To Play With Chess.

After the death of her Aunt, self-destructive 18yo Jessica Calvin, moves to L.A. in search of fame, fortune &Jocelyn Winter, the 90s rock goddess with whom she believes she shares a '1-way-freindship'

To PLAY WITH CHESS...

                                   

                                 

 

 

It’s kind of ridiculous how much I hate clipart.

            I don’t know exactly why I loathe it the way I do, but it just gives me the creeps.

            Clipart reminds me of the s****y half-assed Christmas and birthday cards my mom used to send me every other year, or so. The one’s the said things like, Hooray! You’re ten today! even though I was thirteen and way too old to forgive my mom for forgetting that.

            Needless to say, sitting in the hospital waiting room, and watching the sneezing girl beside me create a clipart collage on her desktop was not how I wanted to spend my afternoon.

            Doesn’t she have any real pictures? I caught myself wondering.

            It occurred to me then that there was�" indeed�" a very real possibility that she actually didn’t have and pictures of my own.

            After all, I didn’t have very many.

            “Jessica… Calvin?”

            My head snapped up.

            “Yes?”

            The receptionist, wearing floral-print scrubs smiled at me and waved, looking up from her clipboard.

            “Your aunt is out of surgery,” she explained. “You can go see her now.”

            I jumped to my feet, grabbing my messenger bag and slinging it over my shoulder.

            The receptionist placed a hand on my arm, bringing me to a halt.

            “How old did you say you were, again?” she said, glancing suspiciously between me and the date of birth I put down on the visitation forms.

            “Twenty-one,” I lied.

            Sighing, the receptionist ushered me back through the tall double-doors.

            “Your aunt is in room 34B.”

            I spun around, trying to find any door with a number on it.

            “That’s upstairs,” the receptionist said, nodding.

            “Oh,” I muttered, stumbling over to the elevator. I smiled awkwardly at her before getting in.

            “Going up?” someone asked. I looked over to see a hospital employee standing beside an empty wheelchair.

            “Uh. Yeah,” I muttered, twiddling my thumbs.

            The doctor pushed a button and we headed upstairs.

            “You here to see family?” he asked.

            I nodded, my eyes locked on the doors in front of me.

            “Nothing too serious, I hope,” he noted, with a tiny nod.

            “No,” I said, distantly. “Nothing too serious.”

            There was a loud ding noise and the elevator shuddered to a stop.

            “Ah. This is my floor,” the doctor said, smiling. “Good luck.”

            He pushed the wheelchair out of the elevator.

            Did he really just say ‘good luck’? Like we’re all playing poker or something? I frowned. Whatever.

            The doors to the elevator re-opened and I stepped out onto what I hoped was the correct floor.

            “Uhm… Excuse me,” I said, catching the attention of one of the nurses.

            “Yes?”

            “Can you show me where room… 34B is?” I asked, hopelessly.

            The nurse nodded and pointed me in the right direction.

            “Wait a second,” she said. For a moment I worried she, too, would give me trouble about my age.

            “You’re… Jessie, aren’t you?” the nurse beamed.

            I stared at her, taken aback and partially freaked out about her knowing my name.           

            “I’m Aubree, Lyn’s nurse,” she said, holding out her hand. I shook it, awkwardly.

            Aubree beamed. “You’re aunt speaks very highly of you, honey,” she said. “She thinks you hung the moon.” Her expression mellowed a little and she placed a hand on my arm. “How are you holding up?”

            I shifted my weight around awkwardly, trying to think of the appropriate thing to say.

            It was distracting though, to have to worry about her hand on my arm like that.

            “I’m fine,” I said, after a moment’s pause. “I’m doing okay.”

            Aubree smiled, sadly. “Well, okay. If�"“

            She cut off, abruptly, her fingers probing my forearm through my T-shirt.

            Her eyes widened and she attempted to make eye contact.

            “Oh honey…” she breathed. “Honey, you need help.”

            I jerked my arm away, tugging my sleeve down over my hand.

            “I’m fine,” I repeated, glaring at her. “And don’t mention this to my aunt.”

