My Double Life (7 page)

Ms. Pomeroy walked to a desk and picked up a briefcase. “I’m sure a meeting can be arranged—after you’ve done a few events for Kari. Let’s get started on the paperwork, shall we? You’ll be listed as an assistant. No need to tell anyone more about your duties.” She pulled out a paper and handed it to me. “Here’s a nondisclosure form. This means you can’t talk to the tabloids about Kari at all. No interviews, no pictures, no leaks, no book deals, or anything along those lines. We’re clear about that?”

“Absolutely,” I said. In fact, I wanted the press to find out about this less than Kari and Ms. Pomeroy put together.

For the next few minutes, I sat at the desk and filled out every piece of paper Ms. Pomeroy handed me.

She watched my pen moving across the paper. “You’ll need to learn how to write Kari’s signature to sign autographs,” she said. “Beyond that, don’t write anything for anyone while you’re pretending to be her. Your handwriting is nothing like hers.”

I nodded. “When am I leaving for California? Tomorrow? Tonight?”

She laughed at my eagerness. “We can give you time to pack, tie up loose ends, withdraw from school—”

I slid the last piece of paper back to her. “Don’t. If you give me time I’ll probably change my mind.”

For a moment her gaze zeroed in on me, calculating, then she picked up the papers and straightened them into a pile. “Your mother still doesn’t approve? You did tell her you were going, didn’t you?”

“She knows I’m going. She just doesn’t think I should.”

Ms. Pomeroy slipped the papers back into her briefcase. “And what does your father think?”

That was the question, wasn’t it? Yesterday, an hour ago, I would have shrugged, like I’d done a thousand times, and told her my mother was single. I couldn’t bring those words to my lips now.

“My father doesn’t live with us.” My voice sounded tense, wrong somehow. And I could see her making note of that, like she made note of everything.

She nodded, closed her briefcase, and stood up. Before she walked away, I asked, “Do you know Alex Kingsley?”

“I used to work for him before I became Kari’s manager.”

“What’s he like?”

Ms. Pomeroy glanced over at Kari to see if she was listening. She wasn’t. She’d moved on to a
Glamour
magazine.

“I think very highly of him.” The tone of her voice hinted at more than professional admiration. “When Kari’s next album comes out, I’ll probably go back to working for him.” She smiled not so much at me, but at the thought of him. “I won’t have any trouble arranging a meeting for you.”

I should have been glad that she had such easy access to him, but instead my skin prickled. It was stupid to feel jealous on my mom’s behalf just because she’d kept Alex Kingsley’s posters. And still listened to his CDs. Sometimes incessantly. Until I had to retreat to my room and block out his voice by blasting my own music. Mom had moved on with her life. Still, I looked at Ms. Pomeroy’s flawless makeup, her perfectly outlined maroon lips, and wondered if she’d ever kissed my father. I didn’t like the thought.

Ms. Pomeroy drove me to my house so I could pack a few things. I should have invited her in. It would have been the polite thing, but I didn’t. She knew my father. Maybe she’d been to his house. Somehow I couldn’t stand the thought of her looking down on our cramped living room and sagging couch. I didn’t want her making judgments on the kind of life my mother had been able to provide. Instead I got out of the car and asked Ms. Pomeroy to pick me up in a half hour. That would be all the time I needed to throw a few belongings into a duffel bag and say good-bye to Abuela.

I figured I wouldn’t tell Abuela I was leaving until the last possible moment. That way she wouldn’t try to lecture me.

But as soon as I went into my bedroom, she appeared in the doorway, wearing one of her ever-present housedresses and smelling like homemade fry bread. “You’re really going?” she asked. “You’re going to chase after that man just like your mother did?”

I should have anticipated that Mom would have called her. I shoved socks and pajamas into the duffel bag. “I have a father and a sister. Don’t you think I have a right to know them?”

“You have a mother and grandmother who raised you.” Abuela’s voice cracked. “Don’t we have a right to you too, Lexi?”

I looked up to see tears rim her eyes and then spill over. I’d never seen Abuela cry. I stood frozen for a second, stunned by the change. She thought I was abandoning her, that I wouldn’t come back. I went and threw my arms around her. “It’s okay,” I said. “I won’t stay away long. I’ll go to college, just like we’ve always planned.”

She hugged me, her body all the types of softness her words never had been. “Get it over with and come home,” she said. “Come back before they change you.”

“No one’s going to change me,” I said. “I’ll always be your granddaughter worth her weight in trouble.”

She held me for a moment longer, then stepped away. “You remember, when you put yourself above others, you also cut yourself off from them. Cut off. That’s what death is.”

I didn’t know what she meant by that, but I was busy packing, and besides, you just didn’t want to ask Abuela to elaborate. “Nothing bad is going to happen to me,” I said.

I wasn’t thinking clearly, I knew. I was bound to forget things I needed. I wished I had an actual suitcase, because suddenly there were so many things I wanted to take. Silly things. The shells I’d gotten from the Chesapeake, where my mother and I had gone on vacation. A cheap stuffed bear an old boyfriend had won at the state fair. The picture on top of my dresser of Lori and me sitting on Santa’s lap. We’d been at the mall, and Lori thought it would be funny to get a picture, so we’d stood in line with a bunch of preschoolers for an hour. Every one of these possessions said “I love you.”

I didn’t have room for any of them.

While I went between my room and the bathroom gathering things, Abuela gave more instructions. “Eat three meals a day. Real meals. None of those Californian super-model meals. They don’t eat actual food, just puffed air. Make sure you call us every day. Remember to say your prayers. And don’t start running around with boys. All the boys in California are gangsters. Or movie producers. And those are even worse.”

When I’d finished packing, I looked out the living room window. Ms. Pomeroy’s black sedan waited out front.

