“Braelyn, get up, because we’re going to go out and have some fun.” I missed doing things with him when I was gone, I didn’t think that I would, I really didn’t, I didn’t even expect him to come and visit me, but we’re like family now, he’s my older brother that I never had, and I love him, but just like I would love a brother, and that’s all he sees me as, a younger sister, we’re family. He’s my best friend, he’s the only friend that I’ve had, our friendship is a record, lasting almost fifteen months, that’s a long time, people irk me, I'm not a people person, well I wasn’t a people person, before all of this, I'm getting better.
Groaning, I run a hand through my hair, looking down into my bowl of cereal and milk, frowning, jutting out my lower lip. “I thought that I was supposed to stay out of the public eye.” Furrowing my eyebrows together, I smirk as Beau plops down onto the couch, smacking me with his arm as he flails them both to either side of him. “I kind of want to go out and eat somewhere. I'm a little done with grilled chicken and rice and salad.” It’s weird, eating, talking about eating, thinking about eating, I hated food for the longest time, food was a demon, and I wasn’t about to be possessed.
He takes the spoon from my hand, shoveling a decent amount of cereal onto his spoon, and shoved it into his mouth, smiling around the spoon when I look at him with a raised eyebrow. “So we’ll go out tonight. Either just us or with your family or with friends. But, I'm inviting myself.” Some people think that we’re more than just friends, and I can see why they think that, we’re close, we’re similar, but if you look at us when we’re together we look like siblings, plus he’s so old, he’s twenty three, that’s too old for me.
Shrugging my shoulders, I lean forward, placing the bowl on the coffee table, biting down on my lower lip. “I don’t know. I want to go somewhere that doesn’t need to publicity so they won’t call any of those stupid tabloid magazines. And I don’t know anyone who is going to want to go out with me to dinner.” All the magazines, I read their articles, I saw all the things that they were saying, I asked the people who worked for me and my publicity to not comment, to let it all work itself out without saying a single word about it.
“People are dying to see you and know how you’re doing. And so we’ll go to that Italian restaurant that hates when reporters show up and calls the cops.” I don’t know why he tries so hard, or why he doesn’t stare when I'm wearing shorts and the damn scars are still visible, but they gave me cream, and it’s starting to work, they're going away. There won’t be any scars left to remind me of all the pain. “You know who wants to hang out with you and see how you're doing?”
No, dumbass, I haven’t talked to anyone besides you, my family, and my reps, so I don’t know who wants to hang out with me. “Uh, no, I don’t know, Beau.” At one point, I wouldn’t put up with this, with friendship, and I would allow myself to feel lonely, but then I would want friendship, and none of those people were good enough. There are so many things that have happened in Hollywood and everything associated with fame while I was in the hospital, and I still don’t know most of it, I couldn’t tell you the names of the four boys in that one British band, or maybe there are five of them.
“Selena Gomez wants to hang out with you.” Laughing, he places his hand on his stomach, as if it’s in pain from the laughter, he’s laughing hysterically, and I don’t have it within me to laugh with him, because I don’t understand how she can suddenly want to be my friend after claiming to hate me for so long. Sorry that I got the part in Discovering You and you didn’t. I'm sorry, I take that back, that was mean, forgive me, I didn’t say anything, erase that, and forget about it.
Rolling my eyes, I place my hands on either side of my body on the couch, pushing myself up, standing, reaching down for the bowl to put into the sink. “I want to go out and see what I missed. I don’t need fake friends.” They’re everywhere, people who simply want to be friends with me to be in magazines, to meet all the people I apparently talk to constantly; just because we were in a movie together or I was a guest star on someone’s show doesn’t mean that we talk all the time.
There are so many things that happened when I was shunning the outside world, and I can honestly say that I'm upset that my life was one of those things, but there were also other things. The movies that came out, two of which I was supposed to star in, one of which I was supposed to be a supporting actress, all of them, the good ones and the ones I would be able to make fun of, I missed them all. Those two British boy bands, that one that thinks they should be just as famous, and the other with millions and millions, possibly billions, of fans.
