Chapter Fourteen
Tritone: an interval consisting of three whole steps, can also be called a diminished fifth or augmented fourth, the most dissonant interval in Western music, nicknames include the devil’s interval, chord of evil, and the devil in music.
Charlie
I startle awake, blinking at the gloomy light managing to filter around the edges of the thick curtains. An arm is draped across my torso, warm and heavy, and warm puffs of breath fan over the skin of my neck.
Damian.
I’m in Damian’s room.
His erection nudges against my low back, and I nestle back against him, reliving the memories of last night. Mmm. I’d be happy to have a repeat of that as often as he likes.
Beyond the physical pleasure, the emotional connection we forged and solidified last night is something I’ve never experienced before.
The sound of my phone buzzing on vibrate somewhere makes me realize what must’ve woken me. Carefully, I slip out from under Damian’s arm. When I sit up, he adjusts, rolling almost onto his stomach, curling the arm that was around me under the pillow.
I reach for my purse first, digging my phone out. Clothes can wait till I see why someone is calling me over and over. The buzzing stops before I dig it out and starts again as my hand closes around the boring plastic cover. I used to have hot pink with rhinestones, but in my image overhaul as part of coming to Marycliff, I traded it for a slim black case. It’s boring and blends right in with everyone else. But I think it might be too boring. I miss color and sparkle. Maybe I don’t need pink and glittery, but red or purple or something would be nice.
My mom’s name shows on the screen when I finally extract my phone, and I sit and stare at it for a second before sending the call to voicemail.
After yesterday’s high, seeing her name on my phone is a painful return to reality. I don’t want to deal with her right now. But with five missed calls and three voicemails, all before seven in the morning, I don’t think I have a choice.
Glancing at Damian’s sleeping face, his hair mussed, his glasses carefully folded and sitting next to mine on the nightstand, I decide not to wake him. I’ll get dressed first, if he wakes up from me moving around, I’ll say goodbye before leaving to deal with my mother. If not, I’ll send him a text and apologize for bailing like this and promise to call later.
My phone pretty much never stops ringing while I find my clothes and pull them back on, running my hands through my hair to straighten it as best I can without a mirror. I need to pee, but I’ll wait till I get home. I don’t know the situation with Damian’s roommates. If they’re here. If they’re up. If one of them’s in the shower. Yeah, home is best.
Damn. My car’s at my house.
With another look at Damian, I decide to call an Uber and let him sleep. He doesn’t have eight o’clock classes. I do. Speaking of which, I won’t have much time for a shower or anything by the time I get home. I might just have to change clothes and brush my teeth, if I even have time for that after dealing with my mom.
Grabbing my purse and stepping into my shoes, I slip out the door. The living room is empty, but I hear the sound of a shower running. Which confirms my choice to wait, even if I have to cross my legs on the ride home. Good thing my house isn’t all that far away. I’d consider walking if I had more time. The exercise would be a good way to burn off the anger already simmering from the nonstop calls from my mom.
Once outside I shiver in the cool September air. I didn’t wear a jacket yesterday because it was warm by the time Damian and I went to his parents’ for dinner. But at seven o’clock in the morning, it’s chilly in late September.
Stuffing the fingers of one hand into my opposite armpit, I hunch my shoulders against the chill and walk slowly in the direction of my house. I don’t want to stand in front of Damian’s house like a weirdo waiting for my ride.
After thumbing in a quick text to Damian—interrupted by my mother calling again, which I send to voicemail, again—I decide to start with the voicemails. I want to know what I’m getting myself into before calling her back. Her incessant calls make it clear she won’t stop until I actually talk to her. But I want to have a battle plan before I make contact.
The first voicemail is calm and would sound sweet and normal to anyone else. Or from anyone else. “Hi, honey. It’s Mom. Call me back when you get this.” The time coincides with the first phone call, and gives me no indication about whatever bug’s gotten up her ass to make her call me nonstop all morning. Or maybe she’s just tired of me not returning her calls.
Because the next one is about five minutes later. “I know you have class at eight o’clock every morning. So you should be up by now. Call me. I only need five minutes.”
Ha. Right. Nothing with her ever only takes five minutes.
I move to the next voicemail, which is another five minutes after the second. Though there were at least two calls in between. “Charlotte Daphne Baxter.” Uh-oh, she’s pulled out the middle name. I roll my eyes at the ridiculousness. “You’re sending my calls to voicemail, which means you’re awake. You answer me this instant. I’m just going to keep calling until you answer. And if you decide to be a little snot and turn off your phone, I’ll fly out there tonight. You have until noon to either answer the phone or call me back.”
And then she just called over and over and over.
She can keep calling. I have class at eight. And I’m not talking to her in the middle of a neighborhood.
