to Danika on her left side, who looks disappointed to be dismissed. “I’m going to ride with my uncle and grandparents this time, and their limo’s pretty crowded.”
I’m surprised by this revelation, and I’m almost tempted to ask,
“Why?”
It seems so unnatural that she’d want to continue to mix with us commoners.
Betsy, a pretty, middle-aged woman, gives her a big hug. “Okay, baby. We’ll be in touch with you soon, okay? Don’t worry about the press; I’ll take care of it. Just keep your phone off. Don’t even look at Dirterazzi.com – just keep clear of the internet completely. I’ll update your blog in a few hours with a thank you to the fans or something.”
Cherie nods gratefully. “Thanks, Betsy.” She looks up at me. “We should probably be going, right Jack?” I nod quickly, realizing she needs me to get her out of the conversation.
“Yeah, they’re waiting,” I say stiffly.
As we turn to leave the cemetery, I take a cue from Jim and give my arm to Cherie, helping her brave the ocean of snow that covers the cemetery grounds.
“Thanks,” she whispers tightly, resting one hand in the crook of my arm and the other on the top of her drifting hat. She plods along in giant heeled boots that bring her head to just above my shoulder, and I wonder inwardly if she couldn’t have chosen a more unfortunate shoe for this event. She tries very hard not to stumble or struggle as we walk, and I immediately realize why when I hear the distant sound of cameras snapping away. I look up to see photographers intently capturing her every step through the cemetery, cursing at each other to get out of a shot.
They’d love nothing more than for her to fall right now, wouldn’t they? They’d love a shot of this overdressed little girl, this Hollywood princess with the not-so-fairytale life, falling in public. I scowl at them and make sure Cherie, in her high heels, with her fancy black dress and big hat and big fur wrap, makes a graceful exit into the waiting limo. I scowl at the photographers again before sliding into the empty seat next to her.
As the car pulls away and we are encased in silence, Cherie makes a sound like she is releasing the longest breath ever held by a person. Her head drops and her sunglasses slide down her nose, revealing eyes tightly scrunched in agony. Her mouth twists into a silent scream, and she doubles over onto herself. She’s disintegrating, the prim and proper façade gone, and now I realize why she wanted to be with us. No one else gets to see what’s behind the elaborate outfit, the passive line her lips make. No one else gets to see the stuff that happens once the door of the lavish limousine hides all of us from their prying eyes.
I’ve only seen one other person this hurt before, and I shudder from the memory of my mother lying on our kitchen floor, my father’s farewell note clutched in her hand.
Looking out at the sea of red, worn faces in our limo, each set of eyes welling with fresh new tears at the sight of Cherie’s breakdown, I realize I’m the last person who should be sitting beside her. While the picture moves everyone else to sobs, I feel like I’ve been punched in the gut, and I don’t know what to do.
“Oh, sweetheart,” Mom murmurs. She moves from her seat and trades places with me, throwing her arms around Cherie’s shoulders and crying with her. She is finally needed.
Britney crawls into my lap, which is the distraction I need.
----
DIRTERAZZI.COM
WHO IS CHERIE'S MYSTERY MAN?
At the snowy funeral for Cherie Belle’s parents today, tears and celebrities were to be as expected as the cold New York temperatures. What was not expected, however, was the heat between the mourning Belle and a mystery friend who stood stoically at her side. Onlookers noticed a tall, handsome youth doting on Cherie and assisting her in and out of the cemetery throughout the day. Those in attendance at the funeral identified the young man as Jack Hansen,
I’m surprised by this revelation, and I’m almost tempted to ask,
“Why?”
It seems so unnatural that she’d want to continue to mix with us commoners.
Betsy, a pretty, middle-aged woman, gives her a big hug. “Okay, baby. We’ll be in touch with you soon, okay? Don’t worry about the press; I’ll take care of it. Just keep your phone off. Don’t even look at Dirterazzi.com – just keep clear of the internet completely. I’ll update your blog in a few hours with a thank you to the fans or something.”
Cherie nods gratefully. “Thanks, Betsy.” She looks up at me. “We should probably be going, right Jack?” I nod quickly, realizing she needs me to get her out of the conversation.
“Yeah, they’re waiting,” I say stiffly.
As we turn to leave the cemetery, I take a cue from Jim and give my arm to Cherie, helping her brave the ocean of snow that covers the cemetery grounds.
“Thanks,” she whispers tightly, resting one hand in the crook of my arm and the other on the top of her drifting hat. She plods along in giant heeled boots that bring her head to just above my shoulder, and I wonder inwardly if she couldn’t have chosen a more unfortunate shoe for this event. She tries very hard not to stumble or struggle as we walk, and I immediately realize why when I hear the distant sound of cameras snapping away. I look up to see photographers intently capturing her every step through the cemetery, cursing at each other to get out of a shot.
They’d love nothing more than for her to fall right now, wouldn’t they? They’d love a shot of this overdressed little girl, this Hollywood princess with the not-so-fairytale life, falling in public. I scowl at them and make sure Cherie, in her high heels, with her fancy black dress and big hat and big fur wrap, makes a graceful exit into the waiting limo. I scowl at the photographers again before sliding into the empty seat next to her.
As the car pulls away and we are encased in silence, Cherie makes a sound like she is releasing the longest breath ever held by a person. Her head drops and her sunglasses slide down her nose, revealing eyes tightly scrunched in agony. Her mouth twists into a silent scream, and she doubles over onto herself. She’s disintegrating, the prim and proper façade gone, and now I realize why she wanted to be with us. No one else gets to see what’s behind the elaborate outfit, the passive line her lips make. No one else gets to see the stuff that happens once the door of the lavish limousine hides all of us from their prying eyes.
I’ve only seen one other person this hurt before, and I shudder from the memory of my mother lying on our kitchen floor, my father’s farewell note clutched in her hand.
Looking out at the sea of red, worn faces in our limo, each set of eyes welling with fresh new tears at the sight of Cherie’s breakdown, I realize I’m the last person who should be sitting beside her. While the picture moves everyone else to sobs, I feel like I’ve been punched in the gut, and I don’t know what to do.
“Oh, sweetheart,” Mom murmurs. She moves from her seat and trades places with me, throwing her arms around Cherie’s shoulders and crying with her. She is finally needed.
Britney crawls into my lap, which is the distraction I need.
----
DIRTERAZZI.COM
WHO IS CHERIE'S MYSTERY MAN?
At the snowy funeral for Cherie Belle’s parents today, tears and celebrities were to be as expected as the cold New York temperatures. What was not expected, however, was the heat between the mourning Belle and a mystery friend who stood stoically at her side. Onlookers noticed a tall, handsome youth doting on Cherie and assisting her in and out of the cemetery throughout the day. Those in attendance at the funeral identified the young man as Jack Hansen,
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