I gave Abuela another hug. “I’ve got to go. You take care of Mom and make sure she stays out of trouble.”

She held on to me, patting my back. “You remember who you are, Lexi.”

“I will.” I knew that’s what she wanted to hear. But I thought, How can I remember what I never knew?

I went outside without looking back. The screen door clanked a good-bye, and then I climbed into the sedan.

We drove back to the hotel, picked up Kari, and went to the airport. Ms. Pomeroy apparently had taken what I’d said about changing my mind to heart and didn’t give me time to reconsider. When we pulled into the airport, a private jet waited for us.

Ms. Pomeroy took my duffel bag as we climbed on the plane. “We’ll go shopping tomorrow to get you what you need. Clothes, shoes, makeup.” She gave me an appraising scan. “Fingernails.”

Even though I’d been the one to suggest leaving right away, and even though Ms. Pomeroy was all smiles and promises about what a great job this would be, I didn’t trust her.

It was the missing words. It was the fact that I knew responsible adults: my mother, my teachers—responsible adults followed a certain script. Any of them would have told me to think carefully about choices that would affect my life. Any of them would have said I shouldn’t rush through this decision. I had waited for Ms. Pomeroy to say these things and I’d formed answers in my defense. But she didn’t question my reasons at all.

Which is why I had no doubt that she’d just as easily toss me aside if things didn’t work out.

CHAPTER 5

I’d never ridden on a plane before, let alone a private jet. It would take me to a new state, a new life, one where I would get to know my sister and father. I should have been blissfully happy, but as I sank into the soft leather seat, all I could think about were the good-byes I hadn’t said to my friends and the one I had said to my mother.

When would I see them again? I felt a sharp pang of regret for leaving this way, but it was too late to change my mind now. The engine had started, and the plane was rolling toward the runway.

Once we were airborne, Maren—she told me not to call her Ms. Pomeroy—began my training. Basically I was immersed in all things Kari Kingsley for the duration of the flight. Maren had me practice copying Kari’s autograph about four hundred times until my
K
’s stood straight up and my
A
’s were round. Then I watched music videos and taped concerts of Kari.

While she danced, she always wore sequined outfits and glitter covered her body and hair. Glitter was her trademark. Her first album was called
All That Glitters Isn’t Gold: Some of It’s Diamonds,
and her first hit had been entitled “Glitter Girl
.
” So she’d been sparkly ever since. I stared at the crowds cheering for her on the screen, then glanced over at her sitting in the seat not far from me.

She was casually flipping through magazines. It struck me all over again that Kari was a rock star. And my sister.

Every once in a while, she looked over at the tapes and chimed in with commentary. “That was the concert when some guy got past security and flung himself on the stage. Totally threw me off. I think celebrities should be allowed to Taser certain fans.”

And: “That video lasted three minutes but took two full days to film.”

I didn’t doubt it. She changed hairstyles in the video eight times.

And: “The heels on those boots don’t look that high, but you should try doing side lunges in them and keeping your balance.”

Which made me nervous. “I’m not going to have to, am I?”

Maren waved a hand in dismissal. “You’ll just be doing a few basic moves as you lip-synch. Nothing hard.”

But I wasn’t sure I believed her. Maren had a smooth voice, like the kind that used-car salesmen on TV always had.

“You need to get a feel for how she moves and how she talks,” Maren told me. “Do you see how erect her posture is? That’s from years of dancing. You’ll need to walk the same way.” She looked me over with only a small amount of discouragement visible in her expression. “Have you ever taken a dance class?”

“Yes.” Actually, I’d taken a lot of dancing and singing lessons. Mom had never had a great salary, but she always found someone willing to trade classes for housecleaning. All those lessons I hadn’t asked for suddenly made sense. Ditto for the musicals at school Mom forced me to be in. She must have figured I’d inherited my father’s talents, and she wanted me to develop them.

Now that I thought about her sacrifice, I felt bad that I didn’t have a passion for either of those things. I was happier reading or playing sports.

“Your dance instructor will help you learn a few simple routines,” Maren said. “I’m hiring new staff for you so they won’t realize you’re not Kari. You’ll need to make sure you keep up the act all the time. Alexia is gone now.”

I thought of Abuela’s words—to remember who I was—but I nodded at Maren anyway.

After the plane landed, a limo met us on the tarmac and drove us to Beverly Hills. I stared out the window, taking in every house, tree, and bush we passed. It was stupid, but I couldn’t help myself. I almost expected to see Brad Pitt out watering his grass or something.

I’d never been one of those starstruck teenagers who had posters of buff actors or who followed stars’ blogs. True, I did buy a magazine once because it had a picture of Grant Delray—a twenty-one-year-old rock sensation—on the cover, and maybe I kept the magazine on my bookshelf so I could look at his picture every once in a while, but that didn’t make me a fanatic.

That was just the normal, red-blooded-girl reaction to sky blue eyes and perfect features.

Being in California where the movie stars lived, I couldn’t help but look for them.

The limo dropped us off at Kari’s gated mansion. Maren had her BMW parked there, so the two of us switched cars. As I did, I gaped at the fountain by the circular drive, the columns, and the balcony. No wonder Kari was in debt. How much room did one person need?

Before Kari went inside, she turned back to me with a smile. “I’ll see you later—you know, either at Maren’s or in the mirror.”

“Kari will be by in a few days with some of her clothes from last season,” Maren said, as though reminding Kari of this fact.

“Oh, right,” Kari said. “I have a ton of stuff to give you.”

I opened my mouth to thank her, but she added, “Last season I was ten pounds heavier, so it should fit you fine.”

“Thanks,” I said, but the word lacked something in sincerity. She didn’t seem to notice.