is she worried about a tutor ill get a stupid tutor for u
Alyssa: she dont even remember giving me permisson
Alyssa: even if she did i dont think i would want to go
Alyssa: i just luv being ignored all the time by someone who i thought was my friend
Me: come on alyssa im ur friend
Alyssa: i dont feel that way i think ethans rite
Me: come on ur mom can come along if she wants i dont care she should try this new diet ive been on
Me: dont tell me shes happy that way
Alyssa: sometimes and sometimes not like me and like u used to be anyway i dont wanna go
Me: why cause youll miss ur mom i thought u said u hated school dont u wanna go on the road with me
Alyssa: no
Me: why not

Alyssa never texted back.
***

By summer, I had only set foot in my new home a few times. Out of the goodness of my heart, I offered to move Amélie and Chloe to the new house. While touring, I would see them rarely, but at least they would have had a stable home. Without a job, and without my parents’ support, I couldn’t understand how she kept the house. Worse still, the woman refused any of my attempts at charity. I offered to buy the house for her outright. No monthly payments- nothing. She vehemently refused. Since the fulfilment of the Prophecy, we had barely spoken.

I had sent her texts asking about Chloe. Amélie would always respond with the same question, “When are you coming to see her?” I missed my daughter, and even Amélie, but there always seemed to be something going on. Whether it was parties at the Kardashian-West residence, press conferences, dinners with Harmony, or two and sometimes three-hour workouts. Not to mention the tour. There just wasn’t time to fly home and see my family. I still talked to my parents now and then, mostly on the phone, but as with Amélie, something else always came up. I suppose it was a weak excuse, but I had been indoctrinated in the celebrity lifestyle- the celebrity existence. My life basically never stopped. The tour was exhausting, the press junkets with their endless flow of questions/accusations and the paparazzi that made it their life goal to document my existence- I was living in a constant blur.

There was another reason I didn’t want to see Amélie and Chloe. I knew that Martin had become a permanent fixture in Amélie’s life, and while I had moved on since Ethan, enjoying flings with some of Hollywood’s most prominent young men. I still hated the idea of Amélie being with someone else, and that man raising my daughter. Instead of facing the problem head-on, seeking a solution where I could see Chloe more often, I ignored it. While touring South America, I received a text from Amélie:

Amélie: Are you back in North America on the 8th? It says on your tour page that you are
Amélie: I need to see you then, it’s in two weeks
Me: ill be going back home to Cali then im singing at a sweet sixteen party for one of the Kardashians
Amélie: When’s the party?
Me: i dunna like august sometime
Amélie: Well can you fly down to my parents’ place on August 8th weekend
Me: maybe not sure prob not cause im supposed to see harmony that weekend
Amélie: well can you check?
Me: im pretty sure I cant
Amélie: Can you please check? I really need to see you
Me: cant we just skype or whatever
Amélie: I need you to sign the divorce papers
Me: im pretty sure we r already divorced
Me: im sixteen lol
Amélie: Not officially and not as far as the bank is concerned
Me: why does it matter u marrying mr principal
Amélie: no but he’s going to be on the mortgage from now on
Amélie: I need to have your name removed and for that we have to get divorced
Me: so just send me the papers ill sign them then u and mr principal can live happily ever after
Amélie: I also want you to know that you are still part of this family that’s the other reason I want you to come, you know it’s family tournament weekend right?
Me: so u are inviting me to play softball im pretty sure ur other family members are going to ask who i am exactly
Me: also ppl will recognize me
Amélie: I know that, you could just stay in the house, spend time with Chloe, maybe even try and get along with Martin
Amélie: You are still a really important part of our lives Abby we miss you

I sighed and then texted:

Me: ill think about it

***
Despite the hundreds of people around me on a daily basis, my fans, and even my girls- I was surprisingly lonely on the South American tour. As far as technology has come, as much as we believe that pixelated images on a computer screen are living, breathing human beings- it will never be the same. I went on Skype with my parents multiple times, but I couldn’t feel my mother’s warmth, but I could see the concern etched on her face. Lauren told me that it was common to feel homesick on tour, but what made it worse is that I didn’t have a home- I had a house. A place that stored my furniture, my growing collection of shoes and clothing. I had a mansion, but it was cold, and almost uninviting. I had really wanted Amélie and Chloe to move in because at least when I would get home from a tour or the studio, or any other events, I would have someone there waiting for me.

Oddly enough, the lonelier I became, the more distant my girls acted toward me. I could have sworn there were fewer of them, but despite their different hairstyles and skin colours, they tended to blend together. My entourage, which followed me from venue to venue, seemed more interested in sharing the spotlight with me and enjoying the craft service table than actually being my friends. As a pop star with a reputation for being a demanding diva, there were not many lining up to be- well a friend like Alyssa. Someone that would love you, support you, but also call you out when you were being unreasonable. Without the distractions from my girls, all whom seemed cowed except for Lauren, and Sandra’s near constant judgement, I fell into old habits, which mostly consisted of overeating. Sandra wasn’t there to bring on my obese self, and Lauren seemed mostly uninterested in what I did in my spare time. Like most of my entourage, she wanted to cram as much fun as possible into a twenty-four hour period, and if I wasn’t in the mood, she moved on.

Exacerbating the problem was the fact that because of my diva status, no one was going to tell me not to have seconds, or have my personal chef make me a plate of brownies, instead of the carrot sticks with low-fat yogurt that was actually on the diet that Sandra prepared for me. I slavered over sugar, gelatine, and carbohydrates like a recovering drug addict. Oh god, how I had missed them. I changed my rider to include all sorts of sugary treats, but it didn’t help with my loneliness. It fed a section of my brain that hungered for easy satiation, but it couldn’t solve the growing isolation I felt.

The biggest problem was that the South American tour was smaller, there were fewer promotional events, so I mostly stayed in the hotel or in my dressing room before and after performances. I spent a lot of time alone, left to contemplate. Since my girls were able to influence me less, I managed to turn down their requests to go dancing or sunbathe by the pool. The paparazzi had also become increasingly aggressive, and because I was practically hiding from them (meaning fewer pictures), it only served to make their tactics even more degenerate. One waited for me on the hotel balcony, apparently- he climbed down from a higher floor and caught me in only my bra and panties. The photo sold for $200,000 dollars. One young man actually managed to hide in one of my tour props, a massive pink plastic candy cane. The quick photographer snapped about twenty shots of me stuffing my face with brownies before my bodyguards beat the hell out of him.

It was not surprising then, that I cocooned myself within my room, unable to interact with the world outside. I knew that I was no longer part of it. I was a different breed. I would be swarmed by more individuals than most world leaders. So, when I wasn’t eating, I was feeling sorry for myself. I reached out to Twitter, but there was immediate backlash.

My Tweet, “Being famous is so hard!!!” was universally panned by critics, and even my own fans. I was called unappreciative, spoiled, especially when the entertainment press got a hold of a record of my credit card purchases (could it have been the girl I screeched at in a boutique in Milan?). Either way, the brand new pink Buggati Vitesse sports car sitting in my drive way at home, with a price tag of $2.6 million didn’t help my case either. Most said, “Suck it up, princess!”

As the tour wound down, I started seriously considering taking Amélie up on her offer. To be surrounded by real people, people who didn’t just want a piece of me- it might actually be nice.

***
I had taken the red-eye from LAX to Toronto and then a connecting flight to Sudbury, arriving in the very early morning. Behind me, the taxi, which I had paid $300 to bring me to Amélie’s childhood home, backed out of the driveway. I paid the driver extra with the promise that he would tell no one he had driven me. Even the veteran driver, likely pushing sixty had recognized me in a matter of seconds, again from the Superbowl Pepsi commercial.

I stood at the door, reaching out to knock and then quickly pulled my hand away. I shuffled on the porch and took in my surroundings. I was stalling. The morning dew still hugged the neatly groomed lawn of my former in-laws as the sun rose gently. The home was picturesque, with a white picket fence, an assortment of ceramic frog statues, and a small pond in the backyard, home to pond scum and likely a million mosquito larvae. Still, as I took in the features, the house I had visited many times, I had second thoughts about entering. It was the house where Mr. Atwater stole me away to begin my Hollywood adventure, but it was also a place of great warmth. Amélie’s parents were some of the kindest people in the world, but as I reached out to knock on the door, again, I was halted. Had all of my antics made their way to Amélie’s parents? My blow-up at the MTV Music Awards when I didn’t get the room I wanted? My, at times, absolutely stupid and inane tweets.

Faced with the prospect of genuine people, I felt fear. Fear at being discovered. Amélie’s parents were good people, who worked hard, built a home and raised a family, they were caring and compassionate, and completely selfless. I felt like the Devil walking on sacred ground. I frowned deeply, despising the feelings invading my mind, but without my girls to allay my fears, they found roots and they reached down to my core, pulling constantly at my battered conscience.

I pulled my phone out of my purse, preparing to call another taxi. I groaned as I noticed the no-service indicator. I shuffled back and forth on the porch and struggled with the choice of embracing my family once again or turning away from them and seeking solace with Harmony and my Hollywood ‘friends’. As I was reaching a decision, I noticed an elderly couple walking down the barren street. It was 6:15 AM. They turned to look at me and offered a friendly wave, and I darted into the backyard and hid behind the shed. It was a reflex. This is what I did on a daily basis when confronted with the paparazzi and even fans. It had come to a point where I had difficulty even walking outdoors with my bodyguards. Everyone recognized me, and about half of them wanted to lavish me with praise, while the other half wanted to berate me for my desecration of music.

My heart pounded in my chest. I thought about running, but where would I go? The small town didn’t even have a bus system. The nearest town was a forty-five minute car ride, and without cell reception, I wouldn’t be able to call a taxi. Not that a taxi would even agree to pick me up.

I heard a gentle rapping on the Grenier’s front door, and then the voice of the elderly man, “Hey Frank, there’s a girl- uh, well I think she’s behind your shed. She looks spooked.”

The woman said, “I thought your girls were all grown up? Maybe she’s a runaway. I think I saw a suitcase.”

Amélie’s father replied, “Well family tournament is on, she might have had a few too many last night, you know eh? Lots of kids out drinking. Paul’s boy was passed out in the ditch last night. Old Keller found him though, dragged him back about a block to the house!”

The elderly man replied, “Well she didn’t look drunk. She looked mighty scared.”

The woman replied, “For sure, I think maybe we should call the police. Be a good idea, if her family’s looking for her.”

Despite my predicament, I couldn’t help but smile. I missed the Canadian accent. Harmony teased me ABOOT mine a lot, and it wasn’t nearly as thick as most of the people from Amélie’s hometown.

Amélie’s father asked, “Well maybe we can just calm her down, get her to tell us who she is. Patricia’s got some breakfast cooking for the boys’ game at 7, maybe she’ll eat too. She could be hiding from someone, her boyfriend. Anything. Family tournament, it’s fun- but you know- the young people they go too far. Not like us.”

The elderly man said, “Sure Frank. I still remember when you and your brother drank a 2-4 and then did donuts in Casey Anders’ field. Then you pitched a no-hitter. Or so you said. I remember seeing you two passed out under the bleachers.”

Realization struck, and I popped out from behind the shed. I looked at the elderly couple with wonder in my eyes, “Y-You don’t know who I am, do you? Do you?”

The woman frowned and clasped my hands, “Oh you poor thing. Are you feeling quite alright, are you Sandy Hutchinson’s daughter? Hannah, right?”

I shook my head rapidly, and a big smile appeared on my face. The elderly man said, “No, Marion, she looks more like Grace Nouvelle’s daughter.”

I took the woman’s hands and said, “You really- don’t know who I am?” The couple shook their heads in confusion. I said, “I’m a pop star- I’m like the biggest star in the world. I’m Abigail or Abeille- I guess.”

Marion said, “No- we don’t have a TV. We have a computer, but Harold uses it for our taxes and the odd game of solitaire. I swear sometimes I want to throw it out the window. He’s on that stupid game for hours sometimes. What kind of solitaire game takes three hours? Hmm?” I guessed Harold was looking at porn- or he just really liked solitaire.

Amélie’s father, who had been watching the exchange with interest said, “No- this is one of the Lanark sisters. I’m sure of it. I know her father, so I’ll just call him up. I’m sure he’ll be happy to know his daughter is safe.” He looked at me sternly, “Even if she’s been telling tall tales and staying out half the night.”

I nodded my head, “Yeah- um, sorry. Mr. Grenier.”

Harold said, “Well you seem to have things in order here, Frank. Hope your team does better than last year.”

Amélie’s father laughed, “Well I’m not coaching this year, so probably!” Harold and his wife waved and then returned to their walk. Amélie’s father invited me into the house and took my suitcase from my hand.

I stepped into the house, smelling breakfast and feeling suddenly hungry. I had barely eaten any dinner, despite the delicious and healthy meal that my personal chef had cooked, tilapia and lightly seasoned vegetables. Then, I pigged out on my private jet, dipping into my growing stash of junk food. Now, I was famished. I wanted to take a wad of bacon in my hands and stuff it in my mouth. It was a vicious circle because I would eat sparsely and then binge. I knew it was foolish, but I didn’t really care. It tasted so good- chocolate, chips- regular and ruffled which I loved to suck on until it was barely crunchy, and more of a potato paste. I would care when my tight little jean shorts started to pinch my middle or when my love handles returned, but for now- I would eat.

Before I had a chance to attack the bacon, I was assaulted by a wild-haired little blonde girl, who gripped my legs and looked up at me with huge expressive eyes. A massive smile grew on her face and my daughter announced excitedly, “Abby’s here!” I hugged the little girl fiercely, holding back tears, but as I saw Amélie’s expression, one of pure joy at our reunion, I felt the few droplets and the sudden lump in my throat. The little girl who was now nearly three years old, and who I hadn’t seen in the flesh since Christmas, looked at me inquisitively, “Abby crying. Why sad?”

I shook my head, brushing away the tears that continued to fall. With my loneliness and growing discontent with those around me, the absolute love I felt from my daughter rekindled something within me lost to the materialistic world of celebrity excess- I cared for someone other than myself. I couldn’t believe that I had gone six months without seeing my little girl, and for what, vapid conversation with even more vapid people? I owned a private plane. I could have been home far more often.

Amazingly, she didn’t seem to care that I had been gone for months, and as the tears continued to fall, the girl peered at me empathetically and then broke the embrace, returning a few seconds later with a Kleenex. She pointed to my nose, “Abby’s got yuckies!” I took the Kleenex and proceeded to blow my nose, removing said ‘yuckies’.

I took a seat next to Amélie at the kitchen table, while Amélie’s mother dished out a plate of bacon, eggs and toast. Chloe hung onto my leg as I ate. She crawled up into my lap and insisted that she eat her breakfast on me, treating me like her high chair. Throughout breakfast, she clung to me, as apparently I had been mistaken- she did miss me, and it showed in her constantly asking me if I was going to leave soon.

A few minutes later, Martin walked into the kitchen, dressed in full baseball regalia- cleats, jersey, and he even had the pull-up socks. He looked primed to play. He smiled at me, “Abigail! It’s very good to see you. We weren’t sure that you would be coming! How are you?” He leaned down and rustled Chloe’s hair, then he reached over the table and grabbed two pieces of toast. I wanted his hand to burst into flame the second he touched my daughter. Searing the flesh from the bone, he would writhe in-

I said coolly, “I’m fine.”

Martin said, “Well I’m glad you could make it. Chloe’s been asking about you constantly since Amélie brought it up a few weeks ago. Every day it was- Abby’s coming? Now? She’s actually really patient for a two-and-a-half year old.”

I said, “She’s almost three. Three in November.”

Martin asked, “Are you coming to the game?”

I shook my head and answered hotly, “Duh. I’d be recognized in a second! Then it’d be like hours of autographs, or people just swearing at me, telling me how I’ve ruined music. I had one guy last week tell me I was worse than cancer.” I bounced Chloe on my knee as I tore into a piece of bacon.

Martin said with clear surprise, “Oh. Well I’m sure it won’t be that bad. This is a really nice town. Your parents are great people too. Anyway, I hope you change your mind.”

I rolled my eyes and flipped my hair, “I won’t. Oh and don’t forget to step on the plate. Even if people tell you not to, they are just messing with you.”

Martin offered a quick thanks, stuffed the toast in his mouth and offered me a mangled goodbye, before clomping out the door in his cleats. I looked to Amélie with a frown, preparing to attack her with a scathing diatribe based on her decision to replace me with HIM, but she beat me to the punch. She said firmly, “I want you two to get along this weekend. You know that they don’t want players stepping on the plate. They don’t want contact between the catcher and the runner. It’s supposed to be a friendly tournament.”

Before I could answer, she added, “The two of you are equally important to me.”

I glared at her, “Oh. Wonderful. Now I’m getting divorced parents speech #39. And why did you let me step on the plate, hmm? So Martin doesn’t get razzed like I did initially?”

Amélie said gently, “Because he’s thirty four years old. You were just what- 23 when you first played? And it was funny, because you were so serious. Martin’s more laid back.”

I asked, “So is he basically living with you now? He’s raising my daughter?” I took two more pieces of bacon and stuffed them into my mouth.

Amélie said, “I still haven’t been able to find a job. It’s like wherever I apply, I can’t get anything. Thankfully the case was dropped against me, but I still can’t get a job. I’ve been staying home with Chloe mostly. I call your mom whenever I have an interview-“

I interrupted, “You didn’t answer me. Is he living with you now?”

Amélie glared at me, while her kind-hearted parents remained in the periphery, unhappy at the turn of events, but unwilling to get involved. “Stop acting like such a child.”

I said, “That doesn’t work anymore. Besides, no one really cares that I’m sixteen when I can basically pay for anything I want.”

Amélie shook her head, “Yes, he’s living with me. And I want you to- I need you to sign these papers so we can move on with our lives. You know the world didn’t stop when you went to Hollywood.”

Amélie said, “Your parents were audited, and they owe a lot of money in back taxes. Your dad’s business failed, and he actually had to take out some loans against his house to pay them back. Your dad’s lost his pension too.”

I said, “So? I’ll send them some money. And they’ll probably take it, unlike some people.”

Amélie said, “They are too proud to ask you for money.”

I rolled my eyes, “Then I’ll give it to them for their birthdays. Whatever. I can buy their house, I can wipe out their debts, and I can buy your house too.”

Amélie sighed heavily, “You just don’t want him on the mortgage. That’s the only reason you are willing to do that.”

I said, “No it’s not.”

Amélie replied, “I’m not getting into an argument with you about this. I know you are jealous, and that’s fine. It’s completely understandable. But this is happening.”

I said snidely, “No it’s not. I won’t sign the document.”

Amélie said, “When high-school age Abigail is ready to talk, we’ll talk. For now, primary-school Abigail can go to her room.”

I laughed openly at Amélie, dismissing her words as pure fantasy, “Are you serious? You are sending me to my room? You aren’t my guardian anymore. I don’t have to listen to you. And like I said, I don’t care if you treat me like a kid. I saved the goddamn world. I don’t owe you anything.” Amélie completely ignored me. She scooped Chloe into her arms, gave me an expectant furrowed brow and moved toward the door.

I said, “Hey! I’m not done talking to you yet. Don’t you care that you won’t be able to have your little love nest with Martin? Hey! Don’t walk away from me!” I entered full-diva mode within seconds, “Listen to me right now. I’m not done with you! Come back!”

Amélie walked out the door, and I stomped my feet, and shrieked in frustration. OK, maybe I was acting a little childish. I glared at Amélie as I watched her walk toward the baseball field, her parents following behind her. I grabbed another piece of bacon and quickly crunched it between my teeth.

Amélie’s treatment of me opened old wounds. As my guardian, she had often chided me for my childish behaviour, and while I knew I wasn’t exactly a thirty-two year old man any longer, it still stung. While in Hollywood, no one treated me like a child- no one told me what to do, except for Sandra. If I wanted, Lauren would likely have let me stay out all night. With Amélie, I wanted to get my way, but I also didn’t want her to call me a kid. My way involved her and Martin breaking up, and that was all that mattered. I obsessed about it, considered ways to subtly manipulate my ex-wife into hating my replacement. My adult self would have been able to take a step back, consider the ramifications of my actions, and ponder alternate routes or methods. My teenage celebrity self was a tank, crushing everything in its path, completely oblivious to collateral damage.

I took a deep breath as my reason attempted to guide me, but the tank squashed it into a pile of guts, sinew and broken bones.

***

Martin did not help his case with his actions after the softball game. I just- I just couldn’t believe how kissy-kissy he was with Amélie, and how she reacted to it. It was like every moment they were together was like some cliché romantic comedy. When Amélie’s father asked for help with the propane tanks for the fish fry, he actually kissed Amélie before leaving, and she swooned- like a school girl! She never acted that way with me. I rolled my eyes, as I desperately attempted to find reception with my phone. If I held it at a specific angle and right against the window, I actually got one-bar of reception, but as soon as I would try texting Harmony, I would lose the connection. Seriously, fuck my life. Having no phone reception was the worst thing in the world. Not only couldn’t I leave the house, but I had nothing to do in it!

When Martin returned fifteen minutes later, despite clearly being tired from hefting a half dozen propane tanks, he actually offered to take Chloe for a walk after he saw that she was getting into trouble in the kitchen. Amélie’s mother was trying to cook lunch, and Chloe kept pulling on her pants, spilling things and making a general nuisance of herself. I didn’t really notice because I was trying to get a hold of Harmony. As much as I saw parts of Hollywood as plastic set pieces, I still wanted to know what was going on. Harmony was supposed to be trying this new restaurant that was a major hit with celebrities- it promised a fan-free, paparazzi free dining experience. I originally was going to go with her, but I had a change of heart. However, the second Martin had stepped into the kitchen for breakfast that morning, I instantly regretted my decision.

I was invited to tag along, but I declined. Chloe pestered me to come, but I didn’t want to deal with the whole fame game now. I watched as the happy little family left. I seethed as Martin pushed the stroller with one hand and slipped his arm around Amélie’s fleshy waist.

***

I looked down at the offering in front of me. A grilled-cheese sandwich made with processed cheese and a heaping bowl of Kraft dinner. It was as Canadian as apple pie is American. I made a face and said, “I can’t eat this. It’s not on my diet.” I pushed the plate away. I was feeling tremendously guilty for my binge this morning, and three cookies I ate around ten o’clock.

Amélie frowned, “Mom made it for us. It’s wasteful, and it sets a bad example for Chloe.” Chloe peered at me curiously and then looked down at her own food. She wrinkled her nose in disgust, much like I had.

