James Goldman’s stepson, and the oldest child in Goldman’s Brady Bunch-ish family.
We don’t know what role Jack is playing in Cherie’s life right now, but we hope it’s a reoccurring one. He just might give some competition to Cherie’s rumored beau, Caz Farrell, who also happened to be in attendance, though only briefly. Jack is around Cherie’s age, which is already an improvement from Caz, and he has that young, brooding James Dean look that makes the ladies here in our office say “Mmmhmm.” (Their words, we swear. We were more interested in Hansen’s smokin’ hot stepsisters (click here for pics!)) . One thing is certain: if Cherie does end up imprisoned in suburban New York until her 18 th birthday, at least she’s in good-looking company.
----
CHAPTER 8
J ewish people do something called Shiva when a person dies. They gather at a house to visit with the family members of the deceased and drink coffee. At one point in the night there are some prayers said and some songs sung. It’s a lot like a wake, except it goes on for days and the overpowering smell of flowers is replaced by an overwhelming cloud of freshly-brewed coffee. Fortunately, there’s a lot of food. There’s a lot of talking, too. During the very first hour, I overhear family members debating Cherie’s future, both as an actress and as a person.
“Terrible, just terrible – a girl that young?” their great-aunt Elyse whispers to a distant cousin over the top of her lipstick-stained Styrofoam cup. “Eh, no good. I imagine she’ll wind up on the path of some addict and get arrested, or worse.” She nods her head and gives a raised eyebrow,
“that’s-a-fact”
look. I load a small plate with cookies and pretend I can’t hear her, but the comment sits inside of my gut and ferments, making me anxious. I try to imagine Cherie doing anything that would mess up her hair, let alone her reputation, and it’s laughable to me.
But still, I wonder,
Could that really happen? Or are those ladies just being old and catty?
My phone buzzes with a new text message in my pocket. I check it quickly, and it’s my friend, Josh.
I open the message, grateful for the distraction. Maybe he’s throwing a party I can escape to. Then, my stomach drops. “Did I just c u on TV?”
TV? I’m on TV?
I want to turn one on, but then I stop. Cherie’s sitting right next to the one in the living room. Mom’s rule echoes loudly in my head. I rush upstairs to my laptop, closing the door to my room soundlessly. When I do a quick online search of Cherie Belle, the first few links are to news reports about the funeral. Sure enough, Channel 5 has posted video coverage of all of us standing in the cemetery. I see myself, which is weird, because I’m watching myself react in a moment that I still remember clearly. I note with a small amount of pride that I’m taller than Caz Farrell, and I’m a little bigger, too.
A knock on my door yanks me from my daze. “One second!”
“Your mom is looking for you,” Claudia calls from the other side.
My pulse pounds. “Tell her I’ll be right there.” I close my laptop before my mom can catch me completely breaking one of her only rules about this whole mess and head back downstairs.
I take out my phone and am about to reply “Yes” to Josh, but I stop, my thumb hovering over the send button. I look up and see Cherie, who sits stoically beside an old woman and nods with a somber frown as the lady rattles on about what great people her parents were.
Looking back at my phone, guilt gnaws at me. I promised my mom I wouldn’t talk about this with anyone, and I don’t want to tell anyone what is happening anyway. I don’t want the questions that will follow, and I don’t want the phone calls harassing me for information. Even more, I don’t want to be just another person putting her private life on display.
Instead of hitting send, I hold the power button down until the phone turns off.
I dodge Cherie for
We don’t know what role Jack is playing in Cherie’s life right now, but we hope it’s a reoccurring one. He just might give some competition to Cherie’s rumored beau, Caz Farrell, who also happened to be in attendance, though only briefly. Jack is around Cherie’s age, which is already an improvement from Caz, and he has that young, brooding James Dean look that makes the ladies here in our office say “Mmmhmm.” (Their words, we swear. We were more interested in Hansen’s smokin’ hot stepsisters (click here for pics!)) . One thing is certain: if Cherie does end up imprisoned in suburban New York until her 18 th birthday, at least she’s in good-looking company.
----
CHAPTER 8
J ewish people do something called Shiva when a person dies. They gather at a house to visit with the family members of the deceased and drink coffee. At one point in the night there are some prayers said and some songs sung. It’s a lot like a wake, except it goes on for days and the overpowering smell of flowers is replaced by an overwhelming cloud of freshly-brewed coffee. Fortunately, there’s a lot of food. There’s a lot of talking, too. During the very first hour, I overhear family members debating Cherie’s future, both as an actress and as a person.
“Terrible, just terrible – a girl that young?” their great-aunt Elyse whispers to a distant cousin over the top of her lipstick-stained Styrofoam cup. “Eh, no good. I imagine she’ll wind up on the path of some addict and get arrested, or worse.” She nods her head and gives a raised eyebrow,
“that’s-a-fact”
look. I load a small plate with cookies and pretend I can’t hear her, but the comment sits inside of my gut and ferments, making me anxious. I try to imagine Cherie doing anything that would mess up her hair, let alone her reputation, and it’s laughable to me.
But still, I wonder,
Could that really happen? Or are those ladies just being old and catty?
My phone buzzes with a new text message in my pocket. I check it quickly, and it’s my friend, Josh.
I open the message, grateful for the distraction. Maybe he’s throwing a party I can escape to. Then, my stomach drops. “Did I just c u on TV?”
TV? I’m on TV?
I want to turn one on, but then I stop. Cherie’s sitting right next to the one in the living room. Mom’s rule echoes loudly in my head. I rush upstairs to my laptop, closing the door to my room soundlessly. When I do a quick online search of Cherie Belle, the first few links are to news reports about the funeral. Sure enough, Channel 5 has posted video coverage of all of us standing in the cemetery. I see myself, which is weird, because I’m watching myself react in a moment that I still remember clearly. I note with a small amount of pride that I’m taller than Caz Farrell, and I’m a little bigger, too.
A knock on my door yanks me from my daze. “One second!”
“Your mom is looking for you,” Claudia calls from the other side.
My pulse pounds. “Tell her I’ll be right there.” I close my laptop before my mom can catch me completely breaking one of her only rules about this whole mess and head back downstairs.
I take out my phone and am about to reply “Yes” to Josh, but I stop, my thumb hovering over the send button. I look up and see Cherie, who sits stoically beside an old woman and nods with a somber frown as the lady rattles on about what great people her parents were.
Looking back at my phone, guilt gnaws at me. I promised my mom I wouldn’t talk about this with anyone, and I don’t want to tell anyone what is happening anyway. I don’t want the questions that will follow, and I don’t want the phone calls harassing me for information. Even more, I don’t want to be just another person putting her private life on display.
Instead of hitting send, I hold the power button down until the phone turns off.
I dodge Cherie for
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