Break It Up Part 24

But my aim isn't to succeed in s...o...b..z or further my career. I don't even have a career yet. My aim was to make a point, and we all agree that talking too much is far worse than not talking at all. I've said my piece, and now it's time for society to chew it over and figure out what they think. Meanwhile, I'm stepping out of the spotlight and walking away.

It's clear I'll have to do a lot of walking before the spotlight stops following me, though. I get fan mail from girls who say that I changed their lives. I get death threats. I get my face splashed all over the tabloids and the glossy magazines. I have no trouble seeing how people get lost in all the popping flashbulbs and outcry from fans.

I have the best support system a girl could ask for, and I let them take over. Jason helps me answer my fan mail and advises me on how often to be seen out in public. We discuss whether I should move to California early to take the media spotlight away from Jen and the babies. While I want to spare them, I don't want to be so far from my parents just now, and they indulge me. They are letting me be the clingy little girl for a few weeks longer before I leave for college. It helps that Jen's been the twin sister of one of the most famous people on the planet for eons. None of this seems to faze her.

The paparazzi follow me way more than makes sense. The tabloids fill up with pictures of me getting in and out of Libby, pus.h.i.+ng a grocery cart around, talking on my cell phone, and getting the mail. Even I look at the pictures and think that I must be really boring. I know what the game is, though. It's to put pressure on until I crack and do something stupid.

It turns out I have people willing to fight back on my behalf, too. Feminist columnists take up my cause. Schoolgirls across the country make themselves "Team Kyra" t-s.h.i.+rts and wear them with pride. Violet Eyes and Shutdown shout their support of me from their concert stages and are answered by the screaming enthusiasm of fans.

Notes from girls pile up around our mailbox, left in the night by fans who want me to know that I made a difference to them.

When I get home from the store about a week before I'm due to head out to school, I find may parents waiting for me at the dinner table.

"Sit down," says Jen. She doesn't seem angry, but she isn't happy either. Her expression is pensive. My father's posture indicates that he is following her lead.

I sit down at the table and brace myself. "Yeah?"

"We got a phone call today from Lizzie Warner."

"Huh?" I say. Lizzie Warner is a blond and perky actress in silly teeny bopper television. I can't imagine what she'd want with me.

"She's about to start shooting on a television series in Orange County...and she's looking for a roommate."

"Okay," I respond.

"You interested?" asks Jen.

"Is she serious?"

"She doesn't want another actress, but she needs someone who knows how to handle fame by a.s.sociation. The last girl lined up as her roommate got caught accepting interview requests."

I nod. My life has come full circle since the beginning of the summer when I got invited to dinner with Triple Cross. I'm still an insider. Someone who knows how celebrity works and won't take liberties. Even this ma.s.sive media blow up hasn't changed that apparently. "She's sure she wants to take me on?" I ask. "If she wants to avoid the press..."

"Kyra," says Jen. "People like you. A lot. You're going to have to get used to it."

"She doesn't even know me," I say.

At that Jen frowns, shrugs, and says, "You can be very, very famous and still not have any real friends to turn to. Even celebrities get celebrity crushes, watching someone kill it in an interview, for example."

So that's how I ended up renting a penthouse apartment with Lizzie Warner, because my life is completely weird sometimes. Lizzie's shows aren't the kind of thing I've watched since I was seven. Given my reputation in high school, I know my old friends would laugh their heads off if they knew I was her roommate.

Only most of them ratted me out to the media, so they aren't my friends anymore. I guess that makes Lizzie my new normal, not a deviation. Maybe I can get used to hanging around girls with rose petal complexions and dainty giggles.

That following week, I go with my parents to Target and Walmart to buy furnis.h.i.+ngs for my new place. Thanks to the ever-present paparazzi cameras, all of America knows what pattern of sheets I'll be sleeping on and what color plastic cups I'll drink out of. Bloggers even post opinions about whether or not the whole shopping trip was a ruse because, obviously, famous people like Lizzie Warner get pre-furnished penthouses, right?

Oh yeah, one other thing-the whole world knows where Lizzie Warner's going to be living, complete with pictures of the exterior, thanks to me and my notoriety. And yet I've not heard a peep from Lizzie's people. She hasn't called the arrangement off. She's even called my cell phone a few times so we could "chat," and she's nice enough, I guess. I find I can get along with just about anyone these days, even the reporters who flip me off and hope that I'll get mad and go after them. I mimed picking my nose once in response, and that got splashed on three tabloid front pages, so now I just smile and act like the attention doesn't bother me.

