Authors: Avery Aster
Love, Lex (3 page)
I’d been going out with Kelle since the tenth grade. He’d
reserved my vagina ages ago, like the first week Blake had told me in gym class
to shave
it
. Blake and I had talked a lot about our pubic hair and
whether we should trim it short or grow it out and dye it magenta. Bordering on
cliché, pubic hair had been a normal go-to gym topic for us.
Kelle’s commitment to my cherry-popping had come with one
uber-cray condition. I had to lose a few pounds. Alright, some might say a lot
of weight. Friggin-A, I was so close. And our first time was gonna be in Paris.
You know, for my birthday.
Avoir France!
Like Elle Woods in the movie
Legally Blonde
who’d
studied her kitty off and passed the LSAT to get into Harvard Law School in
hopes her boyfriend would married her—so had I!
Mind you, it was for a Bachelor of Arts in Women’s Studies
at Columbia University and Kelle Sterling Dolley was no Warner Huntington III.
Kelle was flippin’ cuter.
Waaay
cuter. Think Josh
Harnett in the movie
Pearl Harbor
. Holy Hershey Kisses I loved, luved,
loooved,
loved
that movie.
And I wasn’t hoping to get married like Elle Woods neither.
I’d merely wanted to get rid of my Lady V. So yes, I’d stalked Kelle from our
private schools in Connecticut and had learned he was moving to Manhattan for
college. I’d rallied my BFF, VBF and GBF to come along. I’d bribed. I’d begged.
We all got in. Some of us were on academic probation with remedial studies, I
might add. That would be
moi
, for math. Don’t wanna talk about it.
Okay, maybe the
Legally Blonde
analogy was a slight
reach.
“Pull my hair. There you go lover boy. Get rough with mama,”
Birdie sassed.
A feverish chill swept through me. I stood. I watched. I
checked myself.
Sad?
Meh!
Angry?
A tad. Trust me I’d been through, oh my
Godiva, so much worse.
Hurt?
I’m sickened over this. No, like literally.
Knowing Mom would never ever do this to me if she’d been
sober made it almost easier to swallow. Almost!
Her reply later, when she’d be all crashing down or buzzing
back up, would be something to the effect of, “Kitten, its only sex. Grow up.”
That’s what she’d say.
I know.
And later, when she’d be sober, dryer than a saltine
cracker, Birdie always stuck with her tried-and-true, “I have no idea what you
are talking about. I did not raise my Alexandra Easton to be a liar. My heart
hurts when you tell tall-tales, young lady.”
Notice how Mom had never referred to herself as “Mom” like
ever. I was only allowed to call her the M-word when inside this penthouse. Her
reasoning had been that it caused premature aging to hear it when out in
public. Clearly Birdie’s rule applied to Kelle calling her ‘Mama’ in bed.
WTF!
Birdie was so phobic about aging she’d stocked up the entire
penthouse with oxygen tanks. She’d nearly given herself an O2 facial mist every
day that I’d been here. When Mom wasn’t applying the oxygen to her skin, she
was inhaling it, claiming the vapors made her inner body more beautiful.
I was surprised with all of her bong smoking and nitrous
oxide tanks lying around she hadn’t blown the roof off this place yet.
Blake was right. I should have never moved back in with my
folks while going to school. We should’ve enrolled at Pepperdine University in
California. That’s what Taddy had wanted us to do all along and had suggested,
“Sweet sorority Jesus. Forget this East Coast shizzicane. I want easy, breezy,
beautiful. Darling, let’s go to Malibu…not Manhattan. No one knows us out
west.”
Once my Ivy League training wheels to get laid by Kelle
Sterling Dolling were rolling, I’d started to pump the brakes. I didn’t want to
face those tabloids, chasing me between classes for dirt on my parents or Kelle
and his family, again. At Avon Porter we were behind a huge brick wall which
had prevented such harassments.
I’d toyed with the idea of registering under an alias so no
one knew I was Easton’s daughter. I’d even met with the head of admissions and
given them the name Wanda Maximoff, inspired by my favorite Avengers character,
Scarlet Witch.
My Dad had approved of the alias, so did his publicist, the
president of his record label, and the head of admissions even bought into
Wanda Maximoff.
Leave it to my lovely Mom to veto such geniusness. She’d
melodramatically argued, “Coming from someone who was robbed of finishing their
GED, let alone never having the luxury to attend college, I pray that my only
daughter will be proud to walk on campus and show her face.”