Martin said, “Abigail- Chloe’s a really fussy eater. If you eat a little, maybe she’ll eat.”

Amélie added, “I don’t think what you had for breakfast is on your diet anyway. Besides, you can cheat on softball weekend. We always did. Right?”

I said, “And that’s how you get fat. One little cheat becomes two, and then you are cheating every night. You might as well not call it a diet.” I pointed to Amélie’s fleshy middle.

Amélie said matter-of-factly, “I’ve actually lost ten pounds. Martin and I have been running in the evening. We take Chloe along too. She loves it.”

I said, “Good for her.”

Amélie furrowed her brow and said, “Eat three bites of it. Then you can just throw it out.”

I glared at her, “Who am I, Chloe? I don’t want this. And I’m not eating it.”

Amélie returned the look, “This isn’t Chez Patricia here, Abigail. You eat what you are given.”

I said, “I hate this place. The only restaurants sell greasy diner garbage. No wonder everyone in this town is so fat. Look at what they eat.”

Amélie said, “That’s enough, Abigail. You go to your room now.”

I replied, “You know what- that’s fine. I’ll go, so I don’t have to sit here and eat this shit.”

I went to my prepared room and slammed the door seven times to show just how angry I was. I broke into tears soon after and lay on the bed, crushing my face into the pillow. I sobbed gently for a few minutes, until I heard a knock at my door. I wiped away my tears. I barked, “Come to apologize?”

I was surprised to hear Martin’s voice, “No, I’m here to talk, Abigail. Can I come in?”

I said, “What the hell do you want?”

Without even waiting for my permission, Martin opened the door and sat on a chair. I propped myself into a sitting position on the bed and again rubbed my eyes, trying to hide any evidence that I had been crying. I held the pillow tightly against my chest as I regarded my foe with burning hatred. Die- die- die- die. My head throbbed as I dug my nails into the fluffy pillow.

Martin said, “I know this isn’t easy for you. I know how much you liked Darren.”

I replied, “You don’t know anything about how I’m feeling. Now just leave me alone.”

Martin shook his head, “You don’t get off that easily, Abigail. I’m not going anywhere. I love your sister, and I care deeply for Chloe. I also care about you.”

I replied petulantly, “All you care about is fucking my sister, and stealing Darren’s daughter.”

Martin was taken aback by my language, and I could tell the principal in him was preparing for a reprimand, and while his eyes gained a wild look for a moment, it didn’t last. He said firmly, “I’m not stealing anyone. And as for Darren, he hasn’t exactly been taking care of his daughter. Do you think it’s fair that he’s in Vancouver and he doesn’t even call or anything? He doesn’t Skype with Chloe. He doesn’t love her.”

I yelled furiously, “Y-Yes, he does! You don’t know him. You don’t know what he’s going through.”

Martin frowned, “Maybe not, but I do know that if I were him, I’d be coming home to see my daughter now and then. You know he hasn’t seen her in- in six months? Six months! Not even a phone call. Abigail, I know you really think the world of him, but do you think it’s right that he’s neglecting his daughter? And I’m not trying to be anything but supportive, I don’t even let Chloe call me Daddy.”

I said, “Well aren’t you Mother-fucking-Theresa.”

Martin said, “I don’t know what’s gotten into you young lady, but this language is highly inappropriate. I know I’m not your principal any longer, but you will speak to me respectfully. I have done nothing to you to have you speak to me that way.”

Lightning struck my mind, and suddenly, I knew exactly how I was going to get rid of Mr. Principal. I said with flirty smile plastered on my ruby lips, “You like playing Daddy with all the girls, don’t you?” I approached him slowly, and put my hand on my t-shirt. I pulled it up, revealing my bra to him. I threw my t-shirt on the floor. I said, “Come on, Mr. Principal,” while running my hands up and down my lean stomach (OK, it was slightly softer than I remember).

The man stared at me wide-eyed, he whispered harshly, “A-Abigail- put your shirt back on.”

I smiled devilishly and then leaned into him, allowing my chest to press against his shoulder, “Touch me.” I ran my hand over his thigh, but he swatted it away. I showed mock frustration and said, “Come on, Mr. Principal. Haven’t you ever wanted to touch one of your students? I’ve seen you checking out those short skirts. Just a little touch. Wouldn’t it be nice to feel something- tight for a change, instead of my sister’s disgusting fat? It’s just- a little touch. I won’t tell anyone.” Fear entered the man’s eyes as he backpedalled in the chair. The chair gave out, and he tumbled backwards. He rolled to the side and then immediately left the room. He shut the door.

I stared at myself wide-eyed, a measure of fear invading my face. I hugged myself tightly and shivered. What had I become?

***

I stumbled into the bathroom, shutting and locking the door behind me. I splashed cold water on my face and then stared at myself in the mirror. I shook my head continuously, still in absolute shock over my behaviour. I knew that the sixteen year old girl staring back at me bore little resemblance to Darren Lawrence, but she looked nothing like Abigail Grenier either. Peering back at me was ‘Abeille’, this Hollywood creation, wrought from the forge of celebrity excess. I sighed deeply and sat on the toilet, pondering my next move. I raged internally, feeling a growing knot in my stomach. If- he just- if he wasn’t so perfect for her! If they didn’t hold hands and make those vomit-inducing kissy faces- if he wasn’t so good with Chloe- if he wasn’t- better than me! It would be alright.

If Amélie ended up with someone who treated her poorly, ignored Chloe, made light of her weight- then what? As I was imagining Amélie’s fate with a boorish lout, I noticed something in the waste paper basket. My eyes widened as I viewed the object, and then taking it in my hand, I left the washroom on an absolute warpath. I shook, every inch of my being filling with vitriol, as I stormed toward Amélie and Martin. The two of them were watching television- with Martin’s arm positioned around Amélie’s waist.

I threw the object, a pregnancy test, on the coffee table.

Amélie shouted, “Disgusting! You know- I peed on that, right? Get it off the table!”

I stared at Amélie, still shaking, my words coming out in pained- awkward gasps, “I-Is it…true? Are you? Are you-going…”

I couldn’t even say the words. Despite the fact that I lacked the equipment, except on the receiving end, I just couldn’t fathom such a betrayal- Amélie had fully replaced me, and I had no one. It wasn’t fair!

Amélie nodded her head slowly, “A-Are you OK, Abigail? You don’t look well. And- y-yes, it’s true.”

I turned my rage on Martin, but a tiny smile crept onto my face, as I felt a madness pass through me. However, there was a devastating clarity to my madness. As I looked at Martin, the man regarded me with fear. No doubt, he thought I was going to tattle on him for ‘touching’ me, but I had other designs for him.

I said to him with deadly calm, but a still shaking hand, “You are getting involved with a freak show, Mr. Principal.

I smiled feverishly, “I’ve got a little secret to tell you.”

Amélie said firmly, “Don’t do it, Abigail. I swear if you do, I’ll tell everyone in town you are here. I’ll call the National Enquirer, and they can chase you all the way to the airport.”

I brushed off Amélie’s threat, never taking my eyes off Martin. He turned to Amélie and said pitifully, “I’m sorry, Amélie- I should have told you. Y-Your sister- she- when I went to her room, she took her shirt off. I-I just didn’t know what to say! How to tell you.”

I shook my head and waggled my finger in front of Martin’s nose, all the while, still smiling. “No- that’s not it. It’s something else- something way juicier than that.”

Amélie moved toward me and dug her nails into my shoulder, “What the hell is your problem? You go all psycho bitch at lunch, and now you are trying to break us up? Your little flings not doing it for you? Tired of looking the soulless people in the eyes and seeing yourself reflected there?” She pushed me on the couch and said, “Darren’s gone- he’s not coming back. Get over it. I know how you felt about him, but I love Martin, and- we’re starting a family together. You need to accept that, or you can just go back and live your plastic life surrounded by people who don’t care for you. Don’t love you. Who probably don’t even like you! Who probably only stay with you because of your money and your fame! You’re such a bitch, that no one- no one would stay even a second with you if you didn’t have those things!”

She added, “That’s why Ethan didn’t want anything to do with you, and why Alyssa didn’t want to go with you. You are everything you’ve always hated- everything and more. You’ve sold out more than just your music, you’ve sold out yourself- the girl you used to be.”

Amélie’s words wounded me, causing an instant pang in my chest and a bowling ball-sized lump in my throat.

I took Amélie’s slings and arrows, plucked them from my injured ego and returned fire, but my target was not Amélie herself- it was Martin.

“I’m Darren Lawrence.”

My former principal stared at me wide-eyed, his mouth opened gently, and then closed. He looked to Amélie, who wore the truth of my statement on her face. She looked at me, betrayed, her eyes narrowed, her lips tight and the side of her mouth slightly curled. Perhaps realizing that she was affirming my words, her expression softened, and she looked to Martin. She said, “Abigail’s just- she’s going crazy from the media attention, from the fame. The same way that Britney Spears did.” There was no look of disbelief on Martin’s face as Amélie spoke. My ex-wife was surprised by this, and added, “Y-You don’t believe her, do you?”

Martin said gently, “I- do. I know it should be impossible, but in the context of everything I’ve seen and heard- well it’s not that farfetched. I don’t know how it happened, but yes- I believe her.”

Amélie looked at Martin in disbelief, and then she turned on me, her face tightening into a mask of hatred. She said through clenched teeth, “I told you not to say anything!”

I was also shocked by Martin’s admission. I asked, “How- how did you, I mean did you know all along?” This is not what I expected. I thought that my words would create a rift between Amélie and Martin, instead, he was unexpectedly composed.

Martin said, “Well there’s the court case. I’ve been an educator for over ten years now, and I’ve never seen anything like what I saw during your hearing. The way you were able to craft your case, providing support- the way you questioned me- it was far and above the capacity of any teenage girl. Yes, there were lapses, but that can be explained by what I am assuming was the very difficult process that went on to adapt to your change.”

“Then there was the breadth of knowledge you showed regarding the teaching profession. You knew things about the profession that only a teacher would know. What teenager talks about lesson plans, or how outdated the material was? You knew about the hiring process, the ins and outs of the system. I thought that was odd, but then I knew you were precocious, Abigail. I chalked that up to the fact that you were some kind of genius. That Darren had explained to you a complex system and you fully understood it, even offering intelligent critiques on it. But your grades didn’t show that. I thought that maybe you were just lazy, you seemed to be very bright, but not interested in school at all. When I caught you with Ethan a few times, I really didn’t think anything more.

“The catalyst was when Amélie asked me to find something in the spare room to help support her case against Mr. Atwater to regain guardianship of you. It was after I was told that Darren went to Vancouver- permanently. Well there was a wealth of memories in that room, your trophies, family pictures, yearbooks- the type of things a person who is leaving forever would take with them. She asked me to find examples of your schoolwork that supported her as a good guardian. While I was going through your things, I stumbled across a letter written by a Mama Khalia.”

“Honestly, I didn’t think too much of it at first. I thought you’d just written it for fun. Or for a school assignment at your old school. But this Prophecy, your transformation coinciding with Darren’s disappearance. The fact that as far as your school records are concerned, Abigail Grenier didn’t exist before March of last year. Your lack of a birth certificate or immunization records. Something every other student at St. Jo’s has. In this day and age, it’s basically impossible for there to be nothing on file for a student. I had the secretaries contact all the schools in Sudbury district, but none of them had a student by the name of Abigail Grenier.”

“Beyond that is the absolute hatred you have for me. A hatred that goes far beyond a little sister disliking her sister’s new boyfriend. The way you look at me when I interact with Chloe, it’s a father who sees his child being stolen. Also, I seem to remember a rather heated discussion- about me sleeping in your bed. I wouldn’t have thought about that more than just a slip of the tongue, but now, after what you’ve said, and the letter I found, it makes sense.”

“I also thought it was very strange, how Amélie would say that you were an excellent and loving father, and you never visited your daughter. Or even spoke to her on the phone. Well, you didn’t need to, because you were right there all along. There was also the fact that Chloe called you Daddy many times in front of me. Like somehow she knew.”

“Sure, it’s clear you’ve changed, but you still look at me the same way. That stunt that you pulled in your room with me- it just- well it was the action of a desperate man. I can’t see a little sister doing that, unless she was truly demented, and I don’t think you are- just- well I can’t imagine how hard it is to be replaced like that. I told you, I’m not trying to be Chloe’s father, but I do love Amélie. And, I care for you. I can’t even fathom how difficult it was for you, as an adult male to suddenly be thrust back into the turmoil that is adolescence. And as a girl no less.” The man looked at me with pity.

Martin added, “I want to help you- we want to help you.” He took Amélie’s hand gently and smiled at her likely to reassure her that he didn’t believe he was getting involved in a freak show family. She returned the smile and squeezed Martin’s hand.

I was growing angry. I didn’t want the man’s pity, after all I was an international pop star, rich, famous, and above all- powerful. Not only that, but I had saved the world from itself. Why would the saviour of the world evoke pity? I said, “I don’t want your help. And I don’t care anymore, you can have Amélie, and you can have your happy little family. But I’m not going to be in it. Yeah, I did that stuff to break you guys up, but only because-”

Amélie furrowed her brow, entering motherly mode almost instantly, “Because you aren’t happy, come on Abigail, I can see it in your eyes. You aren’t happy in this life.”

I shook my head rapidly, “Yes, I am. I have everything I ever wanted. I’m beautiful, thin-”

Amélie wasn’t convinced, “You never wanted this though. You said that your dream was to get your music out to as many people as possible, not become this stereotypical celebrity waste of space.”

I said, “But through my girls, I knew- I knew I could have so much more. Anything that I wanted. And because you can’t accept me as I am, you aren’t invited into my world anymore.”

Amélie frowned, “And what about Chloe?”

I said, “I-I don’t care about her either. I’ll just go home, hang out with Harmony, go dancing, I’ll forget all about this.”

Amélie replied, “You are lying to yourself, Abigail. Just like you are with Ethan and Alyssa, you miss them. I think most of all though- you miss being normal. You miss being able to just walk outside without being harassed. You miss the days when you didn’t have to worry about being followed by money-hungry photographers.”

I shook my head, “I’m special though. I understand that saving the world comes with a price. It comes with the territory, and I’ve accepted this.”

Martin looked at me with a puzzled expression, he frowned gently, “How have you saved the world, Abigail?”

I replied, “I fulfilled the Sidereus Prophecy. Now all the stupid people in the world, they won’t wreck the balance.” Martin looked at Amélie, but she just shook her head. She asked, “Is that what Sandra told you?” I nodded rapidly.

Amélie shot back immediately, “What else did she tell you?”

I shrugged my shoulders, “Well, she said that everything would go back to normal. Like all the people who had been affected by the Prophecy. And before you ask me about Alyssa, yeah- I know she’s still having nightmares. Maybe it just takes time. I’m sure you’ll be able to get a job again- at some point.”

Amélie picked up the TV remote control and changed the channel to a 24-hour news network. The ticker at the bottom of the screen said, “BRITNEY SPEARS IN STABLE CONDITION BUT STILL IN COMATOSE STATE”. I knew that Britney was back in the hospital. She had fallen unconscious during a rehearsal and was immediately taken to hospital. However, I didn’t know about her falling into a coma. I frowned deeply, my conscience eating away at me.

Amélie said, “Doctors say she could die. There’s bleeding on her brain. She’s apparently suffering from complications from the accident. An accident caused by the Prophecy- and by proxy- Sandra. How can you trust what she told you? Saving the world? All I see is that she didn’t keep her promise. She used you, Abigail- she used you, and you don’t even realize it.”

I retorted, “No! Everything will still be fine. She’ll pull through. I can trust Sandra. My girls told me so. They never- ever lie to me. Especially Lauren.”

Amélie said, “It’s time to open your eyes, Abigail. You don’t have to be this- not anymore. Now, let’s assume the Prophecy is fulfilled, and there’s nothing that can be done, I may never work again, Britney might recover, Alyssa may continue having nightmares. All of this is outside of your control. But how you act, how you want the world to see you, that is.”

She said quietly, “Are you going to be able to face yourself in the mirror every morning, knowing this is what you’ve become? Because I still think that inside the heart of the spoiled teenage beauty queen Darren Lawrence’s sense of justice, his morals and his love for his family lives on. It’s just been covered by a layer of sycophants and lies.”

She said finally, “But at this point, it’s really up to you to find that within yourself, Abigail. We’ve tried, and you’ve rejected us every step of the way. This isn’t going to work, until you’re ready. So go back to your life, and ask yourself, am I happy?

“When you’re ready, we’ll be here.”

***

I went to sleep that night thinking of Sandra, hoping that I would get the opportunity to speak with her. I knew she was essentially the Sidereus Prophecy incarnate, but she was also the woman who had groomed me for stardom, after Mr. Atwater’s failure. She was part educator and part tormentor, but she reined in my slavish desire for sweets, taught me that I was not only confused about my body shape- I was sick. She cured my sickness, so-called size acceptance with a firm hand. For that, I was grateful. My girls reiterated the lessons, helping me stay on my diet. Sandra also taught me about the rigours of fame, and the expectations placed on me.

Had she lied to me though? Why couldn’t Amélie find work? Alyssa was seemingly still having nightmares, and Britney- poor Britney. Still, I was convinced that better things were on the horizon for those touched by the Prophecy.

The dream world where the Sidereus Agency existed lay before me. The golden tower with the perfectly manicured grounds had a sense of permanency about them, as if the grass never grew, and the branches remained whole, never losing twigs to raucous animals or violent winds. The temperature was neither hot nor cold. It was as if the world around me, while looking real, was a façade, a masterful computer program that could emulate, smells and tastes, but could give no feeling to what was an emotionally barren world. This is what I believed during my previous visits to the realm.

Now, however, I returned triumphant, as evidenced by the red carpet that was laid out before me. I looked down at myself and saw that I was dressed in a pink and white gown, fit for a princess. A tiara sat neatly atop my head, and a pair of silver stilettos adorned my dainty feet. Was this Sandra’s doing?

Due to the length of the dress, I was forced to hike it up, casting an absolute image of femininity. I walked expertly in the heels down the red carpet and into the golden tower. The same tiny blonde woman greeted me as I entered, “Abigail! Wonderful to see you!” The woman had the same poof hair-do, but now her bangs were rainbow coloured. The main lobby was bustling, unlike my first visit. My subsequent visits only brought me into Mr. Atwater’s penthouse, so I was surprised to see many people in various styles of business casual calmly walking the halls. The moment the secretary announced my name, everyone in the corridor stopped. They turned toward me, most of them in their early to mid-twenties, and immediately fell to their knees. The girls, who wore skirts, dropped into a very formal curtsey, while the men and women in jeans lowered their heads, as if in the presence of royalty, or some divine being.

I cleared my throat. I was used to the mania of being a pop star, but I had never had anyone actually grovel at my feet. Despite the initial awkwardness of the moment, the longer they remained motionless and silent, the more I revelled in their devotion. Sandra stepped from the gold-plated elevator and clapped her hands together delightedly. “My princess! Abigail, dearest, to what do I owe this unexpected yet extremely agreeable visit?”

I looked at her with a measure of confusion. The people in the lobby were not rising. None of them would look at me. They were like my drivers, but I had never barred them from eye contact. I asked, “Not that I— I mean the attention- I just don’t understand why they are doing this.”

Sandra smiled happily as she gently took my hand. The moment we stepped forward, the bodies who lay prostrate moved to line up against the red carpet on both sides. My every step was met with a body, head bowed, and hands on the floor. Sandra explained, “Because by fulfilling the Prophecy, you ensured they would live on. Meet those who worked tirelessly under my command to support you in your quest to fulfil the Prophecy. They carried out my orders.” It figured that a multi-dimensional all-powerful agency would have a bureaucracy.

She asked, “Now, why are you here? Did you grow tired of that backwater pig farm town you were staying in?”

I shrugged my shoulders, “It’s actually mostly a mining town. And yeah, I guess. I just- I have some questions for you. Some concerns.”

Sandra smiled, “We can’t let such thoughts wrinkle such a pretty brow. We must absolutely sort this out. I can’t have my angel feeling so worried.” She took my hand and escorted me to the elevator.

She asked, “Have you been sticking to your diet? I know Lauren isn’t the taskmaster I was.”

I shook my head, “Um, not really.” I quickly added, “I guess- I guess it’s because I’m just really worried.” I felt my heart beating faster. This woman could still evoke primal fear within me.

Sandra smiled gently, “Don’t worry, Abigail. We are past the stage where I need to punish you. You’ve done a great service to me, to the world. A little cheat here and there, it’s understandable.”

I said with some hesitation, “Right- yeah, just a cheat here and there.” I felt guilty.

Sandra and I stepped off the elevator and into the penthouse, which had not changed, except for one very noticeable thing. Alongside the world’s greatest works of art, and a host of pop music CDs, I saw my own CD, “Queen Bee”. I marvelled at the fact that I was next to Shakespeare, Chaucer, Da Vinci. I even felt pride at being sandwiched between Michael Jackson’s “Thriller” and Britney’s “Baby Hit me One More Time.” It was an accomplishment, and in a very real way, my dream had been fulfilled- I had reached an audience of billions. Something I never would have been able to do with a rock band.

Sandra sat on the edge of what had been Mr. Atwater’s desk, adopting a more casual pose than I had ever seen from her pupil. She asked, “So what is troubling you?”

I said, “Well, I guess I’ve just noticed that- well some of the things you said, they weren’t true. N-Not that I mean you were lying, just that well Amélie still can’t get a job. Alyssa is still having her nightmares. And Britney- she could die!”

Sandra replied evenly, “You just need to wait a little longer, Abigail. I wouldn’t lie to you.”

I peered at the woman who had tormented and trained me, who had heaped praise on me, and admonished me, and a fraction of my rebellious returning as I spoke, “But- it’s been months since I fulfilled the Prophecy. You promised.” I tried not to sound like a whiny teen reminding her mom about an agreed upon purchase, but I failed miserably.

Sandra stood up and said firmly, “I’ve told you that it will happen, Abigail. It just takes time for these things to be sorted out. I have my people working on it. I assure you.”

I pressed further, sensing a moment of hesitation from Sandra, “Well, can you tell me when? Because from what I can see, it’s getting worse. Especially with Britney.”

Sandra asked point-blank, “Do you seek to relieve a burdened conscience, or do you actually care for these people? They stood in the way of your success, especially Ms. Spears. She was jealous of you. She knew that you would be more popular, more loved than her. She’s a faded, bloated star.”