I keep thinking it'll have to end soon. Aidan and company are still going to release that concert movie, and my notoriety is still helping them. The last video they posted with me on it got so many comments it crashed the page. I had haters and white knights (people who defend others online) get into a ma.s.sive flame war. Ben Roland even commented, but I don't know what he said. I purposely didn't find out once I got word he'd posted. I'm pretty good at shutting my eyes and ears these days.

People a.s.sume that I left Kimberly Gregg's interview victorious, gained a lot of allies, and am now basking in my own glory. The truth is a lot lonelier. I hope that what I said made a difference to others. To be honest, it made very little difference to me.

Zach has been so silent that people have started rumors online that he's dead. It's as if he dropped off the face of the earth, and I realize I may never know what becomes of him. I've got no way to reach him, and we might never cross paths again. He could hole up until his fame disappears and then get on with his life as just another guy. Even the biggest stars fade if they let themselves.

That hurts-to think that our last fight is the last memory I'll ever have of him. I still miss him. Some nights I dream that he lies next to me and I can almost feel his weight on my bed, his arms around me.

I wonder if he saw any of this crazy publicity fallout and whether he hates me for what I did. n.o.body else can blame me for the breakup of Triple Cross, but Zach could if he wanted to. He could yell at me and call me names. I owe it to him to let him feel however he wants.

The thought of him brings a pang to my chest like flesh ripping. I don't know if it's love, but it sure is intense. I still cry over him sometimes when only Boots can see. Things would have been so much better for me if I'd never met the guy I'd l.u.s.ted for all through my teenage years.

I'm not sure if I decide to get a tattoo as an act of rebellion or grief or what, but it seems only fitting that a girl with a past like mine should have a tattoo. I don't tell anyone-not Jen, not my father, not even Boots. I just take a few hundred dollars of textbook and food money out of my bank account and walk into a tattoo parlor, where my notoriety works to my benefit. The artist, a woman, knows me on sight. She sits me down and asks me what part of myself I want to keep with me always. An odd question. It takes me a long time to think about it.

"My heritage," I say, finally.

"Which is?"

"A little bit Spanish, Hispanic, whatever, and a little bit Anglo. All New Mexican."

"How about a desert rose?" she suggests.

"Um, sure."

"It's just that when the environment got really hostile, you bloomed. It fits."

It's flattering at least.

She sketches out a drawing of a silver medallion and feathers and desert roses and I agree that it's what I want. We ink it on the inside of my bicep, where I can see it with a simple glance down, but it'll be easy to hide from the world. The needle hurts something awful, a deep scratch that goes on and on and on as she inks in every little line and dot. Once she's finished, she refuses payment. "Just stay true to yourself," she says, and she then escorts me out the door before I can protest. "Treat it with Neosporin and keep it covered for a week with a bandage."

Like a typical teenager, I hide the body art from my parents, and a week later, it's time to move to California and be an adult, which is a tall order after I botched up so much of my childhood, but I figure that if I can't do it, I can at least fake it. My father and I load up Libby and drive to Orange County. My car and my roommate have similar names. I hope Lizzie doesn't mind.

She greets me with a squeal and a hug that are pretty much what I'd expect from what I've seen of her on her shows. She turns out to be sweet as sugar and doesn't care about the paparazzi tailing me around. In fact, I think she enjoys pictures of us together in the gossip rags. Kyra Armijo, the reformed s.l.u.t, now hangs out with Lizzie Warner, and it's not an act.

I do appreciate Lizzie's sense of humor about all of this. It's pretty similar to my own.

ABOUT TWO weeks into my studies, I arrive back home after a day's cla.s.ses, and there, seated in front of the door to my apartment, is Zach.

I freeze at the sight of him, and he gets to his feet, his hands shoved into his pockets. He doesn't look me in the eye, but rather down at his shoes. He wears the same uber-clean jeans and t-s.h.i.+rt as always.

My heart pounds hard enough that I'm sure he can hear it. How could he not? The blood rus.h.i.+ng in my ears is almost a roar. "Zach?" I say. It comes out as a strangled whisper.

"Hi." He still doesn't look at me.

It occurs to me: What if Zach's here to visit Lizzie? I think I'd die right on the spot. "You here to see me?" I ask.

He nods.