Checking the Uber app, I update my location and see that my ride will be here in a few minutes. I stop, a shiver running through me. This one only partly from the cold. Of course she doesn’t give me any idea what she’s calling about. That would be too easy.
My thoughts churn the whole way back to my house. My phone vibrating in my hand for what feels like the thousandth time as I walk through my front door decides me on whether or not to deal with this before class. I don’t have another break until ten. So unless I want to turn my phone off and talk to my mom on campus when she shows up, I need to take care of this now.
Having her show up here is out of the question.
I swipe my thumb across the screen to finally take her call, the action far too tame to express my pent up anxiety and anger. “What is wrong with you?”
One thing I’ve learned from my mom is that when you find yourself in a position of weakness, always go on the attack. You might be able to wrong-foot the person in the dominant position and gain control of the situation. Or at least buy yourself time to extricate yourself gracefully or mitigate whatever damage is imminent.
Right now I’m going for gaining control, but I’ll take damage mitigation.
“You finally deign to answer your phone, and you greet me like that?” Her voice is icy, the polar opposite of the hot rage scalding my veins.
“Yes. You’re the one who’s been calling nonstop for almost an hour. Who does that?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Perhaps a mother who hasn’t heard from her daughter in months?”
“Oh, well, perhaps if said mother weren’t trying to coerce her daughter into doing things she didn’t want every time she called, she’d get a call back. All of your messages have been about upcoming performance opportunities that I do. Not. Want. I made that clear before I left. I’m taking time off. That means no recording, no tours, no performances. None.”
“Charlotte, you need to be reasonable.”
A laugh splutters out of me. “I’m the one being unreasonable?”
“You are single handedly destroying everything we’ve worked for over the last decade. And for what? So you can play piano at some no name school in flyover country? How long are you going to keep up this preposterous charade?”
I glance around the room, my mouth hanging open. “Preposterous charade? Me wanting to go to college is a preposterous charade? I just want to know what it’s like to be normal for a change. To decide what I want to do with my life—you know, like most twenty-one year olds do—and it’s a preposterous charade.”
“Charlotte—” Mom cuts in, but I don’t let her keep going.
“You know what’s funny, Mom? I’m the only person I know who’s had to fight with their parents about going to college. I know a few people who’d have liked to take a year off before starting their degree. But me? My big rebellion is—get this—getting an education.”
She sighs. The sound so heavy and full of disappointment, I can feel it like a physical thing. “You’ll never know what it’s like to be normal. Not really. You haven’t had a normal life. Even now, your life isn’t normal compared to your classmates. Because none of them have the choices and opportunities you have. And what are you going to do? Stay there for four years? Lose everything we’ve worked for? Disappoint your legion of fans? Really? And what are you going to do with a music degree in piano performance? You’re already a performer. You won’t learn anything there you don’t already know.”
“You’re wrong, Mom.” Tears flood my eyes, and I blink hard to dispel them, hating the fact that I cry when I get really angry. “I’ve learned a lot already. And I’ll keep learning as long as I’m here.”
She scoffs, and I close my eyes tightly. A tear leaks out of my right eye.
“Charlotte. You need to listen to me. I didn’t call to get into an argument with you.”
“Then why did you call?” I’m proud of the fact that my voice is steady, if a little snarly. No hint of the tears in my eyes choking my vocal chords. All that vocal training has paid off in more ways than one.
Her frustrated sigh settles on me, another layer of parental disappointment. “If you’ll quit interrupting me, I’ll tell you.” The icy edge is back, her words sharp and shiny like icicles.
She waits, but this time I maintain my silence. Arguing with her is as useless as it always was. Starting out on the attack didn’t allow me to gain control of the conversation. I should’ve known better.
When she’s decided I’m not going to interrupt again, she speaks, her voice more controlled and businesslike. Still brusque, but not sharpened daggers made of ice. “I’m sure you’ve seen the speculation about your sudden disappearance from everywhere. You need to make an appearance. I have the contract for your performance at New Year’s Rockin’ Eve. It’s just one song. We’ll do a pared down version of one of your singles from the last album with a few backup dancers. Show everyone that you’re still on your game and not in rehab. I’ve also lined up a few interviews. Jimmy Kimmel had a cancellation for the week after next, so I booked the slot for you.”
My mouth drops open at the mention of the New Year’s Rockin’ Eve performance. And the ball of rage in the pit of my stomach only grows larger when she starts talking about the interviews. “Mom.”
She continues as though I haven’t spoken. “You’ll need to fly to their studio, but we’ll send the plane for you, so that should be no problem. The other is with a magazine, complete with a photo spread.”
“Mom,” I say again louder.
“I don’t know what your diet has been like there, but since you’re going for the whole ‘real college girl’ experience, I’m guessing not great. I’ll email you a diet plan to help you drop at least five pounds in a hurry.”