She continued, “As for the others, you offered to help Alyssa and she turned you down. Your ex-wife refuses your financial aid. Your so-called friends and family, they treat you terribly.”

I sighed, “I-I don’t know. I just know I don’t like this feeling. But- I do- I care for them. I don’t want people hurt because of this. And remember, a lot of this is my fault- I went with Britney. I didn’t have to!”

Sandra tsked, “Ah yes, but she was the one who lied to you. Told you that you were just going to speak at a café, and what happened? She tried to leave the state with you. Don’t you remember what her doctor said? She wasn’t taking her medication. She was going to hurt you.”

I said, “Fine, maybe that’s true. I mean- I do remember her doctor saying that and everything, but what about Alyssa- she was just a victim in all this. I-I just, I’m sleeping terribly at night. I can’t shake it. Alyssa is entirely innocent in all this. She doesn’t deserve to be punished for my misbehaviour. I was the one who was fighting the Prophecy at the time!”

Sandra smiled softly, “You learned hard lessons, my angel. You were punished enough in the early days of my tutelage.

I shook my head and said firmly, “Promise me that you’ll help Britney. Promise me, right now.”

Sandra gently traced the outline of my slightly rounded jaw, “Why do you worry so about others? You have the world at your feet, Abigail. You can have anything you desire, anyone-“

I interrupted her with a finger point, “Not Ethan. He hates me.”

Sandra grinned, “My mistake- you can have everyone that matters. The boy is nothing. You’ve got boys lining up to date you.”

I frowned, “But it never goes anywhere. They are usually too into themselves, or- well I guess I am too. Sometimes. Other times it was just for publicity, like Lauren would set me up with some guy, but it would be before a movie premiere or my new video. And sometimes they are just assholes, like they just want to say they banged ‘Abeille’.”

Sandra said, “You grew lonely on the South American tour, didn’t you? Confide in your girls, love them- make them your new family. You don’t need anyone else but them.”

I said, “But they’ve left me. All but three- I think. And Lauren.”

Sandra smiled, “They’ll come back. Don’t worry- you just keep acting the same way, the way anyone of your status should act, and they’ll be back. They’ll be your new BFFs. Your life-long friends.”

I shrugged, “Sometimes- sometimes I feel like they aren’t even real.”

Sandra responded with faux-shock, “Abigail! Please don’t tell them something so cruel. You’ll hurt their feelings.”

I shrugged, “Fine, but- I-I really need to know. Why is it taking so long to reverse the curses? You’ve got plenty of people downstairs who can do the work, why aren’t they doing it?”

Sandra replied, “That’s really more the territory of the associate. Philip was the one who engineered the curses. My people are working on them, but it takes time, especially without Philip here to guide them.”

I shook my head, “But, with the Prophecy fulfilled, shouldn’t he have gone to- well wherever retired associates go?’

Sandra said matter-of-factly, “There are unfinished tasks on Earth he needs to complete before he can receive his final rest.”

I raised a brow, “Like what? I thought once the Prophecy was fulfilled he was done. What more is there to do?”

Sandra said simply, “He must atone for his failure.”

I replied, “He served you for over one thousand years, loyally. And just because he failed with me, he’s stuck on Earth? Until when?”

Sandra smiled, “Why not ask him?”

***
Chapter 69

Sandra was not forthcoming with Mr. Atwater’s forwarding address, but I figured that the mansion where I had recorded “Queen Bee” would be the place to start. I had come away from my meeting with Sandra with more questions than answers, and a hefty amount of suspicion. The guilt had begun to eat away at me, especially regarding Britney’s condition. If she died, I would shoulder the blame. As much as I revered and respected, and feared Sandra, I was disappointed that she could do nothing. The analytical part of my brain, the one that had been both a detriment and a massive advantage in my adult life as Darren Lawrence slowly thrummed to life again. I began considering multiple possibilities. My mind formulated conclusions based on the facts, and one of them involved the simple fact that Sandra may have lied to me. If Sandra promised that the curses would be reversed, why would she trap Mr. Atwater on Earth?

I had left my girls at my mansion, annoyed that they didn’t show more concern for Britney, and frustrated that they continually attempted to distract me with parties, dates and press events. After my meeting with Sandra, their voices were weakened further. One of them, the red head, barely ever said a word, and she was so thin, that I wondered if she was literally wasting away. She never ate a thing! It was not easy to ignore them however. It took a tremendous amount of willpower to avoid their invitation to go to the spa. I hadn’t been in weeks, and I knew that the paparazzi would be waiting, and as much as I despised them, I needed them. I was hopelessly addicted to my fame. It was difficult to go even a few hours without sending a tweet or posting a selfie. I loved the reactions I received, even though the press was beginning to discuss my ‘food babies’. My binges tended to distend my stomach because of the amount of food I was eating, and thus, my food baby was born. I hated the term, even more so now that I sported one at times.

It was the middle of the afternoon when I stepped up to my former LA home. I took my brand new Bugatti, driving it without a licence, mostly because all of the teen celebrities did it. I had been stopped for speeding a few times, but I never received a ticket, even without a licence. Basically, as long as you didn’t strike a pedestrian while strung out on coke, you were OK to drive without a licence ... if you were a celebrity.

I noticed a FOR SALE sign, so I called the number and asked to meet with the real estate agent. When the agent said that I sounded young, I told her who I was- minutes later, I saw a black BMW convertible tear down the street. The driver pulled into the driveway, and a little smile appeared on my face as the driver, a thirty-something woman hobbled toward me in a pair of expensive Italian heels. I had four pairs like them, and I had never even worn them!

She was out of breath by the time she reached me. “M-Miss *huff*…Grenier. I-“

I grinned, “Catch your breath.”

She nodded slowly, “T-Thank you.” She took a moment to compose herself. The woman was dressed as one would expect of a person selling multi-million dollar homes, a tailored suit and an expensive salon hairstyle. She had French-tips and a designer purse. I took a closer look at it, and smirked- knock-off. Probably trying to make the BMW payments.

She asked, “Didn’t you just buy a home near here? Most celebrities have their second homes in other cities. Do you like the Hollywood Hills that much?”

I giggled, “Sure, doesn’t everyone? But I guess I’m kinda attached to this one. It was the first place I stayed in, you know?”

The woman smiled woodenly, “Of course. Now- I guess you don’t need a tour, since you stayed there? It’s mostly the same. A thorough cleaning was done. I don’t know if you heard the rumour- what am I saying? Of course you did. I’m sure your people briefed you on it before you came. As you can see,” she pointed to the security guard, “We have 24-hour surveillance on the house now. After those bums broke in. I don’t even know how they got through the gate, you need a special pass. Anyway, I want to assure you that the house is in pristine condition.”

She added, “Undoubtedly, it will be up to your standards Ms. Grenier.” She was laying it on a little thick.

I nodded and asked, “Um, indulge me. I was on tour a long time, I haven’t really been following the news.”

The woman raised a brow, “Oh. Well, I mean- no one was murdered in the house. I would be upfront with you about that. Some drunken bum broke into the house. It was a few weeks ago. He stole a bunch of stuff, mostly candle sticks, some expensive knives. Anything he could sell to feed his addiction, am I right? He managed to stay there a few days over a long weekend, made a mess of the place, but he was tazered and removed from the house.”

I shook my head, “I’ve lived here. It’s a gated community. How did he get in? The gate is too high to climb.”

The woman replied, “He must have had a pass. Police didn’t find anything on him. Maybe he stole it from someone. Anyway, they let him go, state prisons are full. He probably shoulda gone to a psych ward though. Said he was a 1000 years old! Either that or rehab. Anyway, I can assure you that will not happen again. They have reissued all the gate passes and destroyed the old codes. He is not getting back in here.”

I tried not to look surprised. “Um- okay, well is there a place, you know, where all the homeless people hang out?”

The woman shook her head gently, and then cleared her throat.

I frowned, “What?”

She asked, “You aren’t trying to score- well you know some drugs or something?”

I shook my head thoroughly, “If I wanted some, I’d get some. Think about it. I just bought a house worth like a hundred million dollars, and now I’m looking to buy another one. I- just, well there’s a person I may know. I just need to know where they hang out.”

The woman nodded, “Fair enough. I’m just- well maybe I’m not actually.”

I sighed, “What? What’s the problem now?” I glared at her.

She said, “You lived in Hollywood for six months, and you don’t know Hollywood Boulevard? I mean just- wow. You people really do live a sheltered life.”

My glared turned to icy daggers, my voice was hushed- yet fierce. “Who are you to judge me? I can’t take two steps without being hounded by press or fans- or people who just want to scream at me. You think I can move safely down Hollywood Boulevard, or anywhere normal people go? I need bodyguards to try on a pair of jeans.”

The woman shook her head, “Boo- fucking- who, I’m so glad I’m quitting this job at the end of this week. I rushed here hoping to get a quick sale- and you start asking me about homeless people like you care. Well, Ms. Grenier, I dare you to go down there. I know you are just trying to get some drugs. Well you can get some there. I can’t wait to see what meth does to that pretty little face of yours.”

I frowned deeply, tears threatening. “W-Why do you hate me so much? You really, you want me to become a meth addict?”

She said, “You don’t deserve what you got. All of you are the same too. You say you care, you donate money, but it’s just a way to pay less tax. And you’re the worst. You drive here in a car worth more than most houses. And you feel bad for yourself, because you are famous, so want to make your problems go away with drugs. You aren’t the first kid to ask me for a quick hit. So you know what, here- my boyfriend knows a guy. He’s got soft stuff- but hard stuff too. Knock yourself out kid.” She handed me a piece of paper with an address. I put my hands up, refusing to take it.

She added, “I just hope that when you are a bloated, pock-marked nothing that someone takes pity on you. You sure haven’t done anything to help. I’ve seen how you live. Seen pictures of your house. You could take the whole homeless population of Hollywood and house them there, and still have room for half of LA’s homeless.” When I wouldn’t take the paper, she stuffed it in my three-thousand dollar purse and then spat on my shoe.

She stomped off, but before she got into her car, she turned around and said, “Enjoy your first hit, kid. And the next, and the next- and the next. I have a feeling you and the Boulevard will become fast friends.”

***

Was I really that terrible? I hadn’t exactly done anything benevolent with my money, although I had tried to help Alyssa and Amélie. The real estate agent had a point however. And while I wasn’t filling my life with drugs to soften the blow of my celebrity hardships, I had allowed it to be filled with near constant distractions in the form of shopping sprees, spa visits, and expensive restaurants. Then, there was my addiction to reality television. Something I had decried as the absolute bane of society- the lowest common denominator of entertainment. I lapped it up like a sugar-addicted child eating spoonfuls of brown sugar.

Was the woman simply jealous of what I had, or was there truth to her statement? Sandra told me that I deserved everything, and that I had worked hard for it, when in fact, the Prophecy had helped me along since the beginning. Without the Prophecy’s aid, Katy Perry likely never would have sent me a message on Facebook, which rocketed me to YouTube fame and then international mega-stardom.

The real estate agent’s cruel words caused more than simple ruminations on my behaviour, it unleashed a torrent of emotion. I knew that I should ignore the woman’s words, toss them from my mind like waste, but they struck deep. I was hated, despised by those, who according to Sandra, I had saved. My girls had carefully sheltered me from this world, offering me distractions when I visited sites that tore me apart. I sat in a car worth two million dollars and browsed on my phone, and slowly pieced together the web of hate that surrounded my name.

I had thought that those who screamed at me in person were mentally imbalanced, but there were academic articles on my rise and the effect that I had on society since that rise. Musicians, many of whom I admired, blamed me for the resurgence of pop music, a new age of the boy band and the pop princess. I was accused of infusing music with a fevered dose of commercialism, something that independent music and Do-It-Yourself musicians had fought for years against, and within a matter of months, found themselves washed away in a fervent tide led by ‘Abeille’.

One site looked at trends in music. Labels were signing pop stars in droves, new boy bands were seemingly forming overnight. Many journalists were again sounding the alarm bells that rock, which had been gaining in popularity, was in fact truly dead. No rock songs were played on popular radio any longer, seemingly relegated to basements and noisy, smoky clubs.

And according to many, it was all my fault. I had killed rock music- and with it, the rebellion, the desire to create not for monetization, but for the simple fact of creating art to be enjoyed. Even rap and hip hop, which had been moving back toward the street poet and away from the bling bling and hoes, returned an innocuous money-making mush. The more I read, the more I felt like the worst person in the world. How could Sandra call me the saviour of humanity? Had I really saved humanity from itself? I looked at my Wikipedia page, and beyond all my awards, my gold-selling album, according to the page, I was most known for my diva-esque outbursts, and a fashion trend known as ‘thong diving’, where pre-teen girls begged their parents for thongs so they could hike them over their pants. It was the equivalent of pre-teen plumber butt.

My eyes opened in horror, even as my cell phone rang. I had ignored the previous three calls from Lauren. I was supposed to go to this party tonight, publicity, and a new boyfriend, some guy who had a reputation for being really grabby. Lauren said that other acts, the boy bands and pop princesses, they were starting to match my fame. They were getting more attention than me, and while a part of me despised that thought, another relished in it. It would be their turn to face thousands of clicking Cyclops, scrutiny and scandal. Four missed calls.

I drove to a salon in Beverly Hills and bought a black wig and brown-coloured contact lenses. Then, I instructed one of my people to go into a Wal-Mart and buy the cheapest pair of jeans they could find. No questions were asked- not even when I asked that same person to buy a pair of thick coke-bottle glasses, and tacky immature jewellery. It was all brought to me within a half hour. I knew what they were thinking- there was concern etched on their faces as it was clear I planned to try and go out in public without my bodyguards. They were sufficiently cowed however that none actually raised the verbal alarm.

I dressed in the jeans and a very frumpy looking paisley-patterned blouse, which made me look chubby around the middle. I put the glasses on, popped in the coloured contacts and then slipped a gaudy mermaid bracelet on my wrist. I clipped a fanny-pack around my waist and put on a grungy pair of ballet flats that one of my attendants bought at a thrift store. When I looked in the mirror, a geeky-looking girl, who clearly looked like a tourist from some town with no fashion sense, stared back at me. I left my mansion, bringing only the gate key and a few hundred dollars in cash with me.

I took a shuttle bus, a vehicle I normally would have avoided like the plague because I knew it was full of gawking tourists, but none of them recognized me. In fact, I was universally ignored on the bus, so much so, that for an instant, I wanted to strip off my dowdy wig and burst into the chorus of “Like Wow”, so someone- anyone would pay attention to me. I fought the urge, even when a girl decided that she was tired of holding her enormous and heavy backpack. I was one of the lucky ones with a seat, but apparently, the statuesque blonde, likely from the mid-west and around my age decided that I was her official backpack holder. She deposited her pack on my lap without a word, then when we arrived on Hollywood Boulevard, she picked it up and left in silence with her bratty brother, who enjoyed kicking his mother’s shins. Apparently, I looked younger than sixteen because one of the passengers, a kindly elderly Latino man seemed convinced I was twelve. He asked me multiple times where my parents were, and I told him that they were waiting for me at the Walk of Fame. That never would have happened with my more curvaceous body, even dressed like this.

I joined the same tour group, hoping that the guide would give me an idea of where I could find Mr. Atwater. I learned that Hollywood Boulevard, like Times Square in New York City, was once a den of thieves, a place for seedy night clubs and derelict, mostly crumbling infrastructure. The guide continued, telling us that the mid-nineties saw a revitalization, where X-rated theatres were replaced with trendy mid-priced boutiques, and a greater police presence and the restoration of the famous Egyptian theatre brought the tourists back in droves. Despite the resurrection of Hollywood Boulevard, as the real estate agent stated, it was still lined with many homeless people.

It was easy to make the links- tourists had money, and the homeless in the area knew this. While they could no longer make their home in the skeletal remains of Hollywood’s once forgotten treasures, they camped elsewhere, and likely returned every day, knowing that with every new bus load of tourists there was another chance at a meal, a hit- anything to keep them going. While the Disney Broadway quality shows, the newly renovated Pig ‘N Whistle, once the go-to spot to eat for Hollywood elite such as Shirley Temple and expensive souvenir shops did their best to empty the pockets of the tourist crowd, there was always some left. I witnessed this in the first two minutes of the tour when the kindly Latino man gave a young woman with a mangy dog a ten dollar bill.

One of the members of the tour group, a college-aged young man, asked, “Is it true there was talk about banning people from feeding the homeless?”

The guide shook her head, “Absolutely not. They aren’t pigeons. They are still human beings.”

The young man persisted, “I read an article about it. They were trying to make panhandling illegal too. Is it true that a lot of them just have a form of schizophrenia? I read one article about how they- well their brain works differently- they don’t have a will to succeed, they wander, and a lot of them are socially withdrawn. Don’t you think the government should do something about this?”

As the guide grew more and more flustered, I took that time to slip away from the group. Most of my experience with the homeless was on the positive to neutral scale. I once suggested to Amélie to give a young man her leftovers from a Chinese food restaurant, and the man seemed eternally grateful. There were occasions where I also gave food and drink. However, I never gave money, knowing that it could just be used to feed an addiction. I had never sat down and spoken to one either. I knew there were high-functioning homeless, ones who played the system. There was a rumour in downtown Ottawa that one of the very charismatic homeless men, the one who always had women bringing him coffee, that he went to Florida every year with his ‘winnings’. Others, like the middle-aged man with the missing teeth, slowly rocking back and forth in front of me, were the ones that garnered the most sympathy, but also the most fear. I slowly stepped away from him, desperate not to make eye contact. He started to approach me, but I fled, running headlong into a shabbily dressed woman. Her skin was darkened, overly tanned. Her hair sat limply on her head, the chestnut curls tangled in places. She was dressed in a ratty pair of jeans, worse than mine, and a blouse that was a few sizes too large for her. Her face was dirty, blackened with grime, and underneath her eyes were dark circles- that told a story of many sleepless nights.

She asked, “Are you OK?”

I nodded slowly, “Yeah, just- I didn’t know what he was going to do.”

The woman nodded, “Did you get separated from your parents? There’s a kiosk over there,” she pointed to the information kiosk, “There are volunteers to help you find them. They have cell phones you can use.” I was surprised by the woman’s countenance. She lacked the utter defeat of most homeless I saw, but she was equally filthy. This was the longest I had ever spoken to someone like her.

I shook my head, “I’m actually- um- I’m looking for my dad. He’s- well I think he’s homeless.”

The woman’s face creased in a deep frown, she reached her hand out toward me, and then looking down, seeing the state of her hands- the grime that covered them, she pulled it away. “I’m really sorry to hear that. And sorry- I don’t- I must stink. The shelter’s shower is broken.”

A part of me wanted to plug my nose. The woman stunk like rotting garbage. Had she been rummaging in a dumpster? There were pieces of egg shell amongst her tangled curls. I said, “It’s- OK. I was wondering if you could tell me- well you know that break-in? The one in Beverly Hills?”

I added, “I can pay you for your help.”

The woman shook her head and looked at me crossly, “I’d be just an awful human being if I took your money. You are trying to find your dad. I know how it is. Family is really important, it’s what keeps me going.”

I asked, “You have kids?” I stared at her with what must have been a judgmental expression.

She nodded, “Don’t look at me like that. I keep them safe, and fed. Yeah, living out of our van isn’t the high life, but- it’s enough for now. My name’s Kelly. What’s yours?”

I replied, “Melissa. And my dad’s name is Philip. Do you know anyone by that name?”

She shook her head, “No, but then not a lot of people use their real name on the street. I know I don’t- too embarrassing. Tell me about your dad, maybe I’ve seen him.”

I shrugged my shoulders, “Well he’s- I think he’s schizophrenic. He’s been saying that he is a 1000 years old or something like that.” I described Mr. Atwater, and the woman nodded slowly, “Yeah, I’ve heard of him. People call him Back-to-the-Future Bob. I’ve met him once- and he’s quite the character. Knows all this stuff about history. But then he blames himself for things that happened- well hundreds of years ago. Or longer. I tried to get him to come to one of the walk-in clinics with me, but he wouldn’t budge.”

I asked, “How come?”

Kelly nodded, “Said he didn’t deserve anyone’s help. I’m sorry, Melissa- but your dad, he’s a big drinker. He’s definitely got a problem. But maybe your mom and you, maybe you can convince him. Your mom’s with you right?” I shook my head.

Kelly said, “If you were my daughter, there’s no way I’d let you do this alone. She doesn’t know does she?”

I shrugged, “No, she doesn’t. But- if I can see him, maybe I can get him to come to his senses. Get him sobered up.”

Kelly said, “I’d like to help you, Melissa. But your dad isn’t in a great part of town. He hangs out behind a liquor store about five blocks down from here. You know they say that Hollywood is cleaned up, but it’s only the Boulevard for the tourists. It’s like they took a sewer and built a real nice house in it. But you can still smell the sewer from inside the house.”

She added, “I think you should come back with your mom.”

I shook my head, “She’s mad at him. Won’t come and get him. She thinks he’s a worthless man, but I know he’s just sick. Please- look I can pay you.”

Kelly said, “I already told you I’m not going to take your money. I’ll take you, but if I tell you to run, you run, OK?” I nodded. Were we entering a warzone?

As we walked away from the Boulevard, it was clear that Kelly hadn’t been lying. Houses with foreclosure signs were prominent set pieces. Many of them had the doors and windows boarded up, although I could see some of had the 2X4s pried off, and were likely home to transients.

I asked, “Um, if you don’t mind me- well, you seem really put together, how did-“

Kelly frowned, “For a bum you mean. I don’t consider myself a bum. Those are people that just sit there and don’t try and do nothing for their situation. I mean I wasn’t always like this. My husband though, he was killed in Iraq, and so I tried to go back to work, and it was OK for a bit, but then the housing crash happened, and I lost my house. All the improvements they made to the strip, well the rental prices skyrocketed. It happened to a lot of my neighbours too.”

“My kids are amazing though. Gavin takes care of Lizzie while I get food. I never take them with me on the Boulevard because social services would be all over them. I’m still convinced I can get things turned around. I just need some luck. I almost got a job waiting tables, until the stupid shower broke. I couldn’t serve food like this, so I never showed up. You know going through dumpsters, it doesn’t leave me smelling fresh. But I can sell almost anything I find in there for food.”

I frowned, “So you live in a van?” The real estate agent’s words stung me repeatedly as I listened to Kelly’s story. I thought about the thousands, no- millions of dollars I had spent on frivolous trivial things. I bought clothing and didn’t wear it. Same with shoes and purses. Worst of all, I had a mansion that I didn’t even live in half the time.