Okay. I decide to a.s.sume that he's here to yell, which is fine. Anything is better than the agony of not knowing where he is or what he thinks. I pull my keys out of my purse with a jangle. "You want to come in?"

He chews his lip and lifts his gaze to meet mine. I don't know how to read him. He seems as nervous as I am, but that tells me very little. "Yeah," he whispers. "Okay."

I unlock the door with shaking hands and let him enter first. My new home, despite being a two-bedroom penthouse, isn't all that huge. It's just got great views and is in a building with tight security. The front door opens into a living room, and I invite Zach to take a seat on the couch, which he does.

I sit down in the chair and clasp my hands between my knees. I resolve to be ready for anything. Anything at all.

Zach is silent. He stares down at his feet.

Okay, I think. He wants me to talk first. That's not a lot to ask. "Listen," I say. "I'm sorry about-"

"I know."

"Really. I am."

He nods, glances at me, and looks away. "Yeah. I know."

"How are you?" I ask.

"Um...yeah... I'm... I don't know."

It's not much of an answer, but I'll sit here all afternoon just to breathe the same air he does if he'll let me.

He fidgets before forcing his fingers to unclench. Those steel blue eyes lock with mine again. The intensity is still there. My insides quake under the force of that gaze, but his posture is despondent.

"I a.s.sume you want to yell at me," I say.

"No."

"Not even a little?"

He shakes his head. "No."

"Then what?"

He chews his lip and looks, for all the world, just as lost as he did the night we chased down his contract with Aidan. His confidence is gone and he's just scared and alone. "Was it real for you? What we had?"

"The friends.h.i.+p or..."

"Or...yeah."

I summon every sc.r.a.p of courage I've got. "The 'or' part was real. The friends.h.i.+p was a total lie. I've fantasized about you my whole life."

He winces at that. "Your fantasies are no doubt way better than the reality."

"Don't say that about yourself."

"Compared to you, I might as well be a virgin. There's nothing I've got that you haven't seen or done or..." He winces again at his own words. "Not that I mean to call you...anyway."

"I've never felt like anyone liked me for me. Even though I know I kept some big facts from you, you still knew me better than a lot of people."

"You were my best friend."

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to blow it."

He doesn't answer that for a long minute. He stares at his hands as the seconds tick by. Then he shuts his eyes. "I lied too. Every time I called you my best friend. I just wanted to kiss you. I mean, come on, I gave you a ma.s.sage that one night. How obvious was that?"

So I wasn't the only one tortured by that whole experience. I feel my cheeks grow warm. I'm guessing someone with more normal dating experience would have picked up on that clue. "Why me?" I ask.

He folds his arms across his chest as if I've jabbed him with my finger. "Because...I don't know. You're the one person I could always talk to and you always had my back. You never used me, and you always listened."

"Lot's of girls can do that."

"Yeah...not really."

"And you saw how bad it all got. You don't want more of that."

"I saw how bad it got, and I saw you..." He looks me in the eye. "I don't even know a word for it. Triumph doesn't even cover it."

I shake my head. "A lot of people still hate me."

"But you don't hate you."

"No." I let myself relax and slouch against the arm of my chair.

"I'm sorry I haven't called or texted or anything," he says, and he does sound sincerely apologetic. "My whole world kind of exploded and..."

"I know."

"Clearly you can take care of yourself but I should've...done...I don't know. Something."

"You didn't throw fuel on the fire."

"I chickened out."

I shake my head again. "Nah."

"Kyra, are you dating anyone? It looks like it wouldn't be possible with all the coverage you get, but..."

"I'm not."

"I miss you."

Much as I want to believe this, I need to keep a clear head. "You sure this isn't guilt? It's not because you've got thousands of girls with racy pasts hounding you to prove you could love someone like them?"

"There has been a lot of that, yeah. You have no idea. But no. That's not why. And I understand if you hate me after what my mom and Aiden and Ben did to you. You can throw me out right now and I'll understand. But..." He shrugs. "I had to try. This is me being brave. Probably not all that impressive to someone like you."

I press my fingertips to my forehead. My emotions are a churning mess, but I force myself to be logical. Fair. Zach's only seen my media storm from the outside, and it isn't something I'd wish on my worst enemy. "I've missed you so much. But I really doubt we could just pick up where we left off. Maybe it's better if we both move on."

"Does that mean you have? You're over me?"

I look away. "Not yet." Not for a good long time. My heart's still thoroughly bruised.