Proud?
Never Ever!
And Birdie wasn’t robbed of squat. She’d dropped out of high
school with the hopes of working as Bo Derrick’s body double in the movie,
Bolero
.
“Fuuuck.
That’s good. So wet. Deeper,” Birdie
squealed.
Was it wrong, that after several minutes of witnessing
Kelle’s cock jut in and out of Birdie’s mouth, vagina, and anus…I
still
stood there in horrid disbelief and watched them?
He’d pretty much plugged every hole. WTF! They didn’t even
use a condom.
In my overly active mind, I waited for some imaginary
teleprompter to light up from the chandelier hanging above her bed and
instruct, “Applause!”
They weren’t worthy of a clap. No siree. Now
the clap
which medical experts referred to as Gonorrhea was a whole other story. Hands
down, they both merited that one.
Rolling over onto his side, Kelle submitted to Mom’s diva
ways.
Her perfectly sculpted silicone breasts, the ones which had
a lingerie brand named after them called Caged Birdie, sold in discount
superstores, nearly hypnotized Kelle into titty-land.
“Mrs. Easton, I’m in love with you,” Kelle professed, and
suckled on her rosy nipples as if he hadn’t eaten a breast implant in years.
Say whaa!
I-N L-O-V-E?
Poof!
My insides dried up. Right there, in that
doorway. Someone had taken a Dyson vacuum cleaner, hooked the tube up to my
sex, and flipped the dry-vac carpet button.
Was I supposed to witness this?
Maybe the universe brought these two together to remind me
to focus on my grades this fall, and not on the boys.
At Avon Porter, all my energy had gone to helping Taddy,
Vive, and Blake get through their cray-cray days. Not on my academics, hence my
remedial math studies.
From Blake’s coming out about being a cock sucker, his words
not mine, to Taddy’s abandonment and emancipation issues with her folks, I’d
been rather busy.
Just when I’d thought we were good to study, Vive had gotten
herself knocked-up. And then the accidental death of her boyfriend, Sanderloo
Konjik, had happened.
I know!
All four of us had been arrested, charged in the murder of
Sanderloo, and had stood trial. After spending an entire semester at the
Fairfield County Juvenile Detention Center where Vive had given birth to her
baby, we’d been found innocent of all wrongdoing.
Point being, my swinging parent’s party drama luckily hadn’t
compared to any of the above. Vive had won the sash and tiara in that category.
Taddy had reigned in second place, and Blake could have third. I’m so fine with
Miss Congeniality.
Hmmm I wonder. Now that I’m here in the city if Birdie’s
actions will hold me back from pursuing my Ivy League degree? I guess only if I
let them. Right?
PS, don’t wanna talk about juvie. You’ll never see me wear
the color orange or eat mashed potatoes.
“Suck it, woman. No, I didn’t say you could come yet.” Kelle
got his man-game on when Birdie didn’t say she loved him back. Instead, Mom
laughed and
came
everywhere.
If I was under his fifty-something-inch chest and held on to
his twenty-something inch waist, while his foot-long dick penetrated me that
way, (and not Mother), I’d probably would’ve orgasmed too.
Humping along, they didn’t even notice me. Typical!
The longer they went at it, the sadder it became to
watch—two gorgeous people, past their luster, bang one another.
Kelle had peaked our senior year. The kid still wore
Abercrombie for Christ’s sake. I imagine he’ll never take that darn military
academy class ring off his finger. Not once this summer, had he talked about
our future at Columbia University together. His mouth had jabbered on and on
about his past Lacrosse games.
The worst was last week. He’d revealed he’d been stealing
Viagra from his father’s medicine cabinet to endure what he’d coined
“mega-masturbation-marathons.”
That’s like so seventh grade.
Forreals!
Standing there, I talked myself out of loving him. Wasn’t
that what I was doing?
Taddy had once profoundly stated all adult-like, “You can
talk your mind into making your heart feel something. It’s true, darling. If
you want to love, you will. And if you want to hate, you shall. But don’t let
either of those two emotions get the best of you.”
That’s how she’d healed from her parents disowning her. Her
ability to move on had all been a matter of Taddy’s mind, and not a matter of
the facts. We were like fourteen!
When you think about it “facts” flub everything up.
Regardless, I still felt nauseous.
Sick with the reality of what was before me, this whole—Mom
and my boyfriend naked in bed together, having sex, and him telling her he was
in love—thing started to sink-in.
The white spots I’d seen went from snowflakes to snowballs.