Kelly nodded, “It’s in an abandoned parking lot. I tell the kids to keep the doors locked, sometimes though if it’s really hot I have to take them with me. Which means I get more money, but a lot more attention too. The liquor store where your dad hangs out is near here. There’s a crack house there though, and a lot of strung out junkies. Sometimes there’s a lot of them in the alley, but there was a bust last week- so maybe it’s finally shut down.”

We walked through the alley. As we did, I noticed an assortment of drug paraphernalia, busted condoms and the least innocuous- empty beer bottles. Eventually, I heard a familiar voice, but it’s formerly powerful timber was reduced to a drunken slur. “Thishh one’sss my fault too! Died, all gone. ‘Cause of me!” I heard a bottle shatter, and Kelly stopped, looking back at me. She didn’t say a word, but her expression of concern was clearly asking if I wanted to go through this. I nodded, and she gently bit her lip.

We entered the alley, and I immediately noticed the smell of both stale and fresh urine and shit. Mr. Atwater was propped up against a dumpster. His pants, now sweat pants were covered with a rainbow of stains. He had gained a noticeable pot belly and a full, bushy yet unkempt beard. His eyes were glassy, and amongst all the other smells in the alley, he also stunk of cheap liquor. Dozens of empty liquor bottle lay strewn around him. Next to him, a makeshift bed consisting of a dirty sheet and a half-inflated airplane pillow. He pointed an accusatory finger at Kelly, “Yousse, I told youse not to come. No help for thish one. I lived in a castle, the world, the hissssstory of the book- it typed out the namessss!”

Kelly frowned deeply, “He’s worse. Sometimes I can sort of make out what he says. But none of this makes any sense.” I couldn’t tell Kelly, but Mr. Atwater’s rant made perfect sense, the Sidereus Agency, and the stone masonry of the penthouse bore a striking resemblance to a castle, and the Prophecy itself, whose chosen took residence within the MASTER FILE, which for some reason needed an antique typewriter to inscribe the names.

I said, “Maybe if you let me try- he might recognize me and something could spark.”

Kelly said, “OK, Melissa- but I don’t like this. If he tries to hurt you, you run. I’m sure this is hard for you, seeing your dad like this. But I want you to be safe.” It was painful seeing the plight of a human being reduced to the contents of a bottle, but the guilty knife was driven deep within me, knowing that because of my misbehaviour, Mr. Atwater had become a drunken recluse. Within the shell that Mr. Atwater occupied, I also saw Sandra’s cruelty. I had put him here, but she was one the one who kept him here.

I said, “Listen, I’m going to say some things to him that may seem crazy. But he’s sick, so it’s the only way he understands. OK?” Kelly nodded.

I walked up to Mr. Atwater slowly, eyeing him warily as he took a long swig from a bottle of malt liquor. He wiped his mouth with a filthy hand, and then he turned his attention to me. I said, “Philip, it’s Abigail.” I removed the plain-jane black wig, revealing my long luxurious blonde locks, then I plucked out the brown contact lenses and removed my thick glasses. As I unravelled my non-chic geek transformation, Mr. Atwater’s eyes widened. He blinked slowly and set down his liquor bottle in near slow motion. I heard Kelly gasp behind me, but I continued to press Mr. Atwater. “Philip, you remember everything, don’t you? The curses. The Prophecy. Sandra.”

The man hiccupped and nodded his head slowly, “Yesh, but it’ssss my fault. She’s in the hospital, I knew- knew what the girls were, didn’t tell you. I let it happen.”

I said, “I’m just as much to blame as you. I fulfilled the Prophecy. You were just doing what you’ve done for a thousand years. I-I’m starting to see that what I did, it hasn’t really helped. And Sandra- what about the curses? She said you could remove them.”

Mr. Atwater grinned, his two front teeth were cracked, and his gums were red and swollen, “She’sss lying, always lying. She can do it.”

Kelly said, “Melissa? This doesn’t seem to be helping. He’s agreeing with you, but can you get him to leave? Get help?” Mr. Atwater shouted at Kelly, “No! No help. Not for thish one-! Nothing left for thish one…!” He threw a bottle at her, but with his inebriated state, he missed the mark, smashing it against the brick wall.

The back door to the liquor store opened, and a heavyset man entered the alley. He shouted, “You fucking drunk! You are scaring away my customers. And I’ve warned you about shitting in the alley! That’s it!” He approached Mr. Atwater and swung at his face, the punch connected, and Mr. Atwater crumpled. The store owner brought his fist back again, but I quickly ran in front, raising my arms. I said, “Please! Don’t- hit my dad!”

The man hesitated. He grabbed Mr. Atwater by the collar of his filthy shirt and threw him into the dumpster. Kelly shrieked, “Oh god, stop please!” The man took Mr. Atwater by the collar again, and slammed his fist into the man’s face. I grabbed his arm, “Please! I’ll do anything! I’ll give you- here, three-hundred dollars.” I quickly deposited the money into the man’s hand. He pocketed it, and then kicked Mr. Atwater in the stomach. Then, he turned his anger on me. “Your dad’s cost me a lot of business. You suck me off, and I’ll make sure his skull don’t cave in. Grimy ass bitch’s gotta go though. I don’t want her watching.” The man slowly undid his belt, and then started pulling down his pants. I turned to run, but he grabbed my arm, and then my hair, which he used to position my head directly in front of his crotch. I watched helplessly as my head inched closer to ultimate degradation.

Suddenly, I heard a crack, and the man’s grip on my hair loosened. I managed to pull away, only to see Mr. Atwater holding a bloodied brick standing over the disgusting pervert. Kelly looked on in abject fear. My eyes widened as I saw the would-be rapist stir. I grabbed Mr. Atwater’s filthy hand and pulled him into the corridor beside the crack house. Kelly followed behind.

We made our way back to Hollywood Boulevard, where Mr. Atwater proceeded to puke in the dumpster of the Pig ‘N Whistle. The fight, which likely got his adrenaline pumping, also probably sobered him up. He still stumbled while walking, but he could at least stumble- when I first appeared in the alley, I doubted that he could even stand.

Kelly peered at me in wonder, “I-I know who you are! You’re Abeille, right? Is this really your dad?”

I replied, “Sort of. It’s kind of my fault that he ended up there like that. Wait- how did you know who I am?”

Kelly said, “There was a massive thirty-foot billboard on the Boulevard around the time your album came out I guess. And like I said, I haven’t been here that long. My kids, they love your music. When I can get the battery charged on the car, we listen to the radio. My daughter dances to your music, it really makes her happy.” She stared at me dumbfounded, “Wow, I mean- if he’s not your dad, what are you doing here?”

I replied, “Like I said, it’s my fault he’s here. Listen, I need your help. I’m worried people are going to recognize me now. I need you to call a taxi for me. I don’t have my phone. You can do it from the kiosk.”

Kelly nodded slowly, “Of course. I-I can do that. I’ll have them pick you up here.” The woman ran off, and a few minutes later, a taxi pulled into the alley. As I opened the door, to help Mr. Atwater into the cab, the driver got out of the car. He shouted, “No way am I taking him! He stinks like shit!”

I said, “There’s a thousand dollar tip in it for you.” He glared at me, but his eyes gradually softened and then widened in surprise. I said, “I’ll spare you the time it takes to figure it out. I’m who you think I am. And yes, there’s a thousand dollar tip for you if you get me out of here without telling anyone. Do you understand me?” Diva Abeille was rearing her ugly head, but I needed to make sure my presence on the Boulevard would remain a secret. The driver nodded quickly, and he actually helped Mr. Atwater into the car.

I turned to Kelly and said, “I know- I know that you said you wouldn’t take any money, but I’m not taking no for an answer. I want to help you get back on your feet. Take this.” I handed her two-hundred dollars in cash. I pushed it into her hands. “Go get your kids and check yourself into a hotel. Get cleaned up and then go to that job interview. In the meantime, I’m going to pay your rent until you get to a point where you can support yourself. Check some places out tomorrow and let me know where you want to rent- my people will do the rest. If the hotel gives you trouble, you give me a call.” I removed a pen from my fanny pack and wrote it on one of the bills.

Kelly was nearly crying as she held the wad of bills in her hands. She said, “I don’t deserve this. I haven’t done anything to deserve this.”

I said firmly, “You do. You deserve it because you try- you keep trying. No matter what. You’re probably one of the strongest people I’ve ever met. That drunk in there, I thought he was strong, but you’re unbreakable. You just need a little help.”

Kelly wrapped her arms around me and hugged me fiercely, “This- means so much to me. You’re an angel.”

I shook my head, “No, I’m not.” I was still working on being a human being.

***
Chapter 70

Mr. Atwater sipped his tea gingerly, trying to avoid the painful gash just below his lower lip. “You should have left me there, Abigail. For everything- everything I’ve done to this world. I deserved to die in a gutter.” The man had showered, shaved and while he still wore sweats, he was at least partially presentable. He refused my offer to buy a new suit for him, and he even refused medical attention.

I shook my head, “You never chose to be the associate. What happened to you? I mean I remember you being really affected by things- Sandra called it the ‘weakness of your humanity’. But when I left for the tour, you weren’t a raging alcoholic.”

Mr. Atwater smiled bitterly, “I was. You just never saw it. You were too busy with your girls. Parties, shopping- you were numb to the world around you, Abigail. It happened gradually, and when you don’t have an identity or a purpose, it escalates. Once the lease was up on the mansion, I had nowhere to go. No social insurance number- no driver’s licence. Sandra stripped away everything that the Prophecy had provided to help me in my task of grooming you to fulfil your destiny. I had no means to work, and when I was evicted from the mansion, I was already severely alcoholic.”

I asked, “Why did you drink so much? You know you could have said something. I would have helped you.”

Mr. Atwater again smiled bitterly, even wider. The smile disappeared quickly, as it clearly stretched the gash under his lip. He said, “No- no you would have done nothing. You were in a haze. And why did I drink? Well, the longer I am human, the more I start to feel guilt for the things I had done over my thousand year career as the associate. A glass of wine here and there, it wasn’t enough. And no one noticed because everything was centered on you. But I don’t blame you, Abigail- no, once Sandra got involved, I knew you would break.”

I said, “Sandra though, she helped me. I can’t- really hate her. She really opened my eyes. I know that the Prophecy, it’s there to help. It’s not pretty in what it does, but it’s the only way.”

Mr. Atwater mused, “Do you remember the first time I brought you before me? I told you about the Prophecy, and what it represents. And you intelligently countered with your own belief that the Prophecy is merely to maintain the status quo- to keep those in their white towers safe. Do you remember? You asked me what I thought. Well I believe your interpretation is correct- it was never about saving the world from itself. It was a system to ensure that the religious leaders, kings, and now politicians- that they rule. That the privileged class will never have to toil. The travesty of the Prophecy is that it is sold to the chosen as a means to save humanity- when it actually keeps humanity from evolving.”

He continued, “Look at it through history. When religion ruled the world, those who opposed it were branded heretics- there were entire wars fought over which belief system was best. Great thinkers, those who would evolve the system- they were deemed enemies of the state. Even today, in your own country, your country muzzles scientists for speaking the truth. And the Prophecy ensures that those who might slip through the cracks, becoming the next great poet or a truly revolutionary thinker- that they are mired within mediocrity. A life suckling from pop culture’s bosom.”

He added, “But as I said, I don’t blame you. Everything from the theft of your gender, to your manipulation with distractions, to the rumours circling around you. All of this contributed to the demise of Darren Lawrence- and subsequently, Abigail Grenier.”

I shook my head, “Wait- I mean I get the sex change, but the distractions- my girls were just trying to shelter me from the reality outside celebrity life. They told me that it would hinder my performances.”

Mr. Atwater said, “Your girls- with the exception of Lauren, are not real. They are pieces of your inflated ego. And as it filled to near capacity, your girls and therefore your ego held sway over all your decisions. I had only ever seen them used one other time. With similar results.”

I said in disbelief, “No- they- I trust them! They’re my only friends. The only ones that understand me. Sandra told me they’ll be my friends for life. They’ll never leave me.”

Mr. Atwater shook his head sadly, “The rumours were Sandra’s doing as well. I asked her not to, but she insisted they would propel you to new register of fame.”

I said, “Wait, the abortion rumour? That was her?”

Mr. Atwater said, “She knew that the press would hound you constantly. That you would become more than just an entertainment news story. So-called good girl of pop music gets an abortion- it’s no wonder. She also tipped the paparazzi off numerous times as to your location. I heard her on the phone doing it. I told her that she had done enough, that you would fulfil the Prophecy, but she wanted to punish you, to break you and then remake you. By the time she was through, you had no idea what had happened, you were too busy adding things to your rider.”

I ignored the poignant words, turning to the original reason for my meeting with Mr. Atwater. Even as I did, I had great difficulty removing them from my brain, they swirled, casting doubt and suspicion over Sandra’s actions. “The curses. That’s really why I’m here. I want you to remove them. The ones on Amélie, Alyssa, my parents- the social worker, and especially Britney! You have to do something!”

Mr. Atwater said, “I cannot remove the curses. I placed them at her behest. The Prophecy gives me power, but I am stripped of it here. I bleed now. And don’t you think I would have done something if I could? I am castrated here on Earth, bound with an addiction that even now makes me want to request a glass of wine from you. Or a box.”

The combined attack of the man’s words were too much. The wonderful fantasy world that I had built around Sandra with me as the golden-haired heroine of humanity crumbled, as I began to see Sandra for what she was, a venomous snake, who had poisoned my mind. The pieces fell together like a frenzied jigsaw puzzle. The disappearance of my girls, and the fact they never ate, with the exception of Lauren. I had never asked because I was so caught up within myself. The fact that the paparazzi always seemed to know where I was. And most of all the fact that I saw before me a broken man with a human vice. She was the cruel one, the one whose survival depended on the Prophecy’s fulfilment. She kept the man who had helped her for one-thousand years chained to a world where he had no place.

Mr. Atwater said, “I see that I’m getting through to you. Abigail, with the fulfilment of the Prophecy, you are no longer bound to the contract. The legalese, it’s all smoke and mirrors, you can do what you like now. But, I will remain here- I deserve nothing else but to die, leaving a bloated alcohol-drenched corpse. I have done horrible things- and my mind- even now- I can’t cope with it. I need a drink. Now. You should live your life how you want it- reconnect with those you’ve spurned if you choose. Because there’s nothing that can be done. Help those you have harmed and perhaps you will find peace within yourself.”

I shook my head, “No- I refuse to believe that- I can’t believe that she’s going to get away with this! I realize now that she’s not going to help me, and she’s just left you to die! That’s not fair!” I stomped my feet, and Mr. Atwater chuckled.

Mr. Atwater said, “Your friends and family, those cursed by the Prophecy, will remain that way until Sandra chooses to remove it. However, there is a way to weaken the Prophecy to undo Abeille’s influence on the world. But- you are too far gone. Look where you live, the way you act- you’re just a spoiled little rich girl.”

I said, “No I’m not! I helped Kelly- you know I didn’t have to do that.”

Mr. Atwater said, “Your awakening conscience is the only reason you helped her. To relieve the guilt you feel. It’s the only reason you want to help anyone. So you’ll feel better, then when you do, you’ll forget about it. And your girls will return, and you’ll be that way forever. An uncaring, beautiful husk of a person.”

I shouted, “Shut up! Just- shut up! OK, yeah I helped Kelly because this lady bitched at me, basically saying she wanted me to be a drug addict. It hurt a lot. And I want to start doing better things with my money- helping more people like Kelly.”

Mr. Atwater said, “I’ll tell you how, but- I still don’t believe you’ll do it. Call me pessimistic, but her influence on you, it’s too great.”

I sneered, “Just tell me!”

Mr. Atwater replied, “It’s very simple. The Prophecy’s magic is drained. It takes time to refill, usually a decade or so, depending on how much was expended before the fulfilment. You can undo Abeille’s influence on the world if you can eclipse her popularity. The height of her popularity. But you can’t do it with scandal, you must do it legitimately, gain the attention of the people, and they will have their wills restored. You will have the utopia you spoke of, where the masses are no longer a slave to base distractions. Until such time that the Prophecy gains in power, ready again to wreak havoc on this world. Based on the amount of trouble you caused for Sandra, I’d say sixteen or seventeen years.”

Mr. Atwater added, “No one has ever managed to eclipse their own popularity. Britney tried it, but her multiple comebacks never bore fruit. She never again reached the height of popularity she had when she fulfilled the Prophecy.”

I said, “I’ll do it.”

Mr. Atwater said with that same bitter smile, “Of course you will. Now where’s your wine cellar?”

***

It was a few days later. Kelly, with some gentle prodding from my bodyguards, managed to find a hotel that would take her and her kids, as filthy as they were. She chose an apartment inside Los Angeles, telling me that she was thankful to be leaving Hollywood. I paid the rent for an entire year, and I even provided childcare for her while she looked for a job.

Mr. Atwater continued to show a lack of faith that I could restore the world to its pre-Prophecy state. And while he said he didn’t deserve anything, he helped himself to a lot of extremely expensive wines.

Mr. Atwater asked, “Were you out shopping? Bought yourself a new purse did you?”

I shook my head, “It’s for Kelly. And these bags of clothes are for her and her kids.”

Mr. Atwater asked, “My, aren’t you a saint. You might be the only pop star to ever get a Nobel Peace Prize.”

I frowned, “What the hell is your problem?”

He replied matter-of-factly, “I’m a drunk, but I’m not drunk enough yet. So I’m mean. I’ll be giving you hugs and kisses soon enough.”

I rolled my eyes, “You’re weak.”

He said, “So are you. That designer cocktail dress you had made? That custom necklace from Tiffany’s? Is that for the single-mom on a fixed income, or her little girl? Amazing that you ever wrote anything of substance. Your old band was almost as good as Rebellion’s Mask.”

Mr. Atwater’s insult planted an idea within my mind. I left him and his bottle of wine, entering my master bedroom. I flopped down on the king-size bed with my outrageously expensive 1500 thread Egyptian cotton sheets and mused. I checked out the Facebook page for Rebellion’s Mask. Despite their fall from the spotlight, they were still a successful touring band with over seven-hundred thousand likes on Facebook. An insane idea crossed my mind. What if Rebellion’s Mask, musicians of faded glory joined with Abeille, still the biggest thing in the world? If we wrote a truly inspiring, eye-opening powerful song, it would take my popularity, and infuse it with that of a popular yet not universally popular rock band. Would it be enough to eclipse my popularity? After all, even Sandra feared they would defeat the Prophecy.

I figured that it would be easy, and they would die for a chance to collaborate with me. I was popular culture, so a tandem would no doubt give rise to their fame, shooting them up into the stratosphere of popularity.

I tweeted Rebellion’s Mask, “hey!! :) guys r u interested in a collab w me”.

A few hours later, I received the following tweet:

“hey!! :) we r interested.” My eyes lit up, my heart rose, and I began to feel like I could really use the power I wielded for good.

They tweeted again, “We are interested in seeing you purged from the face of the Earth. You are the perverted demon child of hair metal, disco and Gene Simmons. You sold out bitch. Eyes wide SHUT.” That was far less heartening, and a rather severe blow that had me not only scarfing peanut butter cups, but buying shoes, bracelets- and an assortment of very expensive makeup. After my fifth peanut butter cup, I gathered the courage to write back:

“ive changed though i wanna be in a rock band again write stuff that matters.”

Rebellion’s Mask tweeted back, “Sod off you sell out. We don’t want to be associated with you. You lost all your rock cred the second you sung ‘Like Wow.”

“Hey thanks though, you are getting us a lot of hits. Keep looking bad on Twitter- it’s great for us.”

It was true, their popularity increased just from the mini-feud we had going. I thought about trying other bands, but I knew it had to be Rebellion’s Mask, especially when I saw how easily they grew in popularity when having anything to do with me.

How could I regain my rock credibility? I had been so immersed in the world of pop music, that I had lost any shred of it. I contacted other musicians who I felt were genuine artists in an attempt to build my credibility, but they all turned me down. How could they all turn down the biggest thing in the world? I didn’t understand.

Mr. Atwater had explained that I was no longer bound to my Sidereus Agency contract. With that knowledge, I reached out to Andrew and Steven to see if they were interested in reforming Eyes Wide Open. Andrew said ‘maybe’, but it depended on certain factors. One being that I needed to acknowledge Amélie as my guardian again. What was his problem? Steven outright refused, saying that he had moved on- he wanted nothing to do with what he called “my vile spread.” Gross.

As part of my attempt to reform my old band, I also texted Ethan. I sent him multiple offers to join me in Hollywood to write. It was summer, so I figured he would take me up on my offer. When he didn’t write me back, I decided to send him gifts hoping that expensive vintage guitars would soften his stance on the reformation, but they were returned to me, smashed. I also still missed Ethan desperately. I longed for the genuine feelings I had when I was around him. I missed his touch, his smell- as I pined for him, I thought about asking my girls for advice. However, I remembered, they weren’t real, with the exception of Lauren, and she was on a cruise. Previous to my attempted reconciliation with him, the pain of our breakup had dulled, but a combination of not getting my way and actually missing the boy, brought the feelings back tenfold. I momentarily forgot about trying to save the world, concerned more with getting back the only person who had ever made me feel really comfortable with myself since my change.

I picked up my phone and texted my former BFF, thinking that she wouldn’t answer. I knew she was still mad at me because she never texted me. I texted her the same way I had when Ethan quit the band because of the incident with Alexandre:

Me: :(

A few minutes later, I received a text from Alyssa.