“Mother.” My voice is a growl.
“Now, I know you don’t like juice fasts, but these magazines always want skin, so you’ll just have to suck it up. It’s only a few days. And the rest is just until the magazine shoot, at which point you can go back to eating Cheetos and drinking beer or whatever your preferred form of empty calories is now.”
“Mom!” I bark. “If you don’t shut up right now, I’m hanging up and blocking your number. Then it won’t matter how many times you call, you won’t get through. And if you show up here to try to badger me in person, I’ll call the police and have you arrested for trespassing.”
She gasps. “Why you—”
“Ungrateful little brat,” we say in unison.
“Yes, I know. You’ve called me that every time I’ve tried to take a break. Every time I’ve taken any time off. I’m ungrateful and don’t know a thing about the industry and where would I be without you looking out for me and pushing me.”
I look down at my body, taking advantage of her stunned silence. “You know where I’d be? About a size eight.”
Another gasp of horror greets that. I was a size four when I was on tour, thanks to a near starvation diet, engineered by my mother, grueling workouts, and performances three nights a week, minimum.
“You have to start this diet immediately. If you’re a size six for the photos, that might be okay.”
“Actually, it doesn’t even matter. For one thing, even as a size four they photoshop the shit out of it and make me look thinner. You know this as well as I do. But the real reason it doesn’t matter is because I’m not doing it. I’m not doing New Year’s Rockin’ Eve. I’m not doing the interviews. I’m not doing any of it. If you call and badger me about anything like this again, I will block your number.”
“But, Charlotte.” She’s pleading with me now. I think this is a first. Brow beating, bullying, and steamrolling are her usual MO. But that’s not working on me this time. Interesting that pleading is the next step.
“Charlotte, the speculation. Haven’t you seen what they’re saying about you?”
I swallow hard. “No. I haven’t. I’ve deliberately avoided all entertainment news outlets because I don’t want to know.” Lauren and I made a deal when we agreed to move in together that if she followed any of that stuff, she’d do it when I’m not around. And not tell me about any of it.
Mom sputters incoherently, and it’s my turn to heave a sigh. “Look, Mom. I know you think you’re looking out for me, but I need this time away. If you want to call and catch up and see how I’m doing, that’s fine. But if you’re going to call and tell me I have to do a performance or an interview or anything else related to my career, then I’m hanging up on you. Because it’s my career.” I stab my finger into my own chest in emphasis, even though she can’t see me. “Mine. If I want to torpedo it beyond all chance of recovery, that’s my business. This is your last chance.”
I wait a beat, but she still hasn’t come up with anything to say.
“I’m hanging up now. I have class in twenty minutes, and I need to go. Goodbye.”
With that I pull the phone away from my face and push the red end button. Relief swamps me, and my tears start falling in earnest. I sit down on the floor, still barely beyond the square of parquet flooring that makes up our entry. Shudders rack my body as I cry into my hands.
Arms wrapping around my shoulders makes my head jerk up. Lauren gives me a squeeze and rubs my back. “Everything okay?”
I nod, wiping my nose on the back of my hand then scrubbing at my cheeks. “Yeah. Yeah. I think it’s actually better than it’s been in a long time.”
“I heard you telling off your mom.”
“Oh, God. I’m sorry, Lauren. You were probably sleeping. I’m a shitty roommate. I should’ve gone into my room at least.”
She smiles. “It’s fine. But you’re okay? Wanna talk about it?”
I shake my head. “No. I mean yes, I’m fine. No, I don’t really want to talk about it. You’ve already overheard my half of the conversation, I’m sure you can probably piece together the rest. It’s nothing you don’t already know anyway.”
Her smile is sympathetic as she nods again. “Yeah. Good for you for standing up for yourself though.”
“Thanks.” My smile is still watery, but getting steadier.
She looks me over and then glances at the clock on the wall. “Are you sure you’re up for theory this morning? You’re still wearing your clothes from yesterday, you just got home, told your mom off, and your class starts in fifteen minutes. Even if you left right now, you’d barely make it on time.”
“And I still have to pee!”
Lauren jumps up and pulls me to my feet. “Go. Use the bathroom. Take a shower. We’ll go out for breakfast and you can fill me in on where you’ve been all night.” She grins at me and bounces her eyebrows up and down as she pushes me toward my room.
But I stop and give her a quick hug. “Thanks, Lauren. You’re the best.”
“I know.” She blows on her bent fingers and polishes them on her chest. “Not everyone can be as awesome as me. You all have to keep trying, though. What’s life without goals?”
Laughing, I head for my room. A good laugh with Lauren is exactly what I need after all this drama. Skipping class in favor of breakfast out—the opposite of my mom’s suggested juice fast starting immediately—sounds like exactly what I need.