My head pounded as if my heart had moved into my brain. And my stomach, ohhh,
ached with abdominal pains. I felt worse than after eating Chinese food from
that place down on Canal Street which has a dry cleaning and gold fish shop
inside. All I needed next was for my hair to fall out and my arms and legs to
snap off.
I backtracked through the penthouse to my wing and shut the
door. The anxiety didn’t quit, even with Mom and Kelle out of sight. My hands
went numb. Dang, I started having hiccups.
Excuse me.
Shoving two more pieces of nicotine gum in my mouth, I wiped
the saliva from my chin. The drool was out of control.
I had to do something drastic…murder Kelle, ask Senator
Dolley out on a date, race my Vamp scooter off the Brooklyn Bridge and into the
Hudson River while wearing an “Eddie Easton’s #1 Fan” concert t-shirt, or…I
could sell my Lady V on eBay. So many choices to pick from, how could I decide?
Withdrawing my cell from my pocket, I called the only girl
in town that might help me.
My BFF, Taddy Brill.
Mister Softee
“Lex-a-licious!” Taddy picked up on the first ring.
“Where are you?” I asked.
“Vive and I are at Bergdorf’s. They have that angora sweater
Christina Ricci wore in
Teen Vogue
. I fricking L-U-V it. There are no
dark colors in your size. Want me to ask the sales guy if they can custom order
you one? I’m buying it in red, for myself. Oh my Lord & Taylor, we are
having a fabu day getting our clothes for school. Before the BG, we shared a
Nicoise salad at Le Bernardin. Vive ordered a Cosmo and got her dumb butt
carded. Vive woulda been fine too, if she hadn’t acted all
Farnworth-liquor-heiress righteous and proceeded to tell the waiter how to
train the bartender on the specific way to
shake
her Cosmo. Can you
believe her?”
“Yes,” I muttered, trying to get into this conversation.
“I wanted to crawl under the table and die. Instead we drank
Diet Cherry Pepsi. So embarrassing! Let’s be serious, girl. We need to buy fake
ID’s for going out to bars and stuff. Yesterday in spin class, Blake told me
where he got the driver’s license he uses to get into those gay clubs in
Chelsea. I told him to get you and Kelle an ID too. Be warned, if Blake
Morgan’s sex life is better than ours I will totally wig the Fendi out on all
of you. Whatcha doin’?”
Whoa!
Taddy inhaled deeply and waited for me to yap right back.
I chewed my gum. Salads, shopping, underage drinking, and
the idea of sex had put Taddy Brill into serious overdrive. “Mmm.”
There was something comforting about Taddy’s shopping
silliness. She’d thought about me.
“Lex love, you want an angora Ricci sweater and a fake ID or
not?”
“No. Taddy….” I paused.
Errr.
A few minutes ago I was
doing so good trying to make light of what happened. Never did I imagine I’d
get this upset. Or be shaking. Dropping to the floor, I curled up in a ball.
The tears fell.
Does anyone ever get used to this crap? There was no shield
of protection between me and my parent’s cruddy actions. I wanted to call
Carrie Fisher, you know Princess Leia from
Star Wars
and tell her that
I’d relived her semi-autobiographical
Postcards from the Edge
novel
about her childhood with her mother, Debbie Reynolds, but I didn’t have her
number.
“Darling, we can skip over to Barney’s and see if they have
it in your favorite color, bloody, black, burgundy, whatever the hellaballo you
call it. We’ll get ya one. It’s nothing to get upset over.”
I felt my frown invert. Then I laughed, and knew neither
Bergdorf’s nor Barney’s has ever carried my size. That was the funniest thing
I’d heard all day. “Try Saks or Bloomies
women’s
department. And my
favorite color is called vamp.”
“Get your gorgeous self on your two-wheeler and come uptown.
Let’s hang at Bloomies. Oooh, and order that Forty Carrots yogurt you luuuv so
much.” Taddy suggested.
See, again, she thought about me. That was love, right
there.
“Not today. I gotta—move.” The idea came out so naturally. I
knew
moving out
was the right thing to do.
“Eh?”
Before Taddy could rapid-fire questions, I inquired calmly,
“Do you think Vive would let me stay with you girls for a bit. Till school
starts?”
Taddy had roomed with Vive at the Sherry Netherland, for
free btw. Her parents weren’t helping her with college. They hadn’t paid for
her Avon Porter education either. Birdie had covered her tuition for the last
few years without Taddy knowing who paid what. Sober Mom wasn’t all bad. Money
to her was like vodka, in one hole and out the other. The only thing Mom wanted
credit for was her beauty and songs.