            I sprinted down the hallway, away from Aubree-who-knew-too-much.

            Room 34B.

            I slipped through the doorway as quietly as I could, not wanting to disturb Aunt Lyn if�" by some act of God�" she’d managed to fall asleep.

            “Hey, honey…”

            Well I guess that didn’t happen.

            “Hey, Lyn,” I said, smiling. “How are you feeling?”

            Aunt Lyn gave a tiny, little smile. “Like s**t, as always,” she said. “But better now that you’re here. I wanted to talk to you.”

            I smiled back at her. “Good,” I said, reaching for my messenger bag. “I’m here all afternoon, Aunt Lyn. I got off work and I brought you some stuff and�"“

            “�" Jessica, it’s about… your mother.”           

            I froze, letting the bag drop to the floor.

            “What’s wrong?” I asked, not sure I wanted to hear the answer.

            “She’s out of rehab,” Aunt Lyn said. “The doctors say she’s clean.” Pause. “Jessie, she wants you with her.”

            Expressionless, I looked back down and began to collect my things.

            “Well, that’s not going to happen,” I said, trying to remain calm for Aunt Lyn’s sake. “I’m eighteen now. I can do what I want to do.”

            “That’s true,” Aunt Lyn nodded. “But all I’m asking is that you give her a chance.” Aunt Lyn took in one, deep, shuttering breath. “She’s my sister after all. You’re her daughter and you hardly know her.”                       

            I couldn’t look at Lyn. Not now. Not like this.

            “Well, she had her chance,” I reminded my aunt. “She left me with you. That’s the way it’s supposed to be.”

            Aunt Lyn reached out and absently grabbed my hand.

            “Well, I might not be around forever,” she said, her voice quaking. “Then who will you belong with?”

            I jerked my hand away, feeling suddenly afraid.

            “Don’t,” I snapped. “Stop talking like that. You’re not going anywhere.”

            I wrung my hands.

            “Maybe I should come back later.”

            “Aww, Jessie,” Aunt Lyn said. She always stayed so calm. How could she just do that? “I know this isn’t what you wanted to hear from me.”

            A dull rage began to bubble up in my stomach.”

            “Damn right it isn’t,” I cried. “You can’t give up, okay? And you can’t expect me to just… go live with my mother. I hate her!” I screamed. “I hate her! I hate her! I hate her! But I love you.”

            Lyn just shook her head and said, “Honey, you’ve got to give her a chance.”

            “No. No way. Never.”

            Giving another faint smile, Aunt Lyn whispered, “Maybe you should come back later. You need time to think.”

 

                                               

 

 

It’s funny how final wishes are never really final wishes.

            So my Aunt wanted me to make peace with my mom, huh? Well, I could try, but there was no guarantee that anything would happen between us.

            I met her again at Aunt Lyn’s funeral.

            “Oh, baby,” she said, when she saw me. She wrapped me in a hug that smelled like cigarette smoke and hairspray. “I’m so glad to see you again.”

            I didn’t reply.

            “You look beautiful,” mom said, her eyes wide. “So much like I did when I was young…”

            Well let’s hope I don’t age like you did, I thought, rolling my eyes.

            My mom’s smile vanished when I still refused to reply.

            “Should we go inside?” she asked, her voice small.

            “Sure,” I sighed. “Lead the way.”

            I let my mom think I was following her and then ducked off into the kitchen at the last minute.

            For some crazy reason, Aunt Lyn wanted to have the service at our home up in Redding. I think this was a bad idea because A) the estate was being sold, so the entire house looked like a big, empty building ready for demolition and B) we hardly had enough family and friends to fill the house to the point where this looked like a funeral and not a girl scout troop meeting.

            There was one good thing, though.

            The food.

            I grabbed exactly nine cheese cubes as I headed down the hallway, pushing them into my mouth one-by-one.

            Eating is a good excuse not to talk to people.

            It’s also a good excuse to become morbidly obese, which was why all the time I spent eating, I also planned how and when I would throw up the food I consumed.