“Oh, apparently you’ve been getting texts and emails and calls from both Tyler Posey and Dylan O’Brien.” I don’t know who he’s talking about, or what he’s talking about, when I was getting these messages, or if they even did send me messages, I shut myself out from the outside world when I was gone, it wasn’t like I had to, I wanted to, I couldn’t get better with everyone watching. “The guys from Teen Wolf.”
Shaking my head, I lift my shoulders, dropping them back down, not really knowing what that show was, or who was in it for that matter. “That’s cool. I hang out with them all the time.” There’s no easier way to deal with the rumors of Hollywood than to just joke about it, make it funny, like the time people said I was going to be a judge on the X Factor, because I have such a great deal of knowledge as to how to make a popstar.
My younger sister won’t stop telling me about this band, that British boy band, with those five kids, curly, mysterious, something, whatever, and someone else. The music, god damn, it’s all I hear coming from her room, and they're all her and her friends talk about, it’s overwhelming, especially since I don’t know anything about them, especially since I was isolated, I loved being isolated, there was nothing besides my thoughts to destroy me, and though my mind is powerful, other people were a tad more damaging.
Combing his fingers through his hair, Beau looks at me with a blank expression, clearly not finding my joke funny. “Um, there’s a letter for you on your kitchen table. It’s from Simon Cowell.” Simon Cowell, the man who thought it would be a good idea to have me as a judge, the man who caused only a tenth of the drama in my life that tried to push me over the edge, what a wonderful man. I used to like him, really, when he was on American Idol and I was younger, when he was still on the show, he was awesome, he told the truth and he didn’t care if people hated him for it.
“Put it in the shredder.” I don’t know why Beau acts like he’s my assistant at times, but through therapy, I’ve learned to just appreciate it, appreciate his friendship and how he’s always trying to make sure that I'm on top of things and that I'm okay; I have to appreciate having a brother figure or I’ll lose him. “Like, let’s think about this. In an interview, I say I'm not a fan of the X Factor. They ask why. I say it’s because the singers don’t get to choose their songs, they don’t get to choose their wardrobe, and the fact that there are people in the background doing shitty stunts is quite obnoxious. So, as a result, he asks me to be a judge. I say no. He tells people I’m considering the offer. I get shit on because I don’t know enough about the music industry and I would ruin the show. Why would I want to communicate with that, that, bloody awful chap?”
Sighing, Beau chews on his lower lip, unsure of what to say, but I know that my dad opened the letter last night, that he probably took it out of the mailbox and read it, that if it was really bad he would have shredded it himself and not left it out for me, and Beau knows that, too. I have to realize that not everyone is all good or all bad, that people, in general, every person, has good and bad qualities, good and bad actions, good and bad thoughts. “There’s a disc in there.”
Furrowing my eyebrows together, I try to figure out why he would send me a disc, if it’s a CD or a DVD or a blank disc or whatever. I don’t know what it is, and part of me wants to find out, I want to know what this man had the balls to send me, because even though my anger is no longer impulsive and I know ways to deal with things that give me stress or upset me or anger me. “Unless it’s a Suicide Silence CD or a You Me At Six CD, considering those guys are from the UK, I want to melt it. Oh my god, can you melt a CD?”
“You're weird. I'm not melting the CD. Your dad listened to it and said that you should listen to it. He also said something about not letting your sister have it because she’ll get all happy and excited and want to leak it. Apparently, that’s not allowed.” It’s that band, the one that she’s obsessed with, the one that he created, brought together on his pathetic show, and I want nothing to do with it, with them, who the hell cares what they’re doing with their careers, there’s no reason for me to listen to it. He’s full of crap. I can’t believe that he would actually send me a CD with a band he created and manages.
One, One, D, One D something, Dimension, that’s what my father called them, that’s not it, One, shit, curly hair, the one who gets hate from the fans, stripe boys, shit, One, One Direction.