Alyssa: hi abby
Me: :)
Alyssa: r u ok
Me: n
Me: i want ethan back
Me: but he wont answer ne texts
Me: i sent him stuff to make him like me again but it didnt work
Alyssa: yah he told me about that
Alyssa: srry abby
Me: how come u r talking to me
Me: its hate abby week
Alyssa: cause u r my friend
Me: rlly i thought u hated me
Alyssa: nope i kissed a girl and i liked it
Me: lol u dont make any sense we never kissed
Alyssa: lol i know but i bet u smiled
Me: maaaybe
Alyssa: so u wanna know how to get ethan to like u again
Me: YES!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Me: :)
Alyssa: well dont send him presents specially expencive ones
Alyssa: something he told me when he talked about the kind of girls he liked
Alyssa: he liked u cause u were real
Alyssa: not like just a real person but like real like truth
Alyssa: he liked the fact u were straite w him and u didnt pretend to be someone else
Alyssa: he said when he saw u in TO that u were diff i saw that too u know when u left me at the junos
Me: rlly sorry about that how about i fly u to cali before school starts again as sorry
Alyssa: no abby my mom wont let me and even if i could it wouldnt help
Alyssa: thats what u need to understand u cant just make someone mad and just buy them stuff
Alyssa: if u want ethan to know u are sorry tell him
Alyssa: show him u r still the same girl
Me: thx
Alyssa: :) MWAH MWAH abby

***

My chance to show Rebellion’s Mask that I wasn’t a brain-dead pop princess came a few nights later at the Teen Choice Awards, but I was more interested in convincing Ethan that underneath all the makeup, the bronzed skin, the millions of dollars and my expensive wardrobe, that I could still be the same girl, the one who played video games with him, talked hockey, and loved rock music. The tunnel vision that I suffered at times as a teenager was in full effect. After trying for months to rid myself of Ethan’s memory, cocooning myself within a world of luxuries- I was falling hard for him again. I wanted to feel like I did when we first started going out, holding hands on the way to class, sneaking off to our makeout spot in the park near the school or just laughing together. To be honest, every single time one of my celebrity relationships sputtered, I thought of Ethan, so he was never fully removed from my mind, simply segregated, pushed to a part of my mind that was assaulted by the need for ninety-seven dollar spring water, or the desire to decorate my resort-sized home- or add to my ever-growing collection of shoes.

I think that a part of it was the normalcy that Ethan brought- my memories of him were from a time where I didn’t need to consider calling my bodyguards to pick something up from the store, or when I didn’t have to check behind the shower curtain or underneath the bed for paparazzi. Was I paranoid? Yes, but then my entire life was being documented by the vultures. I knew they could be hiding anywhere.

I already knew that I would win album of the year and best new female artist. It wasn’t egotistical because it was true. It was an award show where the winners were chosen by the fans- and I still had a legion of Bees. I had the thirteen-year old girl vote, and any male who voted was probably voting for me too. Maybe I had gained five pounds, but I was still any boy’s teenage dream girl. I wrote my speech meant to win back Ethan with glowing praise of him. When I accepted my award, I would tell the world what he meant to me, and then he would come back to me.

Hours later, I watched my shocked expression over and over on my 90 inch television. I hadn’t won, and in fact- I hadn’t even been nominated for new female artist. I also lost album of the year to a girl about my age named Kharma. Her infectious pop hit “Streakin’” left much open to interpretation, but the critics were positive that it was about a girl very much at ease with her body- and who loved showing it. Basically, she was stripping, and here I thought my thong-diving trend was bad. I really wanted to win because- I always won. I had an award from nearly every country I visited, and I couldn’t win a vote-in contest. What was wrong with me?

Mr. Atwater cackled from his easy chair, “Abigail, you’re an old maid at sixteen!” He guzzled his glass of wine.

I glared at him, “Why don’t you just drink straight from the bottle?”

Mr. Atwater said, “You should know that if your album’s been out for more than eight months that you’re old news. Take it from someone who’s been doing this a long time. So how are you going to get back in the news? Maybe release some racy bikini pics? How about a faux-squabble with your friend Harmony? Her show’s ratings haven’t been great recently. Oh, I have it. You should get caught for speeding in your Bugatti. Or better yet get into an accident.”

I said, “I am not OLD news. My fans still love me. My last few shows were sell-outs- I’m still getting calls all the time for appearances. You don’t know what you are talking about. So I lost to Kharma, she’s a slut anyway. Those stupid shows are just popularity contests.”

Mr. Atwater looked at me knowingly, “So you are saying that Kharma is more popular than you.”

I shrieked in frustration, “You’re like a drunken Rubik’s cube! Just- leave me alone. I don’t care that she’s more popular than me.”

Mr. Atwater said, “Yes you do- you want everyone talking about you.”

I put my hands on my hips and stomped, “No- no I do NOT!”

Mr. Atwater pointed behind me, “There’s Bree. She was the other blonde. Oh and the one you always wondered about- it was Tiana. They just took a little vacation.” He grinned cruelly, “But they’ll be back.”

I rolled my eyes and flipped my hair, “Whatever. I don’t have to take this from you.”

Mr. Atwater shook his head sadly, “Abigail, I know you won’t be able to undo the Prophecy’s influence. Sandra’s hooks- they are too deep. But you can retain at least a portion of yourself. I’ll help you. I may have killed Darren Lawrence, but I can bring Abigail back. You don’t have to be Abeille. Not anymore.”

He added, “Forget about trying to undo the Prophecy. It’s too much for you right now. Just find what made you Abigail in the first place. Not the transformation, but the comfort in your body, in yourself. In the smart, beautiful, talented girl you became. That’s the only way back for you.”

***

I knew that Ethan was my salvation. If there was anyone who would be able to call me on my diva-like behaviour and resurrect “the sickest girl” ever- it was him. Robbed of my platform on the Teen Choice Awards, I decided to record a heartfelt apology to Ethan and post it on my Facebook page. In preparation for the video, I got my hair done, my nails done, and I evened out my tan with some bronzer. I was looking perfect in a pair of short shorts and a little tee. I noticed my boobs looked bigger if I wore tighter shirts. I figured Ethan would like that, since he had paid so much attention to them before. I also offered some gratuitous cleavage. The video was shot guerrilla style, by holding my phone in front of me, hitting record, and pouring my heart out. The video went viral, boosting my popularity, but it didn’t have the desired effect. In the comment section, amidst unwavering support from my fans, was a comment from Ethan.

Ethan Rayner: screw off abby stop this shit you’re embarrassing yourself

Ethan’s Facebook page was flooded with rabid Abeille fans, telling the boy how wrong he was, how much of a loser he was for not reconciling with me. Undeterred, I sat down and wrote a song about him, telling the world about our time together. It was a mixture of my new sound and old. I used the recording studio in my mansion and hired some sessional musicians, along with a mixing and mastering specialist. The song “The Boy in my Heart” flew up the charts once it was released landing at number one within a few weeks, knocking off “Streakin’”, which was the perfect revenge against the girl who stole my award.

As for the song itself, I particularly liked the string effects in the final chorus. It was a powerful song that revealed my strength as a songwriter, both for the lyrics and for the arrangement. Even that, however, did not make a dent in Ethan’s steel heart.

Now that I had new material, I was invited to perform on early morning and late night television, and when I met with the hosts, they asked me about the origin of the song. The audience gushed, and the hosts praised me for my mature song writing. A few weeks into the new mini-tour, Alyssa texted me. We were speaking more regularly, but it was mostly chit-chat.

Alyssa: u need to stop all this stuff abby
Alyssa: its just making ethan mad
Alyssa: he’s getting teased a lot @ s cool
Me: yeah well probably by the immature boys they dont get it
Me: whats ethan saying to u
Alyssa: to ask u to just drop it all
Alyssa: he doesnt like the attention theres reportors hanging around school
Alyssa: asking all these questions they like follow him to the bus
Alyssa: he hates the attention
Me: i dont get it though he loves attention on stage hes always showing off
Alyssa: i think its cause its like not what he made something he did
Me: i dont understand
Alyssa: well he told me how he hated the attention he got in TO
Alyssa: when u said he was ur boyfriend and all the pics they took
Me: cant help that the papazs follow me everywhere he was in crossfire
Alyssa: he doesnt like that
Me: if hes gonna be with me he better get used to it
Alyssa: im not sure how to explane
Alyssa: i just know u should stop if u want a chance to get back w him
Me: but im doing everything right this should be working
Alyssa: wat do other boys think about what u r doing
Me: male fans wish it was them DUH :)
Alyssa: not ur fans
Me: i dont know anyone close like that
Alyssa: doesnt have to be close just a boy
Alyssa: ask them if its a good idea wat u r doing
Me: i think i know ethan
Alyssa: r u sure

That night, I went to Mr. Atwater, knowing that he would say I was on the right track. I was following his advice. I had used my talent, my beauty and my brains to concoct a perfect reconciliation campaign- one that would lower Ethan’s defences eventually and melt his cold heart.

I asked, “If you were a teenage boy, all the stuff I’m doing, would you like it? I mean you’d want to take me back, right? Alyssa thinks maybe he doesn’t like all the attention. But, isn’t it amazing how the whole world knows how much I care about him, doesn’t he see how much I love him?”

Mr. Atwater frowned gently. He was sober for once, but I could see a bottle of wine on his night stand. “First of all, Abigail, don’t assume anything. You still think very highly of yourself. Ethan has spurned you for behaviour like that before. Now, let me ask you this? How would teenage Darren have acted if a girl he liked did all this?”

I said matter-of-factly, “He would have loved- I mean- I would have loved the attention. I was so shy in high school that I would have adored any attention. I probably would have wanted to marry the girl who did that.”

Mr. Atwater cleared his throat, “Really? And what if the boys you played hockey with teased you? Constantly. What then?”

I shrugged my shoulders, “I don’t know-…why are you asking me that? Ethan and Darren are different, right? So how I react wouldn’t be the same as him.”

Mr. Atwater nodded, “Exactly. You are beginning to understand. Think about times where Ethan was embarrassed.”

I replied, “Well, he hated when his mom told me embarrassing stories. Like this really cute Christmas story about him and Santa and wanting to fix the broken toys. But that’s what I don’t get- I mean we made out on the bus lots of times, and we got of attention. He loved that attention! And so did I actually.”

I added, “I guess he really didn’t like when the paparazzi were taking pictures of us in the parking garage.”

Mr. Atwater nodded, “Do you see the difference here, Abigail? Ethan dislikes attention that he cannot control. When he’s on stage, he can control, to a certain degree, how much attention he receives. If he plays an impressive solo, he will garner attention. But, you are forcing attention on him by trying to win his affection. And this attention is unwanted. It’s worse because the stories his mother tells are to a small group of individuals, you are telling your stories to the entire world. It’s no wonder he’s so upset with you.”

I opened my mouth for a quick rebuttal, but Mr. Atwater shook his head and added, “Ask yourself this, are you doing this for Ethan, or for yourself? That song you recorded. Was that for you, or was it to decimate Kharma on the charts? The video that you posted on your website, for your millions of fans to see. Was that action to raise your popularity, to garner sympathy from your fans, or was it a sincere apology with no celebrity baggage? And this campaign you launched for “The Boy in my Heart” is it ...”

I raised my hands in defence, and sighed heavily, “Okay, okay, okay! I get it. I guess- I guess I need to try something else.”

Mr. Atwater smiled gently and nodded, I trudged out the door, dragging my feet with my eyes downcast. I couldn’t understand how boys could be so complicated. I was beginning to see that they could be as complicated as girls. Or was I just thinking too much like a girl? Is that why boys seemed more complex now? I went to bed confused, but at least aware that my reconciliation campaign was a complete failure, mostly because I didn’t understand Ethan.

As I passed by Mr. Atwater’s door in the morning, I noticed something peculiar. There was no empty wine bottle or two outside his door. I had asked him to put them outside his door so they wouldn’t make his room look like a winery. The maid always picked them up. I entered his room (after all it was my house), and I saw a half empty wine bottle. He drank two glasses at most.

***

It took a few hours of internal deliberation, but eventually, I had a moment of eureka. I realized that Mr. Atwater was right. It had taken time for his words to sink into my thick, previously impenetrable skull, but I could see that my behaviour was selfish. If my girls had been present, no doubt they would tried to convince me that my behaviour was acceptable, and in fact, expected of someone of my stature. It was so easy to listen to them because their words were like candy. I understood now that their presence merely stroked my ego, denying me genuine relationships and masking the truth.

As for Mr. Atwater’s diatribe, I disliked being lectured like a bratty school girl, but honestly- with the way I had acted toward Amélie, and especially to Martin- that is exactly what I was. It was hard to see any of my previous self in my recent behaviour, and in fact, not only was Darren Lawrence six-feet under, Abigail Grenier had joined him in what I assumed would be a bunk-bed coffin.

My intended speech at the Teen Choice Awards was written mostly for me. It was for my fractured and fleeting image. I wanted all of the attention- the outpouring of sympathy. I thought nothing of how Ethan would react to the intimate details of our relationship being broadcast to millions. I didn’t think of that when I wrote the song, and treated it as a new single.

I could have written him a private yet equally heartfelt apology song. However, I acted again with my own interest in mind, seeing my career begin to sag (which in my mind meant anything but absolute domination of the music business), and used the song to catapult myself back into the spotlight. The same thought process went into the video I posted on my Facebook page. I had wanted to look perfect in it, polished, coifed, but the girl Ethan knew could barely style her hair, wore little to no makeup, and did not dress like a girl plucked from the pages of a teen fashion magazine.

I kept all of this in mind as I sat on a park bench, patiently waiting for Ethan to arrive. I was dressed in my old pair of torn jeans, which actually fit as they did when I first became Abigail. It was autumn, but even if it had been 40 degrees Celsius, I still would have worn Darren’s old green hoodie. It was Abigail, as much as it was Darren who chose the item of clothing. I wore one of the band t-shirts that my parents bought for me for my sweet sixteen. Basically, I was wearing my band uniform, and I wanted Ethan to realize that very clearly.

I didn’t change anything else about my appearance. I couldn’t hide the seemingly permanent tan I had, my skin bronzed from hours upon hours of sun bathing next to the pool. I wore a minuscule amount of makeup, amazed at how naked my face looked without it. A little eyeliner, some peach lip gloss and no cover up. I fought the urge to hide a tiny zit on my chin. Inside my voluminous purse, I had an entire makeup counter, but I wanted to show Ethan I hadn’t changed. The problem was- I had, and he would see right through me. I was a high-maintenance girl- the kind he hated. My head sagged in defeat. I felt weird dressed like Abigail again. The multitude of costumes I wore, the expensive clothing. I missed them. The jeans were itchy, and I thought the hoodie smelled mouldy, but then I had basically fallen into the habit of wearing clothes once and then never again. It was a major faux pas to be caught in the same outfit. At least that is what my girls told me.

I sighed deeply. He was going to see right through me.

I started texting furiously.

Me: hes not coming i know it
Alyssa: he will i promise
Me: so even if he does hes gonna leave when he sees me
Me: what did u tell him
Alyssa: that theres this girl that rlly likes him but shes too shy to say ne thing in front of ppl
Me: u rlly think this will work ethan isnt dumb
Alyssa: no but hes been pritty mopy like super emo u should here some of the song he wrote
Alyssa: well maybe not some of them they r kinda mean to you
Alyssa: like one called actually not gonna say 0_0
Me: tell me
Alyssa: noooooo :)
Me: come on
Alyssa: nope :)
Me: u r so annoying sometimes
Alyssa: i know but u love me
Me: maaaybe
Alyssa: hell come he trusts me
Me: maybe not after this
Alyssa: u 2 belong 2gether he loves u
Alyssa: i herd him playing that song he wrote about u i was there to do homework herd him from his room
Me: what bitchy blonde Barbie
Alyssa: noooooo the other one
Alyssa: like from ur old band
Me: the girl ill never know
Alyssa: yeah luv that song!
Alyssa: it was a few weeks ago
Me: u think he still misses me
Alyssa: yah
Alyssa: so what r u gonna do now
Alyssa: is it rlly true u arent happy as a pop star u gonna come back try to have a normal life
Alyssa: coming back to st jos why r u so unhappy

Before I had a chance to answer Alyssa, I heard a familiar, “Oh fuck this. I’m going to kill, Alyssa!” I looked up to see a furious Ethan, who immediately moved to leave.

I shouted, “Wait! Please! Don’t go. I-I’m sorry, sorry for everything I said to you in Toronto!”

Ethan glared at me. He looked so good, bangs dangling in his eyes, now dyed red and pink, the same leather jacket. His wispy teenage moustache had grown in, now fuller but still sparse in places. A patchy ‘beard’ covered his face, with scant hair along his jaw line but a thicker mass on his chin, looking like a soul patch surrounded by pathetic peach fuzz. Even still, I wanted to kiss that face, to have the boy crush me across his still mostly concave looking chest. I nearly emitted a girlish sigh of content as I realized that my attraction for him was still powerful- magnetic. I tried to grasp his hand but he pulled away, moving toward the exit of the park, and as he pulled away from me, I thought my heart was going to stop.

The part of my brain that could still formulate adult thoughts and opinions scoffed at the very notion of such a dramatic occurrence. It was impossible that it could happen, and there were a multitude of songs describing heart break and using tremendous poetic licence to do so, but I experienced a real pain in my chest, akin to massive heart burn.

I muttered pathetically at the fleeing figure of my ex-boyfriend, “I-I’m sorry for everything.”

Instead of leaving, Ethan turned back, and while I felt relief in my chest, it was only temporary. He turned on me with angry eyes. “Everyone at school makes fun of me because of you. Even assholes who don’t know who I am. I get shit on Facebook from your insane fans. You think you can just come here and say some words and I’m going to forget it ever happened?”

Ethan said bitingly, “And let me guess- you are recording this? So you can show the world?”

I shook my head sadly, eyes downcast, “No- it’s just me.”

Ethan asked, “You didn’t bring your collection of Barbie dolls with you? Or your no-neck bodyguards?”

Again, I shook my head, “I don’t hang out with those girls anymore. And- well none of my people know where I am.”

Ethan said, “Your people? What the hell, Abby?”

I frowned, “Sorry, it’s hard to get out of that mindset. But I mean they do work for me.”

Ethan shook his head, “Whatever, Abby- what you did to me ruined my life. I can’t start any bands because I’m like attached to you still. You know I’m like that decapitated head on Juliette- you know from Lollipop Chainsaw. It’s like even if we’re broken up, I’m still with you. Still stuck with you. And now the guys won’t leave me alone about it, talking shit all the time about how I’m getting like wooed or something. Goddamn Shakespeare.”

I hadn’t realized that my attempts to win Ethan back had emasculated him. I was thinking that I would love for a boy to write a song for me, or profess his love for me to the world, but I really had been thinking like a girl. Ethan clearly didn’t want any of that.

I pouted, “This hasn’t been easy for me either you know.”

Ethan retorted, “Oh, sorry, I didn’t realize how hard it was to be a pampered princess night in and night out. Do you have someone wipe your ass for you too?”

I said weakly, “It’s really lonely on the road. I missed you so much. But I wasn’t allowed- they wouldn’t let you come. I wanted you there working on the album, hanging out with me, keeping me sane. Things would’ve been different if you were able to come.”

Ethan said, “But Alyssa got to go. So obviously you didn’t care that much. And the people you talk about, I thought they worked for you.”

There was anger in Ethan’s beautiful eyes, but also a fraction of sadness- within the rage at my betrayal of self, at how I had buried the girl he loved. If there had only been ire, I would have surrendered, but the gloom within his eyes told me that his hatred was malleable. With the proper words, I could turn his feelings of betrayal, his hatred- into understanding. He needed to know what I had gone through.

I heard a gruff male voice behind me. “Rayner, you weren’t lying!”

Another voice, a little higher but still male, said, “Here she is, the fucking bitch who ruined music.”

Two older boys approached us. They were dressed in a similar way to Ethan but the boy with the lower voice had dyed his hair green. He had a nose ring and an amateur flaming skull tattooed on his arm. It looked to be a basement job, or the work of a drunken tattoo artist. The other boy was overweight. He wore a long black trench coat, and he had two pierced ears. Instead of standard hoop earrings, he had two thick black plastic circles punched into his ear.

Ethan nodded, “I told you that she was here. And I’ve told her I don’t want anything to do with her. Can I get that tryout now?” I watched the exchange with confusion. Was this some sort of initiation?

I blinked, “Wait- you knew? But Alyssa said-“

Ethan smirked- clear victory painted on his features. The painful burning in my chest intensified. The two boys, who I recognized from school but had never spoken to, grinned maliciously. The overweight one shouted, “Quick, get your phone out, Gavin! I’m sure all of YouTube will want to see this.”

Ethan said, “Don’t be stupid, Abby. You know that Alyssa is about the worst liar in the world. The only reason the secret of your stupid sweet sixteen party didn’t get out is because you are really gullible. When she told me there was a girl waiting for me in the park, our old place- I knew it was you. Alyssa had this really dumb look on her face. The same one when she was trying to get us together.”

I said, “Look, I just wanted to say sorry for how I treated you.”

Gavin, the one with the terrible skull tattoo, said, “Probably good you never banged this bitch, Rayner- she’s nasty. I bet she likes it when guys cum in her mouth. Gets her all hot. She’s such a slut- that’s why she got all those abortions.”

The overweight one added, “Yeah, I heard she’s gotten like three. She wants it so bad- I bet it’s true that she sucked this guy off in an alley off Hollywood Boulevard. She’s such a little cum slut.”

Gavin said, “And when she’s not taking dicks in her mouth, she’s stuffing food in it. Even with a personal trainer, this bitch still gets fat.”

Gavin looked to Ethan, “Come on, man. Why aren’t you ragging on her? I thought you hated her more than anyone. She screwed you so bad. She signed that contract without telling anyone in the band, just so she can sell out and become the world’s biggest no-talent slut pop star. You said you thought you were signing with Geffen. And she signed with this Sidereus Agency or whatever? What a bitch!”

The overweight one said, “I bet in three years, her fat ass will be giving blowjobs for Timbits.”

To the uninitiated, Timbits are donut holes sold at the Canadian icon- Tim Hortons, and at 25 cents apiece (or 10 for 2$), I would be a very, very cheap whore. Despite the verbal beating I had given to M. Landry, which caused him to seemingly reflect on his poor teaching methods, and the way I handled myself in Mr. Richter’s courtroom, the most intelligent reply I could think of was, “Well I’m not as fat as you asshole!”

Ethan looked at me up and down and then said with a hateful grin, “Not yet.”

Ethan might as well have struck me firmly in the face, and while no bones were shattered, all semblance of confidence fled, as did any thought of a reconciliation with Ethan. They were right. I was going to fade from existence. It was clear that I had become a comfort eater. I was extremely unhappy, and I reacted by shoveling a multitude of junk into my gaping maw. The act softened any mental blows I received (like losing to Kharma) but it also softened my belly, thighs, and ass. Instead of retorting angrily, assaulting the three boys with a masterful diatribe to explain how sad and pathetic their existence was next to my celebrity one, I cried. I could have eaten a box of forty Timbits at that point.

The overweight one said, “Wow. Okay. This needs to be recorded. Were you getting any of this man?” I had covered my face with my hands, but I couldn’t hide the fact I was crying. Thank goodness my hands at least muffled my crying. I heard Ethan say, “I’ve got it.” I peeked out through my hands to see Ethan’s phone pointed at me. The flashing red light above the camera indicated that he was recording my crying session.