“Ummm. Dah! Of course. Want me to talk to Miss Vive? She’s
standin’ right here.”
“No. I merely wanted your thoughts, is all.” I wasn’t
comfortable asking for help.
“Ah, huh. You don’t sound too good.”
Yuk.
I flung a wad of saliva off on my sleeve,
swallowed, and replied, “I’ll live.”
“Is Birdie being her usual self?” Taddy’s voice became
serious, “Lex, are you okay? Did something happen?”
“Daddy is in Tokyo. Jack Daniels has been Mom’s only source
of nutrition since I’ve moved in. And Kelle came over today and
celebrated
with her.”
“Nooo.” Taddy screamed so loud that I thought she’d blown-up
my phone.
“Yup. They’re on her bed going at it.”
“Holy Mommy Dearest on a wire hanger! That is fugged up.”
She muffled the phone for a few seconds and shouted some more.
In the background, I heard Bergdorf’s security team asking
her to leave their store if she didn’t calm herself down. Taddy was always
getting herself kicked out of there.
The phone sounded as if it had changed hands.
“Lex! Hey girlie, it’s Vive.”
“Hi.”
“Taddy went to go pay for her fuzzy sweater.” Vive giggled.
“Honey, I’m sorry to hear about your Mom and Kelle.”
“Me too.” I closed my eyes wishing I’d blend into the
carpeting.
“Let me call my driver to haul your wardrobe. We’ll be in
Soho within an hour.”
“Really?” I sat up from the floor. “You’re serious?”
“Honey, you wear Chanel. I don’t kid about couture.” Vive
cackled.
Farnworth Firewater liquor heiress Viveca Farnworth was the
only Avon Porter student who’d talked to me and Taddy when we’d started going
there. Labeled “tabloid girls” from the start, everyone had avoided us, except
for Vive.
A few years later, the school had gone co-ed, admitting
Blake on a scholarship. No one had talked to him either. That’s pretty much how
the Fab Four had started.
“Pack up your life. We’ll load it into the limo. There’s a
street-bike parking space on Fifth Avenue and Fifty-Ninth Street for Vamp. The
doorman stands in it all day long, scratching himself. No one uses it.”
“Why not?”
“Honey, who on the Upper East Side rides a friggin’
motorbike?” Vive snorted louder and longer than before. “The spot is all yours.
Stay the entire semester. Hedda Hopper will be so happy to have you with us.”
Hedda was a Lhasa Apso that Taddy and I had bought for Vive
after our stint in juvie. It was the week her parents had forced her to give up
the baby. The pooch didn’t fill the hole in Vive’s heart for the love of her
child, but it gave her something to care for.
We were like fifteen.
I wiped my eyes. “Thanks, Vive. You and Taddy are the best.”
“Oh and Lex, before I forget—”
“Yes.” I sniveled.
“You’re gonna get through this. Birdie cares for you. She’s
just sick. Kelle, on the other hand will be gettin’ a piece of my mind when I
see him in my journalism class in a few weeks. I love you.”
“Love you too.”
I hung up and started packing. From YSL to Gucci, I shoved
and stuffed anything and everything that would fit. All the while, I chomped on
my gum and highlighted in my head the top ten fears and worst moments of my
life. In chronological order, they were:
- Puberty advice to pad my bra,
or not wear one at all.
I was nine then. - A locked refrigerator. No
parent should starve their child. Birdie had called it food monitoring. - Paparazzi which has tormented
and snapped photos of me (usually when I was at my worst) my entire life.
Such as…when I’d eaten a chocolate and vanilla twist cone, dipped in a
raspberry hard shell and dusted with rainbow sprinkles. Purchased from a
Mister Softee truck, parked on Madison Avenue—while standing outside in
one hundred degree weather with one hundred percent humidity, in a
horizontal-striped-sheer-stretchy poly-blend sun dress—which had ridden
itself almost entirely up my bum. How I knew it had ridden up my bum? See number
5. - A Vicodin, given to me by Dad
to stop my hysteria, instead of a band-aid or a hug, after I’d fallen and
scratched my knee on Madison Avenue while running from the Paparazzi.