Gavin said, “You think you deserve any of it? You’ve got no talent. Fucking dogs barking into a mic sound better than your auto-tuned shit. And look at you, dressed all punk, but you’re the biggest poser.”

He got right into my face and pulled my hands away, so that YouTube would see my tear-stained and likely red-bleary eyes. “And you know what? You’re going to end up just like Britney. You won’t be able to do anything with your life, you’ll do shitty reality shows to hang onto your fame. You’ll end up like they all do- a crazy, fat bitch who’ll open her legs to anyone who says, I had you on my wall once.”

In my already weakened mental state, I took Gavin’s words to heart as if they were golden rules. My sobbing intensified with my body now starting to jerk uncontrollably. I couldn’t leave because I knew that I deserved all of the hatred- my selfishness and vanity had doomed the world to mediocrity, a de-evolution where an assault of new distractions became the norm- Celebrity Kickboxing, the Real Housewives of Washington D.C., a show that portrayed intelligent well-educated women as caterwauling social climbers, bent on each other’s destruction. It was Jersey Shore meets parliamentary debate, and I had birthed it unto the world.

I pictured myself holed away, a shadow of my former self, yet with a body that cast a far greater shadow. I fled from the media who sought to create the next embarrassing scenario that would send me running for a host of decadent treats. My fans would post videos telling them to leave me alone, desperate, fanatical still in their allegiance, but far fewer in number. Even as I saw myself as a has-been celebrity, one who would likely end up on Celebrity Weight Loss Challenge, to be screamed at by someone like Jillian Michaels for not meeting my weight goal, I heard a sudden crack, and then a shout, “What the fuck man? I thought you wanted to be in the band! I’ll beat your fucking ass!”

I peeked through my hands, shocked to see Gavin on the ground, nursing his jaw. The overweight one threw his body into Ethan, knocking the smaller boy down. Then, he proceeded to force his weight down on Ethan, basically sitting on him and using his bulk to keep him down. He pulled his fist back and struck Ethan in the nose, which immediately started to bleed.

I stood watching the event for a moment, astonished at Ethan’s behaviour. The boy had all but said that he hated me, so his sudden heroism was puzzling. Options buzzed through my head. The boy who sat atop my saviour was probably over two-hundred pounds. He would not budge if I attempted to throw him off. Unfortunately, with the way he sat, his most vulnerable area was not available to receive a swift kick. I felt the heft of my purse in my hands-the carrier full of hard plastic makeup products. I reached Ethan just in time for him to receive another well-placed fist to the face- this time his left eye was the unfortunate victim. I drew the purse back and then swung it, connecting soundly with the boy’s face. He turned and reached for my arm, but I pulled away from him. While the attack was not enough to harm Ethan’s assailant, the distraction allowed Ethan enough time to pull his fist back and strike the overweight boy firmly in the nose. The force of the blow caused the boy to stagger and Ethan was able to push him off.

At this point, the overweight boy was dazed, but Gavin, who rose slowly to this feet, had made a quick recovery. I looked to Ethan, who motioned for me to run. A hand forcefully grabbed my hood and proceeded to drag me backwards. Gavin held me fast, and as I tried to wiggle out of the hoodie, which was a few sizes too big, he managed to pin one of my arms behind my back. Before he could get the other, I elbowed him in the face. I felt my elbow connect with the boy’s nose, and then I heard a crack. Ethan looked at me wide-eyed, and without saying a word, we both took off at a sprint. My thicker and shorter legs had difficulty keeping up with the lanky teen, but Ethan actually slowed his pace, ensuring that I didn’t fall behind.

He shouted, “That was sick! Dude, I think you broke his nose!” I grinned. Ethan looked back and said, “They aren’t following us.” We stopped running, and I looked at Ethan in confusion, “W-Why did you help me? I thought you hated me.”

Ethan replied matter-of-factly, “Because they were being dicks.”

I sighed gently, “Oh.” The wind picked up and caused my ever-long golden locks to dance on my shoulder.

I said, “Um- thanks- thanks for what you did. I mean I know you’re mad at me. And I probably deserved a lot of that.”

Ethan shook his head, “My dad says that you gotta treat girls with respect, even if they piss you off. You tell ‘em why they pissed you off, but you don’t start calling them whores or sluts or whatever. What those guys were saying was just nasty.” I reached out in an attempt to cling onto Ethan’s arm, but again, he pulled away.

He said, “Unless they slept around.”

I retorted, “Are you insinuating- I didn’t have an abortion, Ethan. Come on, you can trust me. I’m still a virgin.”

He shook his head, “Look, I helped you because it was my fault those guys were there. I told them I was going to meet with you, they wanted to come and give you shit.”

Before I had a chance to respond, I saw a peculiar sight. Two cars, a black, luxury sedan and a black SUV were speeding toward us, causing others within the park to scurry out of the way. Seconds later, Lauren and my bodyguards exited the vehicles. Lauren teetered on a pair of high heels that sunk into the park ground. One of the bodyguards helped her stand and then she pointed an accusatory finger at Ethan, “You little punk, get away from her! I don’t know what you told her, but you don’t have a chance with her.”

Lauren said firmly, “Abigail, please get into the car.”

Lauren’s behaviour was bizarre because while she had been the most vocal before the fulfilment of the Prophecy, recently she had been acting like she was on some eternal spring break, gallivanting on luxury cruises, lazing about on private beaches and spending copious amounts of money that was not hers. She had been an extremely lax guardian.

Ethan responded to Lauren by giving her the finger. My bodyguards converged on Ethan, blocking his path to me. Lauren looked at me and shook her head, “What’s gotten into you, Abigail? You’ve missed three public appearances, and a meeting with the songwriter on your new album.”

I crossed my arms underneath my chest and cocked my hip to the side in obvious teenage defiance. “I told you before you went to Costa Rica that I want way more of a say for this album. I want to write some of the songs at least. And I want to play guitar.”

Lauren smiled, “But Abigail, you know how much you love to dance- it’ll take away from that.”

I said, “But I want people to see- to see that I can do other things. I want to go in a different direction with this album.”

Lauren shook her head, “That’s not smart though. You’ll alienate your fans. Now, it’s time to go. Get into the car.”

I stayed firmly planted, “No. And how did you find me? Are you still tracking my phone?” I peered at Lauren with outrage. The girl responded matter-of-factly, “You are worth a billion dollars, Abigail. Of course we are tracking you. Now, I don’t want to be difficult here, but you are still under contract.”

I shook my head and replied petulantly, “No I’m not! Mr. Atwater said so.”

Lauren smirked, “That drunken bum doesn’t know anything. You’ve got a two-year contract.”

Ethan piped up, “Fuck off, lady. Abby can do what she wants!”

Lauren said, “Here’s how it’s going to work. You’re going to get into the car, and you aren’t going to say a word. You are going to follow your diet again. You will begin work on your new album, and you will never- ever again miss another public appearance.”

I glared at the woman, “Or what? I don’t have to do what you say. You aren’t Sandra.”

Lauren smirked, “Well it’s pretty simple. You know that beautiful house you ‘own’? Well, the mortgage is actually under my name. As your guardian, I also have control over all your money. I can cancel your credit cards. You want to go back to the tenth grade and have to stay in a house with your sister and your principal? Because that’s where you’re headed, little girl.”

I frowned deeply, aware that my celebrity lifestyle was basically being held at gun-point. Could I go back to an existence where I had to watch what I spent, and worst of all- could I return to a life where Amélie, and by proxy Martin, were my guardians? The man who was sleeping with my wife telling me to wash the dishes, or clean up my room. I shuddered and the grin on Lauren’s face widened.

Ethan deked around the bodyguards and stood next to me. He said, “She can stay at my house, until she figures stuff out.” I looked at Ethan in shock, and I nearly reached out to hug him- but remembering that he seemingly wanted nothing to do with me romantically, I reneged.

Lauren said, “How cute. You can move from middle class to upper middle class, but you’ll never have what you have now in Hollywood.”

I said, “I don’t care- I can get by.” If I wanted to show Ethan that I hadn’t changed, then I needed to accept the possibility of living with Amélie again. After all, what diva would subject herself to the rules laid out by her older sister? No one was telling Miley Cyrus to do her homework or go to bed at a decent hour.

Lauren said, “Fine, Abigail- you know how to reach me when you change your mind.”

Her words were presumptuous, but even as I watched her leave, I peered down at my purse, an item worth several thousand dollars, and sighed gently. Could I manage as a regular teenage girl again? Would the world even let me? As I was pondering this, one of my bodyguards snatched the purse from my hand, taking with it my credit cards and about four-thousand dollars in cash. The bodyguard deposited the purse in Lauren’s hands.

Lauren said, “You can have this back when you come back.” The two cars pulled away, and I stared at the fleeing vehicles absolutely awestruck. Had I just given up all of my money, my fame- for a boy? Did he even realize what I had done?

Ethan said, “What a bitch! I thought that Sandra woman was a bitch, but damn- is…that what you had to put up with all the time? Like did you have any control over anything, Abby?” There was a fair amount of sympathy tied to Ethan’s words.

I said, “Certain things yes, others- no. Pretty much anything I said was scripted. Like about the cheerleading and whatever. The stupid stuff about sex- it was an image thing. And, I was forced to lose weight. They told me how ugly I looked, how disgusting my body was. Every day they made me look at these pictures of myself, they critiqued each part, talking about problem areas. The rumours about me fainting are true. Two times and one time I was brought to the hospital. ” I sat down on a nearby bench, and Ethan sat down next to me.

I said, “They made me hate my body. To the point where- well I mean you saw it, I thought- I thought I had a disease. I thought you were sick in the head! Because you loved the fat me.”

Ethan interjected quickly, “You were never fat, Abby.”

I smirked, “Your dad gives good advice.”

Ethan looked hurt momentarily, “Hey, my dad never said anything about that stuff. It’s true, Abby- you were never fat.”

I said, “I was Hollywood fat, and that’s all that matters there. They basically told me that I wouldn’t be as popular if I was chunky.”

Ethan frowned, “Why’d you let them do that stuff to you? I mean the contract and everything- I still don’t get it. Why did you sign with them? You turned down the other two labels that wanted to turn you into a pop star.”

I replied, “I got caught up in it. They said I’d be huge, and that you could come and everything. It sucked about the guys, but I just thought- as long as you are here, I can do this. I guess I wanted to be famous. I was really stupid.”

Ethan shook his head, “I don’t think so. You’re young- you didn’t know. And now that I’ve seen it- and I mean everything you went through, how much you weren’t really making the choices.”

I said softly, “Listen though, Ethan- I was, the way I treated you in Toronto. The way I acted all the time. It was still my choice. I-I’m really sorry. Like you have no idea how much I didn’t want it to end like that.”

Ethan said, “A part of me- a part of me still thought one day, well you’d like wake up and be like, this isn’t me and you’d come back. And then that abortion stuff got out- and I started believing that you were what everyone said you were. I guess I was maybe watching too many entertainment shows- like they were the only thing on and everyone was so obsessed with it.”

He gritted his teeth, “I would just get so pissed, seeing you with all those stupid guys.”

I said, “The abortion story was actually planted by my record label to create more buzz about me. None of its true.”

I reached out and put my hand on his knee, and he didn’t flinch or turn away. I said gently, “At the end of the night, when those guys would try something after barely talking to me, or just leave after talking about themselves for three hours, I would always think about you. I would think about how nice you are, how much those guys weren’t like you- how much I wanted you there with ...”

I didn’t get a chance to finish what I was saying because Ethan’s lips were on mine. Then, his hands were firmly on my spongier waist, slight love handles again starting to roost. He pulled me closer as I kissed him back, my tongue taking an experimental dive into the boy’s mouth, and then with no opposition, I found his tongue and they danced back and forth within our mouths. The moment was pure euphoria. I felt like Atlas with his billion pound celestial sphere suddenly weighing the same as a single feather. We remained there for what seemed like hours, entangled, all of our lost trust, misgivings, sutured with a simple kiss.

***
Chapter 71

“You sure you don’t wanna stay at my place? My parents would be totally chill about it. I know I wouldn’t want to live with my principal.” Ethan and I walked hand in hand toward my old home.

I shook my head, “I need to do this.”

Ethan looked at me in bewilderment, “So you are just going to give everything up, just like that? Go to school- just try and be a normal kid again? I mean- not that I think you can’t do it, but we got stopped three times for autographs and we’ve only walked a few blocks. D-Do you really think you can do it?”

I sighed gently, “I don’t know. I’m going to need your help- like if I start divaing out, you need to stop me. OK?”

Ethan nodded slowly, “How do you put up with it?”

I raised a brow, “Put up with what?”

Ethan said, “Like you were really good with those little kids who asked you for autographs. And that kid Tawny at the hockey game. But, how do you do it? Like everyone knows who you are, there’s people following you all the time for pictures. It’s just- I don’t think I could do it. I’d be like, fuck off!”

I replied, “You just get used to living your life under a microscope. You become numb to it. If you don’t then you go crazy because I mean- I’ve had paparazzi hiding in hotel rooms, waiting for me. I even caught one in the women’s washroom during a performance in Florida. When I yelled at him, he ignored me and starting rummaging through the garbage. Probably looking for a pregnancy test.”

Ethan’s eyes narrowed, and he gripped my hand tightly, “I’d beat the shit out of any guy who did that to you. Like you deserve your privacy.”

He pulled me closer, and we enjoyed a brief kiss. Ethan slung his arm around my waist, and I sighed gently as I laid my head against his chest. We continued walking as I absorbed the heat from his body. California’s no-season climate had certainly softened me up. The crisp early autumn evening made me think that winter was approaching, and it wasn’t even close to Halloween.

I said, “I want to start writing again. Playing guitar. I don’t need the Sidereus Agency’s influence anymore, but I-I need your help. No one takes me seriously in the rock community. I want to be in a band again.”

Ethan grinned, “Really? That’s sick! We should talk to Andrew and Steven and get the old band going again.”

I shook my head, “Steven thinks I have some kind of disease. I don’t think he’d be interested. And Andrew had some stipulations. I was thinking more like Rebellion’s Mask. I was trying to do a collaboration with them- I need your help to convince them. Like if we wrote a song together, maybe I could get some of my rock credibility back.”

Ethan scoffed, “Rock cred is stupid. It’s just something people like Steven use to say I don’t like this person or this music or whatever. If you do something and you mean it, like it’s real, you know? Then you’ve got it.”

Ethan added, “Rebellion’s Mask is a sick band though. You really think you could convince them? They seem to think the same way as Steven. And why them?”

I said, “Because everyone in the industry thinks they are a genuine band. If they agree to let me work with them, then I’m genuine too. They don’t work with posers. Then maybe people will take me seriously. Can you help me?”

Ethan grinned, “Hell yes.”

***

I looked at the house that was my former home. The grounds were well-maintained. The weeds that I had allowed to fester along the edge of Amélie’s tulip garden were removed, the shrubs, which I never touched, were neatly trimmed, and the grass was green and lush, the likely result of frequent watering. The mailbox, which at times had hung from a single nail, had been replaced by a shiny new black mailbox. An unknown car, a black sedan, sat in the driveway next to Amélie’s SUV. I noticed other changes to the property. One of the wooden columns that supported the raised ranch home had been repainted, and the front door, which was supposed to be my project, had been replaced. I hadn’t been expected to do the work, but I was tasked with choosing a new doorframe.

Martin was like some form of super husband compared to me. I sighed lightly and Ethan, who held my hand as I surveyed the property, said, “You can still come back to my place. You don’t have to do this.”

I shook my head, “Thanks- but I need to do this. Besides, I need a long term solution. I just need to accept that Amélie and Martin- they are together.”

Ethan frowned and squeezed my hand, “What happened to Darren? I thought he would have been home during the summer.”

I replied bitterly, “Because he’s a dick- who doesn’t care about his wife or his daughter. They are getting a divorce. Darren signed the papers this summer. He’s staying in Vancouver.”

Ethan shrugged, “Do you ever talk to him? It seemed like you guys were close.”

I replied, “No- never. H-He said I could keep the jacket, and that was last year. I haven’t spoken to him since.”

Ethan leaned in and kissed me. I wrapped my arms around him, and in his warm embrace, it was so easy to stall my meeting with the happy couple that waited inside. Seconds later, I saw the porch light turn on, and I heard a male voice, “Hey, who’s there? Oh. Abigail!” Martin, dressed in a pair of sweats, a t-shirt and a pair of slippers, stepped out onto the well-manicured lawn, “We weren’t expecting you! It’s good to see you. Come inside, I’m sure your sister and Chloe will be very happy to see you.” Ethan continued to hold onto my waist protectively.

I sighed lightly, “Um…hi- yeah, you know I meant to call, but I guess I forgot. Did you guys eat already?”

Ethan grinned, “Hey Martin, nice slippers.”

Martin furrowed his brow and said, “Ethan, it’s not really appropriate for you to call me by my first name.”

Ethan smirked, “But Abby does- whenever she talks about you. And we aren’t in school right now, Martin.”

Martin cleared his throat and then looked at me helplessly. I shrugged my shoulders. He ignored Ethan and turned back to me. “You know how Chloe is- she wants to eat right when we get home. I get Chloe from daycare, and Amélie, she’s always got a wonderful meal prepared for us.”

I smirked, clear bitterness apparent in my words, “Well aren’t you just a lovely nuclear family.”

Martin’s expression didn’t change. “Amélie’s done the best she can. She still can’t find a job.”

I raised a brow, “If Amélie is home all day with Chloe- what does she do?”

Martin smiled, “She’s been working on her case to regain custody of you. There’s a hearing in a few weeks. Judge Richter is not at all happy that his order was being ignored by your previous guardian, and by your current one. Based on precedent, she thinks there’s a good chance she could win.”

I bid Ethan goodbye with a quick kiss and a promise that I would call him later. Martin closed the door behind me, and I took in the sights and most of all- the changes wrought by Amélie’s beau. Like the outside, Martin’s influence was immediate. He had fixed the doors to the pantry. I had given a modest amount of effort, but when I failed to place them back onto the track, I gave up, and the doors stayed permanently dislodged. I also noticed a number of wooden pieces, tables and shelves, again likely built by Martin. As Martin escorted me to the kitchen, I also noticed a well-crafted spice rack, holding an abundance of seasonings, some of which I didn’t recognize. The smell coming from the kitchen was heavenly, ginger mixed with fresh garlic and cinnamon. I could see a tray of freshly-baked cinnamon rolls and the remains of a stir-fry chicken dish. My stomach rumbled. If I stayed here for any length of time, I would need new clothes!

Amélie was busy loading the dishwasher, so she didn’t see me come in. I said with a smirk, “Well isn’t someone a little domestic now. Happy, little housewife. Never would have believed it.”

Amélie turned around and grinned. She threw her arms around me, and completely ignoring my compliment/insult, she said, “Abigail! Are you here for a visit? I didn’t know you were coming.”

I told Amélie and Martin about the ultimatum from Lauren, and the fact that I was basically broke. I also told them about my plan with regard to the Prophecy, Ethan and Rebellion’s Mask. Amélie said, “Of course you can stay here, Abigail. This is your home. You know I’m trying to get custody of you again. And from what you’ve told me, Lauren and Sandra have both psychologically abused you. That should work in our favour. This is a stable family now too.” I glared at Amélie momentarily.

She said quickly, “Hey, you know that’s not what I mean. We were stable before you became Abigail. It’s just without your income and my income- and your parents getting their savings cleaned out- well we were screwed. Thankfully, Martin’s salary covers the mortgage fully. We still need to watch our money, but I’m not thinking every month that we are going to lose the house.”

I shook my head, “Why didn’t you just take the money that I offered you? Why’d you have to be so stubborn about things? I could have just bought your house.”

Amélie shrugged her shoulders, “Because it wasn’t appropriate. A sixteen year old girl shouldn’t be doing that.”

I rolled my eyes, “Why not? The house would be paid off. For all the Sidereus Prophecy has done to us, and to you in particular, why not just take it? I could have made it happen.”

Amélie said, “I don’t want anything to do with that Prophecy- in my eyes, the money you made is tainted. Look what it did to you. If we accepted that, we’d be accepting your lifestyle. It was saying basically that how you were acting was fine.”

I munched on an offered cinnamon roll. Martin looked at me, “I think it’s admirable that you want to try and live a normal life. Amélie and I will do everything we can to make that happen. I mean, I know you’ve already got your high school diploma technically, but Ethan- Alyssa, they all go to St. Jos. I’m sure you want to see them. Considering that, I can help move you to eleventh grade.”

I added quickly, with a hint of petulance, “I have two university degrees.”

Amélie said, “Darren Lawrence has those. Abigail Grenier has some high school credits. That’s it.”

I shook my head slowly, “I think that’s a pretty big conflict of interest considering my principal, whose decision it is to pass me, is sleeping with my sister.” Martin looked at me in surprise. I flipped my hair to the side, and asked none too politely, “What?”

Martin said, “I just find it amazing that sometimes- all I see is a teenage girl- and then other times, there’s like these flashes of brilliance I guess. Where I see Darren. It’s just incredible that despite everything you’ve been through, you’ve maintained at least some of him.”

I said, “Maybe I should be my own science fair project this year. Hmm?”

Martin said, “I didn’t mean that I would automatically pass you. I would just give you the opportunity to write the final exams for the classes you missed last year. You will also have to get caught up on the classes you’ve missed since September. It will be a tremendous amount of work, but I am happy to help you with it. I can provide you materials, and tutor you. I was a science teacher and math teacher before becoming a principal. And if I recall, those aren’t your best subjects.”

I sighed and smiled bitterly, “Maybe I should just call Lauren.” I wasn’t fully serious, but Martin’s ‘help’ would mean I wouldn’t see Ethan as much as I wanted or Alyssa. Still, I assumed if I returned to St. Jos, that I would do so as a celebrity. I would be untouchable.

Amélie frowned and said, “Abigail, can I speak to you in your room, please?”

I sighed. “Yeah- sure whatever.” I trudged down to my room. I had been in the house all of fifteen minutes, and already I felt like a kid again.

My room was unchanged. Flowery pink lettering spelling out my name still hung just above my bed. My vanity was as I had left it, a selection of mostly unused perfumes and makeup products. It was where I had first experimented with the feminine world that I allowed to envelop me. Now, makeup was like a second skin, and the fact that I had not put on my ‘face’ today, made me feel strangely naked. Amélie sat on my bed and gently tapped the space next to her.

It was a surreal experience returning to the room that had first been created to fool the social worker, where two times I had attempted to regain my male body, and where I had nearly lost my virginity to Ethan. Considering I had spent most of the last year on the road, the four walls felt like home, even with Amélie’s disappointed frown bearing down on me. I sat next to her on the bed and caught sight of myself in the bedroom mirror. I fought the urge to smile, to preen, to scrutinize and then hate my appearance.

Amélie’s expression softened, and she said, “I’m really glad you came home.”

I turned away from her, “Yeah. Ok.”

Amélie nodded her head, “It’s true. I’m not going to tell you this is going to be easy, but it’s the best thing for you. That girl that I saw in August, she wasn’t you.”

Amélie put her hand on my thigh, “What’s bothering you, Abigail?”

I said brusquely, “Guess.”

Amélie asked, “Martin? I know this isn’t by any means easy for you. You know that if this is going to work, you have to accept that we are together.”

I glared at her, “I have accepted it. Why don’t you believe me when I tell you that? I told you that during the summer too. It’s so annoying when you don’t trust me.”

Amélie said, “I don’t want to get pulled into an argument here, Abigail, but you were very cool toward him. This is his home too now. He’s got the same rights as you.”

I asked childishly, “Oh really? So you aren’t going to treat me like a kid? And he’s not going to try and be my dad?”

Amélie sighed gently, “You know what the rules are if you come to live here again. We can review them, but I think you know.” She added, “I can tell there’s something else. Your eyes, they are doing that thing- you know when you are thinking about something deeply.” My eyes must have been shifting back and forth.

I blurted out, emotion bubbling to the surface to the point where I had to fiercely rein in the tears that attempted to flow. “He’s better than me. I think you are happier with him than you were with me- he’s like the perfect husband. I know it’s stupid, and it’s a really childish thing to say, but I hate him. Because he’s better than me. He’s better than I ever was!”

Amélie retorted quickly, clearly trying to comfort me. “He’s not. Just different. I was happy with you.”

Like a stubborn horse that refused to be ridden, my emotions overcame my senses, and my eyes welled up. The first few tears fell just as I began to speak, “I saw you this summer- you were so cutesy with him. Kissing him- and you guys just holding hands all the time. We didn’t even do that when we were first dating! A-And- I…I’ve seen what he’s done around the house. He’s like the perfect husband- I can’t stand him. He just makes me see how horrible I was- it’s like I think you are happy this happened to me. Because now you’ve found who you really want.”

Amélie opened her arms, and I put my head on her shoulder, gently sobbing and wetting her blouse. Amélie ran her fingers lightly through my hair, “The problem was that you weren’t happy.”

I sniffed, “I-I was happy with you.”

Amélie nodded, “But not with your life as a whole. You weren’t happy with your job, and you felt like the world was working against you. And despite that, I was happy with you- I knew what I was getting into when I married you. I knew you were a dreamer, someone who would never settle for being a mail room clerk, or basically stuck in any position that wasn’t challenging. I also knew you were passionate about music, and I accepted that. Even if it meant you were gone for hours on a weekend or if had to practice your scream singing. I took it all. And I liked that about you, and still do.”

She continued, “Martin isn’t like you. His eyes don’t light up when he opens up a present at Christmas that wasn’t on his list. And he can’t make Chloe laugh like you can. I don’t think anyone can. Sure, Martin can fix things around the house, and he’s a bit more open with regard to showing his feelings in public, but he’s not perfect. He’s a bit stodgy with certain things, and he’s got a lot to learn about being a parent. Chloe walks all over him because he’s way too lenient.”

Amélie smiled gently, “You have no idea how glad I am to see you home finally.”

I looked up at Amélie with a measure of doubt, “Really?”

Amélie nodded, “When you visited in August, I meant every word when I told you that you still have a place in this family. I’m going to need your help- because like I said, Martin- he’s clueless. Chloe’s got him wrapped around her little finger. Martin understands that you are her dad. We can’t call you that, but you still deserve to have a part in her upbringing. Maybe we’ll tell her one day, but for now, are you OK with being her Auntie Abby? It would mean so much to me. You have no idea how much that little girl loves you.”

I raised a brow, and a tiny smile appeared on my face, “I-Is he- Is he really that bad?”

Amélie nodded, “Yesterday, when he tried to put her to bed- she managed to get him to read four different stories, changed her pjs twice, and had three potty breaks. It’s so ironic too because he’s got a reputation as a very tough principal.” Amélie giggled, “She calls him Marry. She still has trouble with her Ts.”

I asked, “So Martin won’t be allowed to boss me around?”

Amélie replied, “He knows that you were Darren, but he also knows that you make some poor decisions, like a typical teen. It’s going to be hard for him to avoid playing your principal, especially because that’s really his expertise. I don’t know anything about raising a teenager, and he deals with hundreds of them on a daily basis.”

I frowned, “Get to the point.”

Amélie nodded, “He’s going to be able to help me with raising you, just like you’ll be able to help me with Chloe. He’s not going to try and be your dad, like all touchy feely or anything, but you know he might have some advice for you from time to time. He’s taught so many students over the years, I’m sure he’ll be able to tell you about other times he’s dealt with a similar problem.”

Amélie said, “I’ll still be the one that decides in the end how to handle things. Does that sound fair? I know you’re not a kid, Abigail. And I think you can really help me with Chloe. Plus, once the new baby comes, you already know everything- you can be a big help.”

I nodded eagerly, “Of course I’m not a kid. I’m almost seventeen! And Martin really does seem clueless about raising Chloe.”

Amélie said, “Last Saturday she tried the five minutes more thing on him and managed to get an extra forty-five minutes of TV.”

I grinned, “OK- OK. He needs major help. I’ll teach him everything there is to know about being the meanest, toughest parent in the world.” Amélie beamed, and I hugged her tightly.

***

I returned to school after weeks of solid cramming, where I managed to pass my exams and stumble into the eleventh grade. During that time, Amélie was a taskmaster. Since she was home during the day, she had made sure that my face was solidly in a book. Martin tutored me at night, and I had to admit, he was a decent teacher. OK- he was actually a great teacher, but I was loathe to admit it. I enjoyed a lovely bit of schadenfreude when Chloe managed to convince him that she could have cookies for breakfast, and when she managed to put on quite the fashion show before going to daycare a few days later, actually changing her outfit three times before Martin caught on.

Martin was not the devil incarnate- I knew that, but still- it was hard to like him. Amélie was congenial toward Ethan, even inviting him to dinner twice a week. She wasn’t even passive aggressive with him. So, why did I still see Martin as a philandering wife-stealer at times? Was it just a teenage thing? I had accepted my physical age in terms of how I expected to be treated, but the way I could be completely unreasonable and irrational still caused what remained of my adult mind to question my sanity.

Unfortunately, my return to school was not the triumph that I expected. Apparently, Martin had pulled some strings to allow me to attend the eleventh grade, and while I was grateful, it caused a number of issues. Some of my teachers were upset that they were forced to play catch-up with a student who had missed the first month of school. A few of them piled on work, giving me hours of homework each night. I knew what they were up to- they were trying to suffocate me, trying to induce enough anxiety that I would drop the class, seeing an insurmountable obstacle in the mountain of material I needed to cover. As a teacher, I had never done it, but I knew teachers that did, especially those that wanted to get rid of latecomer students who might be problematic.

While Ethan and Alyssa were initially overjoyed at my return to St. Jo’s, they soon grew tired of the attention I received. Because of my star status, I was a hot commodity at the high school- with a great deal of male attention and female attention. The girls wanted to know what it was like hanging out with Hollywood’s elite, my beauty, fashion and dieting tips, and the boys- the boys just wanted me. This left Ethan jealous and Alyssa feeling like she was a thirty-fifth wheel in my train of admirers. The situation worsened when the paparazzi and celebrity media learned of my whereabouts. On top of that, once it was common knowledge, students from other schools started showing up at lunch hour. When I left to take the bus, I was assaulted by the paparazzi who lay in wait just off of school property. My attempt to return to the life of a normal teenage girl had failed within days of my return. I had become an attraction- like a circus come to town. I brought with me a horde of media, dissenters and rabid supporters.

It was Friday- the end of my first week. I looked down at my dinner with disinterest, poking at the scallop potatoes and roasted chicken with my pork. Amélie frowned, “What’s wrong, Abigail? Do you not like it?”

I shrugged my shoulders, “I’m just not hungry tonight.”

Amélie said, “Are you worried about your weight?”

I glared at Amélie, “Why do you always think it’s that? You’re so annoying.”

Martin chimed in, “Well- you…were kind of complaining about your weight on Wednesday.”

I nodded, “Well maybe if Amélie didn’t bake so many goddamn cookies and brownies, I’d fit in my pants. I’m getting seriously fat staying here. I need to seriously go no-sugar, no carbs.”

Martin frowned, “Watch your language around Chloe. We just got her off that word.”

I smirked, “Well I’m sure she’ll be dropping F-bombs next because you said that in front of her yesterday.”

Amélie said, “Abigail! Let’s just try and have a nice dinner. You are not getting fat- Sandra, she did something to your head. You told us what she did to you- there’s bound to be some side effects from that psychological torture. If you are really concerned, then you should start exercising again. And I can stop baking so much, but girls your age shouldn’t diet like that. You may still be growing, and you may not be getting the right nutrients.”

I shook my head, “Oh, and have you been reading some books or did Mr. Principal tell you that? What would he know about having to diet? He’s always got his food bag on, and he doesn’t gain a pound.”

Martin looked to Amélie, “You know I really didn’t mean to say the f-word in front of Chloe. I got cut off by one of the cars chasing us.”

I sighed, “Paparazzi. They were in the driveway this morning. They’ve documented every single morning. I don’t know how much more I can take of this.”

Amélie said, “It’ll die down.”

I shook my head, “I don’t think so. It’s like everyone wants a piece of me. Everyone thinks they deserve their moment with me. Random kids just talk to me in the hall. Even some of the teachers, they ask about the Hollywood lifestyle- and these aren’t teachable moments either. They are just gossip hounds.”

I added sadly, “I’m starting to think that Harmony was right. We’re different than you- than everyone else- I don’t think I’m ever going to be normal again. I can’t just hang out with friends. They follow me to Ethan’s- they follow me to Alyssa’s. Paparazzi- random people, fans. Honestly, I may have been a bitch, but I sure got a lot more privacy in Hollywood in my big empty mansion.”

Martin said gently, “We can make it work, Abigail. We’ll get restraining orders. You’re a sixteen year old girl- they have no right to do this. Amélie, there must be laws against this. They are causing a lot of problems at school- even besides”

Amélie nodded, “I’ll look into it. Maybe an injunction or I could look into trespassing laws. Please Abigail, just give it a few more weeks.”

I looked down at the scalloped potatoes and sighed. The pictures that they had taken of me recently were terribly unflattering. I was positive that my face looked fatter. I said, “I’ve got a lot of homework.” I pushed the plate away and left the table.

I entered my room and immediately went to the mirror, lifting my chin and then inspecting it- definite double chin. I collapsed on my bed as if it were my death bed. My life sucked. I knew if I stayed here any longer, Amélie was going to fatten me up to a point where even Ethan would find me grotesque. I missed my money- the ability to buy anything I wanted. I also missed performing, and even the dancing. Alyssa and I danced in her bedroom since my return, but I knew that joining a public dance class was not an option. I blamed the Kardashians, the illustrious members of Jersey Shore, but I was just as much of a distraction, and in the dance class, I knew would bring a circus-like atmosphere. The idea was quickly nixed.

I rose from my bed and then tried on clothing that I knew would not fit- a pair of nine hundred dollar designer shorts. I had worn them when I was at my thinnest, and for some reason, I wanted to torture myself with the knowledge that I could barely get them over my thighs.

A knock at my door broke my weight-fueled depression- a voice followed. “Abigail, can we talk? Please?” It was Martin.s

I barked, “What the hell do you want?” I lay down on the bed and desperately shimmied out of the shorts.

Martin replied, “I-I need your help. It’s about Chloe.”

I grinned, and catching sight of myself in the mirror, I realized that the grin was partially maniacal, especially the way my lip curved upward and my eyes glistened. It felt so good to see him fail. I quickly pulled on a pair of loose pj pants and said, “Come in and ask away.”

Martin said sheepishly, “She goes crazy when I try to do anything for her, and then when I do what I think she wants me to do, she starts crying.”

I said, desperately trying not to sound pleased at Martin’s predicament, “Well Amélie said that she’s been going through a really independent stage. I’ve definitely noticed it too. When she says, Chloe do it- you need to let her try.”

Martin said, “OK- but some of the things she’s trying- there’s no way she can do it. Not yet at least. Like she wants to pour her milk with this heavy container. I let her do it yesterday, and she spilled it all over the floor.”

I said, “Well, pour a little bit of milk in a container. Or just some water even and have her practice.”

Martin smiled widely, “Wow, that’s really smart. I-I never would have thought of that. I’d probably have been pouring her milk until she was your age.” I giggled as the image entered my mind, and then I laughed harder as the young woman, who was supposed to be my teenaged daughter, still had her two-year old lisp.

I said with a smirk, a measure of snark returning to my voice, “Don’t sound so surprised. I’m not stupid.”

Martin shook his head, “Not at all. And you are a really excellent student. Your teachers have been impressed with you. You just need to apply yourself, focus on your work.”

I sighed, “And how do I do that exactly? Come on- Amélie may be optimistic about this- but seriously, cut the bullshit, me being at your school is really screwing things up. It’s creating these long lineups in the parking lot because there’s these people who want to take pictures of me- not even the paparazzi. Even the teachers- they don’t know what to do with me. Half of them treat me really hard and the other half are like star struck or something. Tell me the truth, Martin. Do you really think things will die down?”

Martin frowned, “No. I don’t, but I was willing to give it a few weeks to see if I was wrong. I know that you are a massive distraction at St. Jo’s, but you’ve come so far since the summer. I think you need to try and live a normal life.”

He added, “I mean if that’s what you really want. You’re really unhappy though- you miss that life, don’t you?”

I shrugged my shoulders, “Parts of it. Money, clothes- my car. Performing especially.”

Martin asked, “So what do you want to do with your life? Let’s just conveniently forget you must legally attend school.” Did my principal just say that??

I replied, “I mean I’ve gone to school already. I’ve already lived more than thirty years. So this mundane stuff, yeah maybe it’s good to keep from getting a big ego again, but I’m not sure it’s what I want. And I’m starting to think that it isn’t possible to go from being the biggest thing in the world to being nobody again. And honestly, I miss the attention- the crowds- the accolades. I want to be a musician, but I want to do it my way, write songs. Play guitar- maybe even dance a little still.”

I added, “The other thing too is that with all this homework and studying, I have like no time to write. I still want to connect with Rebellion’s Mask and overturn the Prophecy’s influence.”

Martin asked, “You’ve been with Ethan a lot though. You went to his place three times last week.”

I said, “I can’t tell Ethan who I am, so I can’t tell him about the Prophecy either or how much I want to kick its ass. When we are alone, he doesn’t want to write music. He’s just happy for a little privacy, and honestly, so am I.” I grinned and sighed happily, “We aren’t really focused on music lately.”

Martin cleared his throat, looking terribly uncomfortable. He shifted on his feet and sat down on my computer chair, while I continued to wear a grin, reminiscing about recent makeout sessions with Ethan. Martin turned away from me, but I continued to needle him, “Come on, you’re all kissy with Amélie. We aren’t doing it. Not yet at least.” I grinned as the man blanched.

Martin said awkwardly, “It’s- it’s really none of my business. Let’s get back to what would make you happy, Abigail, besides Ethan. What do you want to do?”

I said, “I want to beat the Prophecy, and I want to be a musician again. Like maybe even get the old band together.”

Martin asked, “What’s stopping you from getting the band together again?”

I frowned, “Steven. He thinks I’m some kind of monster. Like everything that is wrong with music- it’s my fault.”

Martin said, “Well, why not just get another drummer?”

I shook my head, “He and Andrew have great chemistry. It wouldn’t be the same.”

Martin replied, “Well why not tell him- and well everyone really- tell them what happened to you. How you were forced to lose weight, how you were tightly controlled, how everything that came out of your mouth was scripted. Do a video or something like that and post it on YouTube. Then maybe Rebellion’s Mask and Steven will take you seriously.”

I smiled, “That’s not a bad idea. But what about school? There’s no way I’ll have time to put anything like that together with all the homework I’ve been getting.”

Martin nodded, “I’ll cover for you next week. We’ll say you’re sick. How long would it take you to record, edit and post the video?”

I replied, “A few days at least.” I raised a brow at Martin, “Why are you being so nice to me? You aren’t going to ask me if you marry Amélie or something, are you? I mean just because you got her pregnant doesn’t mean-“

Martin interrupted me. His face was a mask of hard lines, stern and unwavering. “First of all, Abby- I don’t need your permission to marry Amélie. And even though it’s not really any of your business, I’m not planning on asking her anytime soon. Lastly, I’m being nice, as you say, because I want you to be happy. It was my idea that you go back to school, and if it’s making you miserable then that’s not right.”

I blinked, trying to hide my surprise, “Oh…I -well, um, thanks.”

***

As I began work on the video, I still couldn’t believe that I had actually taken Martin’s advice, and that he legitimately wanted to help me. In preparation for the video, I considered changing my appearance to appear more ‘rock’. The long blonde tresses neatly styled and my long bubble gum pink fingernails didn’t exactly scream rock chick, but I had grown accustomed to them. During my stint in Hollywood and throughout my tour, I also learned of the joy that is a masterful manicure. Still, the length of my nails made it nearly impossible to play anything except for Drop D power chords. There was also the fact that I still wanted to dance. I knew of no rock bands where the lead singer played guitar and also did choreographed dance moves, but maybe mine could be the first.

In the end, I decided not to change my hair style or length (both of which I loved), but I did trim my nails, so I could actually form more than just Drop D power chords. It barely registered with me, but my nails didn’t grow back completely within half an hour, or even a day. It made sense, after all, Mr. Atwater said that the Prophecy’s magic was expended. There was nothing to keeping me from chopping off my nails or taking an electric razor to my head and re-enacting Demi Moore in G.I. Jane. Still, what kept the curses active?

I finished the video on Wednesday of the next week. I tweeted that I had a huge announcement to make, and the press came in droves. I peeked outside the window to see a veritable media circus. Hours later, the video became the most watched video in YouTube’s history. It was a scathing attack on the music industry and celebrity life in general. In it, I apologized to my fans, thanking them for their support, but stating that I was nothing more than a fabrication. I told them that my music was written with only money-making in mind, and that my videos were designed to create fads- again in hopes of sucking the vast amounts of cash from the wallets of pre-teen and teen parents.

I told the world how I struggled with my weight, the story behind my fainting episode and how my record label had not only pressured me to lose weight, they had conducted psychological warfare on my mind, making me believe that I could only be successful if I was thin. In my attack on celebrity life, I told the world about the excess, and the outright waste that goes into a celebrity lifestyle. I described my mansion, and how it was usually empty, save for myself and the cleaning service. I praised celebrities like Tom Hanks and Angelina Jolie for their charity work, and their desire to be informed about causes outside the bubble that was Hollywood. I encouraged other celebrities to use their money benevolently. No one needed six cars or a closet full of clothes they would never wear, or would only wear once. I described the emptiness in my life- the fact that I felt hated by half the world, and how helping Kelly get back onto her feet brought more light, and more feeling into my life than any drive down Rodeo Drive in my million dollar car.

For my efforts, I was both praised and attacked. There were those who simply needed a voice to coax them to alter their lifestyle. They joined with me in decrying celebrity excess, many of them donating thousands of dollars of clothes, or taking on a cause. For me, it was homelessness, and the understanding that sometimes, it only takes a little generosity to give someone another chance. Meeting Kelly had opened my eyes to this.

Others attacked me as a fleeting star, whose fifteen minutes of fame had run out, and who was desperately trying to claw her way back into the spotlight. Outside the world of celebrity, my message clearly got others thinking. As I looked through the hundreds of pages of comments on the page, there were others with too much money who thought to donate to a cause, even better, there were those who actually wanted to join a cause, or at least educate themselves to better understand the world around them. That meant people getting involved in intelligent debate, a public discourse that didn’t involve which Kardashian had lost the most weight, or which one had the cutest butt.

The talk shows came calling again, and I answered their call, going on a cross country tour to promote my message. A few weeks into the tour, I received the following tweet from Rebellion’s Mask:

Rebellion’s Mask tweeted: “Sorry about before, same thing happened to us when we started out, major label wanted pop, boy band actually. Damn Edward and his good looks.”

Rebellion’s Mask tweeted: “If you are still interested in that collab tweet back.”

I tweeted back, and along with Ethan, I met Rebellion’s Mask, and we immediately started the writing process. Once I got to know the guys, I found them to be sincere and really funny. They were like every other band, and even if they were the biggest rock band in the world, they still cracked stupid jokes and pulled pranks on each other. They were fantastic musicians too. It took very little time to create a dynamic single that showcased my vocal range outside of the pop spectrum. In it, a young woman rallies against a corrupt, shadowy figure, the song allowed for some interpretation, but I knew it was about my battle against not only the record industry and celebrity, but myself as well- the ego that had created Abeille.

I returned home after the recording. Many of the music journalists were calling the collaboration one of the most significant of all time- a merging of pop and rock that could change how genres are defined. Pre-orders for Rebellion’s album reached pre-Napster/peer-to-peer file sharing levels, with many record stores actually posting signs stating that the album was no longer available for pre-order. iTunes and other online distribution sites reported that web traffic was up significantly, and that someone was checking the release page every three seconds. It was clear that the buzz surrounding the release of the single was huge. It was not surprising to me that a few days later, I ‘woke up’ in the penthouse of the Sidereus Agency.

Sandra had her back to me as she spoke. She was looking at a massive television screen with statistics and percentages. It was too far away for me to see, but I could see that one of the categories was estimated record sales, another said estimated YouTube views. My eyes bugged out of my skull when I saw ‘one-billion’ next to the YouTube statistics.

She said flatly, “I know what you are doing, Abigail. You follow the words of a madman and a severe alcoholic, but I suppose I can’t fault you, and I know when I have been beaten.”

She turned around and placed her hands on the wooden desk, using it to prop herself up. While her clothing was immaculate, a thin pants suit that displayed her lithe figure, her face and posture was a myriad of contradictions. Her eyes hung in the sockets, and her lips sagged, giving her a haggard look. She was wizened, a crumbling shell of a human being dressed in expensive clothing.