I
was like eleven. - The photos of my backside, at
the ice cream truck, appearing on the cover of
The Manhattanite Times
the very next day. The headline had read, “Alexandra the Great Swallows
for Mr. Softee.” - A mother who has and forever
will have a hotter body, prettier face, and better hair than I do.
Even
when I’m seventy years old and she’s like dead. - A father who was never around.
Years have passed without him walking through our front door. I’m not sure
he even knows Birdie sold the Central Park West mansion and moved to Soho
last year. I should probably give him the new address. - The fear I’ll never meet or
exceed my parent’s financial or professional success, regardless of what
industry I work in. According to the economics class Vive and I took our
senior year, I have less than a five percent chance to make it as an adult
without riding my folk’s coattails to maintain this lifestyle. Poor Vive,
her family is the second richest in North America. She has less than half
a percent. - Infamy! I’ll forever be
associated with the Easton’s. - Birdie and her full-on,
balls-to-the wall sex with my high school sweet-heart. I had loved Kelle
Sterling Dolley. Or at least, I thought I had.
Fifty minutes later, my toiletries, shoes, and
day-evening-school wear were all thrown into nine Louis Vuitton wardrobe
trunks. One garment wasn’t going to see the Upper East Side, my
striped-stretchy dress, circa childhood from hell. I found that effer in the
back of my closet. Birdie must’ve packed it when we’d moved downtown.
“I cannot believe I didn’t burn you ages ago.” Alone, I
shouted out loud to the dress as if I were a mad woman, because I was. I carted
that rag of bad memories to the bathroom and threw it in the tub.
“Ah-ha!” In the medicine cabinet, I found an aerosol can of
StrawberryNet’s Ultra Mega Super-duper Hold Extreme Hairspray. I doused that
dress and lit a match. “Burn, baby, burn!”
On my way out, I dumped a shoebox of photos into the inferno
too. “I bid you
adieu
.” They were of Kelle and me from prom, homecoming
dance, and our winter formal. It was all there.
Peaceful and quiet, the penthouse seemed unoccupied. Birdie
had probably passed out.
I jammed two more nicotine gum pieces in my mouth. Jaw
tensing, teeth snapping, I chewed up one mofo of a wad, I imagine no one had
ever chewed before or has since.
The elevator doors opened.
Onto the lift I pushed one case in, then two, and so on. I
turned back to get my purse and my helmet when “lover boy” approached.
He acted as if he’d arrived mere moments ago.
“Lex.” Puffy lipped and woman-handled, Kelle’s red eyes
didn’t make contact with mine. His attempt to kiss me on the cheek failed when
I pushed him away from me.
“Get lost Kelle.”
“Whaa?” He played innocent.
“I saw what you and Mom did. For crying out loud, residents
as far away as Staten Island could probably hear you two with all that moaning
and groaning.”
“Ugh.” He raked his fingers through his light brown hair.
Flipping his part from left to right, Kelle stood there, speechless.
“Say something for yourself!” I so wanted to fight. Growing
up Easton had taught me to throw punches and kicks.
“Sweets.” He air-pumped his hands in a “let’s calm down, I’m
stoned” kinda way. “I came to get you. You were out. Mrs. Easton gave me blow.
I got too high. We
smoked
to chill. The end.”
“Now you’re doing cocaine?” In two short hours he’d gone from
gorgeous to hideous, right before my eyes.
“Just a few lines. One thing led to another. Mrs. Easton’s
clothes popped off. Mine did too.”
“Popped off?” I repeated his malarkey. Rolling off my
tongue, it tasted as if I’d licked Hedda Hopper’s curvy tail, complete and
utter dog-do. On instinct, my right foot jetted out. “Hmmm.” I gauged the
distance. Kelle needed a kick in the head. I owed him at least that. Dang, he
was too darn tall for me to give him one.
“Whaddya want me to say.” He grimaced annoyingly, and in his
mind and in his world, I bet he walked on some kind of mythical water, making
him impervious to any repercussions.
The urge to hold him under his own Kool-Aid, till every
ounce of air had left his lungs, tore at me with temptations ten times stronger
than my usual cravings to go to Dylan’s Candy Bar.
Now I understood why women on the TV show “Oh Snapped” had
whacked their hubbies in acts of rage and passionate revenge. Their victims had
earned it. Regardless, there wasn’t a swimming pool in this Soho high-rise for
me to even try drowning his sorry ass.
“Well?” he asked again.
Where would I start with the inventory of things this moron
could say to me?
“How ‘bout,
I’m sorry
?” I suggested. My eyes finally
locked with his.