She sighed heavily, “I’ll remove the curses, if you agree to stop the single from being released. There is just enough magic left to undo the curses on those you care about, and those who were caught within the crossfire of your disobedience.”

I smirked triumphantly, “Where’s my parade? Where’s all the fawning admirers? Oh. And where’s my crown? Last time I was here, you were certainly happier to see me.”

I asked, “What about Mr. Atwater? Will you allow him his final rest?”

Sandra nodded, “Yes, if you agree not to release the single, and to never again consort with that rock group, on top of removing the curses, I’ll allow Philip to rest. I’ve been grooming his replacement.”

I smiled, approaching the woman slowly, “Let me guess, Lauren? Does she know what she’s getting into? The fact that she is basically selling her soul to the Prophecy?”

A tiny smile brought malevolent light back into Sandra’s face, “So smart, my angel. Are you happy to know then that you are the only one to come this close to defeating the Prophecy’s influence? I blame YouTube and social media in general. It is far too easy to reach the masses now.”

Pride swelled within, my head tingling in pleasure, knowing that I had Sandra by her non-existent testes. Out of the corner of my eye, I thought I saw an apparition, a ghostly blonde figure clad in designer clothes. I heard a distinct clacking noise, the sound of heels on hardwood.

Sandra said, “Perhaps I am not giving you the proper credit. You have done what no one else could. You’ve unravelled everything within my web, and you’ve even maintained fractions of your original personality. You are lion-hearted, my angel. You could have the world at your feet, and yet you choose to take it on your shoulders.”

Sandra’s steady stream of praise slowly re-inflated my ego. A wide grin appeared on my face as Sandra continued to spoon feed me acclaim. “And you’ve even managed to settle your issues with your principal. You’re growing up, my angel. I see that. I have little doubt you will succeed in anything you do.”

She smiled knowingly, “You’ve bested me, and I am as old as humanity. I knew the moment that you were chosen that you would reach this point.”

I raised a quizzical brow, but the massive grin never left my face. “Really?” Sandra’s speech was akin to an opposing (and hated) hockey team explaining in minute detail how they were thrashed 9-1, and I loved every second of it. My pride swam within her words, gaining strength until it became hubris. Again, I heard the clacking of heels on hardwood.

Sandra maintained her smile, “Such a perfect body too. Why do you waste your time with that pasty-faced scrub? With such a body, you could have any boy you want.”

A full-length mirror appeared in front of me, and I looked on in shock as my clothes melted away, replaced with the same red bikini that had no doubt been an object of primary interest in the bedrooms of many teenage boys. Instead of my little love handles and chunky thighs, perfection stared back at me. I was svelte and practically glowing, even the little pimples that were usually concealed were gone.

I peered at myself with a smile as a second apparition materialized next to me. Clack. Clack Clack. My head and then entire body tingled in joyous pins and needles. I looked at Sandra in shock, “What did- what did you do?”

My hand slid down to my slim hip, and I felt Sandra’s hand on my shoulder. She whispered, “Simply giving you what you deserve. This can be yours again, Abigail. Everything can be yours. You miss being able to shop with abandon, don’t you? The knowledge that you can have anything you want. There is no need to imagine that my angel, because you had that power. Men and women twice your age grovelled under your heeled boot, begging for a scrap, a morsel of your fame, a second of your time.”

She hissed in my ear, “You can have it all again.”

I shook my head, pushing away the visions of fancy clothes and exclusive parties- and absolute power. Sandra said as she gently pet my head, her tongue flicking in and out of her mouth, “I know your competitive desire- even if you release the song- you will never again reach the heights of stardom. Pop music is the pinnacle, if you return to your roots, you will forever find yourself on the periphery. You’ll be playing dingy, disgusting dives while your betters, those like Kharma, they will own the world.”

I narrowed my eyes, the spell on me seemingly broken. “Then why are you so frightened of the influence? If I’m not going to supplant my former popularity with the collaboration, why are you so worried? What do you have to fear?”

Sandra spoke, her voice soothing, like a soft ocean breeze, “My angel, you take the weight of the world on your shoulders. You are only just sixteen. Don’t you miss being within your cocoon, a place where only pleasure exists?”

One of the ghostly figures took my hand and removed a very real looking nail file from nowhere. She started giving me an expert manicure, while the other rubbed my shoulders. A table appeared, likely from the same space as the nail file, and I was gently lowered down. I sighed softly, feeling less stressed, but more importantly less worried.

Sandra continued, “All of the pain you feel, the frustration at your treatment at the hands of so-called music experts, all your malaise- it can be gone forever. Simply accept this lifestyle, a lifestyle I know that you crave. It’s so easy. Just give in.”

I heard the clacking of heels again. I peered at myself in the mirror again, marvelling at how incredible I looked. I could have sworn that as I did, the pale translucent arms of my masseuse gained both colour and depth.

Clack. Clack. Clack.

Sandra produced what I assumed was a contract. She placed it on the massage table next to my head and slid a pen into my hand. “Sign this, Abigail- and everything you lost is yours again.”

I lifted my head feebly, “And the curses? You’ll fix that too, right?” I frowned at the girl who was doing my nails. I said sternly, easily falling back into my diva role, “This colour doesn’t suit my skin tone. I think you’ll have to remove it.” The girl obliged, apologizing pitifully, her body prostrate and her head lowered in submission. The two girls looked human now, and a third joined them. The third girl materialized in a solid form, despite being a waif-like blonde. She encouraged me to sign the document.

Sandra smiled, and while a part of me felt that it was a motherly expression, there was another part that wondered if she would detach her jaw and swallow me whole. “Of course. Now sign, your girls are waiting for you, Abigail.”

Clack. Clack. Clack.

I lifted my head again, taking the pen firmly in my hand. As I did, I noticed something dangling from my neck. It was the sweet sixteen present from Ethan- the duelling guitar necklace with its thin, cheap silver chain. It glowed a soft blue. The thin blonde ripped it from my neck, but it immediately re-materialized. I stared at the dangling jewellery in shock. Memories of my first encounter with Mr. Atwater and my ability to control my shape flooded my mind. Apparently, I could also cause objects to appear out of thin air.

I had not been thinking of Ethan during my conversation with Sandra, nor during my apparent surrender. How had I changed my mind so quickly? Was I really what everyone expected me to be, an absolute spoiled brat who suckled from the teat of celebrity, enamoured with herself and no one else? Sandra’s voice, while firm was saccharine, she had dripped her words sweetly into my ear, and had seemingly found a willing listener because before the necklace dangled into my now more modest cleavage, I was ready to sign her contract. Still, with the appearance of Ethan’s gift, it was clear my subconscious thought that a different fate awaited me.

Sandra, noticing my apparent distress, snapped her fingers and a fourth girl, also solidly human brought a familiar necklace. It was the masterpiece, the diamond necklace that could likely have bought a small country. Sandra took the piece of jewellery into her hands and raised it over my head. She said, “Remove that tacky love trinket. This- this piece. I never told you of the history behind it. It was originally crafted for the Queen of France herself, Marie Antoinette. Her husband, Louis the Sixteenth gifted this to her, and I can think of no one more deserving of such a famous piece. Place it around your neck, Abigail.”

Something bubbled within my brain, a brain mired in pop culture fluff, my self-importance and a love for a boy- a tidbit of knowledge burst to the surface. I blinked, letting the tiny piece of information from a second-year university history class reach my lips, “He wanted to give a gift to his mistress, Madame du Barry. And it was actually the previous king who had it made. Marie-Antoinette didn’t want the necklace because it had been made for another woman.” Sandra’s seemingly insignificant gaffe caused me to question her intentions, and her honesty.

I frowned deeply, “W-What were you trying to do to me?” I threw out my arms and pushed my masseuse and my manicurist away. My hand passed through them, but they vanished from sight within an instant.

Sandra’s smiled, but it was weakened. “Only giving to you what you deserve. A life without care, regret, or fear. You would be sheltered from all such emotion.”

I shook my head, “What about love? If I lived the life you have prescribed for me, would I ever find someone to treat me as Ethan does? That wouldn’t simply use me for publicity?” I knew that celebrity relationships were volatile to say the least. Ask Britney Spears and her one-day marriage.

The clothing on Sandra’s already meagre frame was loose. With my sudden awareness, I could see Sandra for what she was again- a husk. The woman’s skull looked to be caving in as she spoke, “You won’t care because you’ll have everything you think you need. If you don’t find love, you’ll fill it with something else- buy another car, another house, lounge on a private beach in the Mediterranean. Buy enough shoes to fill your old home.”

I stared at Sandra brazenly, “Or with pills, alcohol. Food. You’d love that, wouldn’t you?”

Sandra shook her head, “Absolutely not. I want the best for you, my angel.”

“Wait if the Prophecy’s magic is depleted, how can it remove the curses and return my body to the way it was? Mr. Atwater said that it takes years to restore the magic, and that once the Prophecy is fulfilled the magic is expended, that’s it. It’s all gone. It’s why I can change my nails now. It’s why Mr. Atwater is trapped on Earth, You can only take human form when the associate fails- well the Prophecy is fulfilled, so you’re turning to dust. There’s nothing to keep you together anymore.”

I asked, already knowing the answer, “You can’t reverse the curses, can you?”

Sandra laughed, a bone-chilling cackle that turned into a muffled whimper as I heard a gentle clinking noise. The woman’s teeth were hitting the hardwood floor. Despite the absence of teeth, the laugh was still powerful, ethereal- it seemed to fill the massive chamber, and even resonate within my skull. “NO. NO, I CANNOT.”

I screamed at the woman, whose expensive pants suit was actually slipping off her increasingly bony arms and legs. The pants pooled at her ankles. “Then what was the purpose of this!? You were just playing with me! Why even bring me here?”

The mass of bones that was Sandra replied, “TO REASON WITH YOU AND TO OFFER YOU WARNING. KNOW THAT I AM NOT DEFEATED BY YOUR ACTIONS, I WILL SIMPLY REST FOR SEVENTEEN YEARS. YOU WILL SUFFER BY YOUR ACTIONS. MY NEW ASSOCIATE WILL ENSURE THIS.”

I shouted, “You can’t do anything unless I try and stop the Prophecy from being fulfilled!”

Sandra’s hair had fallen out, and her eyes turned to dust. I blanched as I watched her organs blacken, wither and tumble from her body, looking like desiccated wasps nests. The eyeless thing stared at me, a hollow gaze that sent my heart into my throat. The creature’s jaw moved, but it possessed no vocal cords to form speech, yet I still heard a voice. “I KNOW YOU, ABIGAIL. WHEN THE TIME IS RIGHT, YOU WILL INTERFERE.”

I shook my head in frustration, “If you know me so well, then why- why did you bring me here? If you knew I was going to release the song anyway, and if you know I’m going to interfere and try and stop the Prophecy from being fulfilled. I don’t get it!”

I heard the ding of the elevator. I turned around, and I could see that the elevator was rising. The elevator shifted and jostled as it rose. Were they bringing up an elephant? It was only when I saw the PH light up and the elevator door open that I realized why I had been brought here.

Out of the elevator stepped three obese clowns, each one easily over three-hundred pounds. Their makeup was garish even for clowns, looking more like tribal hunters than a circus or children’s party clown. The bold red lines around their mouths created wide, devious grins. Each one had a single tear painted underneath his chubby cheek, and while their roly-poly bellies would usually have encouraged some children to hug their frames, I would have rather gone to bed with barbed wire. Each one carried a polka-dotted sack attached to a stick, regular fare for tramps or hobos in depression-era cartoons. They sported thick, food-laden beards that stood out against the ghostly white makeup that covered their entire face. Their clothing was ill-fitting, a melange of ragged, patch work blazers and suit pants that highlighted severe muffin tops.

I stood transfixed in primal fear. I was terrified of clowns, especially hobo clowns. Their presence had me so petrified that I barely noticed the skeletal hand that gripped me. The thing that had been Sandra held me fast, and as I tried to pull away, I realized that I might as well have been trying release myself from a pair of handcuffs- the creature’s grip was supernaturally strong.

The clowns, despite their hideous and terrifying appearance were jovial. They spoke to each other in a sing-song voice, “This one, she’s much too skinny. Fatten her up, then we’ll eat her. Bones- bones, she’s skin and bones!”

The monstrous clowns set their sacks down on the floor. Their grubby white fingers pried open the knots, and they began removing an assortment of fast food- burgers, fried chicken, pizza, two-litre bottles of pop. I watched in horrified wonder as the clowns meticulously placed the food items on the floor as if preparing for a picnic.

Why couldn’t I wake up? Please, let something wake me up. I knew that I couldn’t leave. Mr. Atwater or Sandra had ‘escorted’ me from the Sidereus Agency during previous visits. I imagined myself in bed, safe and fourteen gazillion miles away from the clowns, but nothing happened. Another idea struck as one of the clowns approached me with an armful of McDonald’s Happy Meals. Normally, they were the low calorie option, but not when one consumes a dozen or so!

I let loose a scream that rattled the display cases in the room, and I continued screaming- hoping desperately that my action would be reflected in the real world. I knew that Martin or Amélie would come running if they could hear me, and they would undoubtedly wake me up. Unfortunately, having my mouth open so wide allowed the clown to stuff an entire burger down my throat. I coughed and spit some of it out, but I was forced to chew most of it and swallow to avoid choking.

I shouted, “You think I’m going to eat that!? You’re going to have to pry my mouth open, you- you bastards! And you can’t keep me here forever- I’m going to wake up soon!” I kicked my leg out and struck the shin of the clown that fed me. He grabbed his shin and began to hop on one foot comically.

As the injured clown nursed his boo-boo as if he were performing for a roomful of children, the other two clowns approached. One of them, suddenly dressed as a doctor, removed a needle from his lab coat. He giggled, pretending to be a doctor but still speaking in a sing-song voice, “We’ve got a case of a picky eater, stick her in the jaw and then we’ll feed her!” The Sidereus Agency knew my darkest fears, and the three-foot long needle fit in nicely with my worst nightmares.

I tried to move my body, to drag Sandra’s skeleton away from the clown, but the clown who wasn’t approaching me with the enormous needle moved behind me and placed me in a headlock. The hair on his beefy arms tickled my nose, but that was godsend compared to the stench emanating from the creature’s arm pit. Like a mixture of rotting fish, mouldy cheese, and a gymnasium full of sweaty 7th graders who had yet to learn the necessity of deodorant. I shut my mouth, but the terrible stink still wafted into my nostrils.

I closed my eyes, my faculties unable to handle my worst fears. This was a nightmare and nothing more, but as the giant needle slowly punctured my jaw, my eyes flew open- I knew that for as long I was here- it was very real.

I tried to scream, but my jaw gradually lost all feeling. It sagged downward, leaving my mouth permanently open. The clown that I had kicked approached me and tapped my jaw, giggling as it swung back and forth. He said, “Now you’re opened up wide, ready for us to pack delicious treats inside!” With my jaw literally hanging in the wind, the clowns could stuff anything they wanted into my mouth, but how would I chew it? I didn’t have time to ponder the question as one of the clowns immediately started shoveling hamburger and fries into my mouth. Another quick needle from the ‘doctor’ and my gag reflex was completely gone. Still, the food sat in my mouth without being chewed, and as it started to slide down my windpipe, I started having trouble breathing.

A cartoon light bulb appeared above the head of the doctor clown. He grinned widely and removed a meat tenderizer from his medical bag. He put a hand on my jaw and stretched it, again making me believe this was some nightmarish cartoon. My mouth was now open a good twelve inches. He proceeded to pound the meat and fries in my mouth into a fine paste, which allowed me to swallow it more easily. I couldn’t feel a thing because of the needles, but I had a feeling that the inside of my mouth would be very bruised if any of this carried over into the real world.

The doctor clown said sadly, “Trouble, trouble we can’t make her a pop-o-matic-bubble! We’ll run out of time, and we’ll have no fun!”

The clown who had fed me the burgers and fries shook his head, “Watch my handkerchief pocket- my brain moves like sprightly sprocket! What a catch, feed- feed her like a baby that hatched!”

The clown removed his handkerchief, but attached to it, much to my chagrin, was a feeding tube. The doctor clown nodded his head and then stuffed all manner of junk food into his mouth. The other clown fed the tube into my mouth and down my throat. The doctor clown chewed the food to the point where he could actually slosh it around in his mouth, then he took the other end of the tube and started to regurgitate the food into the tube. I watched in horror as the remains of the food, now a greyish-yellow paste, moved along the tube toward my waiting mouth. Within seconds, I could feel it travelling down my throat, until it rested in my stomach.

The doctor clown repeated his disgusting behaviour, and the other clown actually removed another feeding tube from his pocket, and mimicked the actions of his friend. Now, I was receiving a double dose of fattening paste. I was screaming in my head now, for the heavens to hear- for anyone. I wouldn’t even care if Martin was the one who found me. I would hug him until he asked me to stop.

As this was a nightmarish world, the laws of physics and human anatomy did not apply. For this reason, I was not surprised that the fattening paste had a near immediate effect on my trim and toned physique. The doctor clown placed the full-length mirror in front of me, stating with a horrible grin, “It’s no fun if you don’t see how fat you become!” Like rubberneckers at the scene of a car accident, I couldn’t look away. My belly slowly began to creep over the thong, losing all firmness as it sagged downward. My boobs suffered a similar fate as they tested the limitations of the red bikini top. Love handles spilled over the side of the thong, gaining enough heft that the doctor clown was able to squeeze a hand-sized portion.

The clowns worked diligently filling their mouths and then filling their respective tubes. Soon enough, staring back at me was the image of the fat girl that Sandra tortured me with when I cheated on my diet. She looked terrified- and utterly helpless against the onslaught. The clowns didn’t stop there. They sung, “Skin and bones still! Skin and bones, you haven’t had your fill!” Incredibly, despite the massive amount of fluid being pumped into my body, I never felt full.

The doctor clown peeked behind me, “Alas, poor thong, what a sorry state to be eaten by the junk in your trunk!”

The clowns placed more mirrors around me, giving me a 360 degree view of my body. Now I could see every inch of my body, and the clown was right, the thong bikini bottom had been gobbled up by my now globular, cellulite-ridden ass. My boobs hung down onto my burgeoning belly, which now sagged over the front of the bikini bottom, nearly concealing the garment entirely. Within two feedings, my belly enveloped the garment. After two more, the straps of my bikini could no longer contain my boobs, which had become giant milk jugs. I couldn’t even fathom their size, but as they gained more mass, they lost their shapeliness, oozing down onto my belly like sacks full of fat. All of the youthful perkiness was gone from them.

I regarded my face. My jaw still hung open cartoonishly, and my chin, now had a brother and a sister. Underneath my lips, my original chin jutted forward, creating a cleft of fat. My pendulous belly soon hung between my legs, rolling over twice and then three times, creating several distinct ‘shelves’. As I peered at myself in the mirrors, and tears tumbled down my fattened cheeks, I knew that soon enough, I would grow too large to move.

The clown that held me in a headlock released his grip on me. He turned his attention to my arms, which had not escaped the effects of the fattening paste. He said, “Ain’t nothing but a chicken wing, flap, flap, miss thing!” My arms had become so cocooned in fat that the clown could actually swing the flesh back and forth. He delighted in squeezing and kneading the flesh, while I looked on in horror.

Eventually, I grew so fat, that I began to lose human characteristics like discernible arms, legs, and feet. Fat pooled over my limbs, concealing them within rolls and rolls of adipose. I tried to lift myself up, but my great bulk limited to me moving only my fingers and toes. The clowns stopped their feeding and gathered round me, grinning maniacally. One of them sung, “Perfect all round boys, and in our bellies while she can’t make a sound!”

The doctor clown said, “We aren’t animals, just cannibals! We can’t eat her raw, we’ll saw her bits, cook her up, so eating her won’t give us the-“

The clown who had previously put me in a headlock interrupted the doctor, “Fine, fine, get your saw and stop with the whine.”

The doctor clown produced a bone saw from his medical bag and approached me with it. Again, I attempted to move, but it was futile. I was officially immobile. The clown pressed the saw down onto my leg, just as I heard a cracking, and then a discernible snap. Under my bulk, I could still feel Sandra’s skeleton. It had released my arms, but as I grew, the being became lodged under my weight. Now that I was freakishly obese, it was clear that I was crushing Sandra’s remains.

The two other clowns pulled a massive stone barbecue pit out of nothing and quickly set to work starting a fire. They poured multiple cans of gasoline over the kindling and then lit a match, igniting the pit into a roaring inferno. I screamed internally as the bone saw started to cut into my leg. It severed my tendons as blood poured from the open wound in my massive leg.

The last thing I remember before passing out was the chilling laughter of the skeleton trapped underneath me.

***

“Abigail! Abigail! Are you alright!?” I heard Martin’s voice, and I felt my body being shaken. My eyes jolted open, and I could see that I was back in my room. I jumped into Martin’s arms, and he embraced me tightly as I shivered.

I sobbed on his shoulder, “I-I couldn’t save anyone! I-I’ve ruined everyone’s life! The curses- it’s all my fault! Amélie, she’ll be stuck- everyone, and Britney she might-!”

Martin said softly, “Shh. Shh. It’s OK, Abigail.”

I shook my head vehemently, “No- no it’s not! You don’t understand. It’s my fault that Alyssa’s going to have nightmares for the rest of her life. Because I stood against the Prophecy, Amélie will never be able to work again, the social worker- I mean I don’t like her, but she could go to jail. My parents. My parents too- they’ll be broke forever. And Britney, she’s in a coma- she might never wake up.”

I glanced at myself in the mirror multiple times to ensure that I was no longer a clown-fattened cow. Thankfully, I was back to my real weight, even though, as I peered in the mirror, I thought for certain I was larger. The image of the fat girl left, but I feared the torture I suffered both at Sandra’s hand and at the hands of the maniacal clowns had scarred me irrevocably.

I cried, “It wasn’t supposed to be like this! I had her- I had her! I don’t even want to release that stupid song anymore!”

Martin rubbed my back as my body was wracked with sobs. He said gently but firmly, “Don’t you think that’s exactly what Sandra wants? If you don’t release the song then you really reduce your chances of defeating the Prophecy’s influence. All the people who have been hurt by the Prophecy will suffer in vain.”

I frowned, “Well, I-I don’t really know. What if releasing the song like makes the curses worse somehow?”

Martin said simply, “It may be a risk, but you won’t know unless you try.”

I shrugged, “What do you think I should do?”

Martin replied, “You either need to fix the world or find your place in the one you’ve created, Abigail.”