            I wandered through the empty house, stopping at the place that was my room growing up. The inside with very empty now. Just some plain, boring commercial carpeting, the mattress on the floor where I was sleeping until I found someone to stay with and a few photos propped up on the windowsill. Along with one band poster on the ceiling. That was really the only thing that made this room seem like… well, someone’s room.

            I walked over to the window, examining each individual photo.

            There was one of myself and Aunt Lyn at my eighth birthday party. I was holding a pinwheel in one hand, a rainbow expertly painted on my face. Aunt Lyn looked happy as always, her hair bleached blonde and up in curls.

            The photo next to it was slightly darker, depicting an image of myself and our old dog, Hopper, who died when I was fifteen. I was probably no older than five in the picture. Hopper and I were sitting together in a kiddy pool, surrounded by overturned plastic sail boats and starfish toys.

            The third photo was the oldest by far. It was also the only photo that my mother was in. In the picture, she was no less than nine months pregnant with me, sitting on a rocking chair in the trailer where I spent the first eight months of my life before she dropped me off with her sister. My mom looked tired in the picture. She was knitting something�" a scarf of some sort�" to keep her hands busy and out of her cigarette boxes.

            The most fascinating thing about this picture, though, was the shirt my mother wore. It was really the only connection the two of us ever had. Her shirt was baggy and faded, and displayed the logo for a band called Candico.

            Candico. The band I grew up with. The music I hummed before I could talk. My muse. My inspiration. My reason to live.

            Okay, that might be a slight exaggeration but it’s mostly true.

            The fourth and final photo on the windowsill is by far my favorite.

            The picture was taken in a dark, low exposure room. It’s a miracle of developed at all. In it, I am no more than eleven, wearing an oversized plaid T-shirt, ripped jeans and combat boots. There is eyeliner on my eyes�" something Aunt Lyn let me do just that one time�" and I’m smiling like a little idiot because standing right beside me is Jocelyn Winter, the fierce, talented, vixen front woman for Candico.

            She signed the photo, too.

            To Jess�"

            Best wishes!

            Love, Joss.

            My heart hammered every time I looked at it.

            “I’m still jealous of that, you know?”

            I jumped at the sound of my mother’s voice.

            “S**t, mom, you want to give me a heart attack?” I demanded, being intentionally vicious. Maybe that would make her go away.

            “Sorry,” mom said, seemingly unfazed. She plucked the picture from my hands, examining it more closely.

            More rage. More burning rage.

            “How long did you have to wait to take this?” mom asked, looking down at the photo.

            “Three hours,” I replied, reaching out and taking it back.

            “I should have taken you to that concert,” my mom said, looking suddenly sad. “We could have had so much fun together.”

            “Well, I did have fun,” I said, placing the photo back where it belonged. “Aunt Lyn was happy to take me.”

            “I’m sure she was,” my mother agreed, giving a tiny nod. “Still…”

            I sighed, deciding I didn’t want to stick around and listen to her reminisce.

            “I have to go,” I said, abruptly. “So do you. I don’t want you hanging around. You might steal something.”

            My mom’s eyes widened, but she didn’t say a words. Instead, she and I simply stepped outside and mingled in with the rest of the party. I worked my way towards the bathroom, while she took off in the other direction.

            God, I love my family.

                                               

Being homeless is no fun, especially when you have an alternative that you really, really don’t want to take.

            No one wants to choose between homelessness and hell. It’s hard to see which is the lesser of two evils, sometimes.

            “Hey, Danny?”

            I held the payphone close to my ear.

            “Jess?”

            “Yeah it’s me,” I said. “I know this is awkward but… could I crash on your couch tonight? Maybe tomorrow, too? Just until�"“

            “�" Jessie, I’m seeing somebody right now.”

            “No,” I said, rubbing my eyes. “No, listen, Danny, I just need a place to sleep that’s all.”

            “Can’t you find someone else?”

            “No.”

            “I’m sorry, Jessie.”

            I hung up the phone, and sighed.

            So this is what it comes down to, I thought. Calling ex-boyfriends or calling your mother. Which sounds worse?

            I picked up the phone again, inserting my last dime, and dialed my mother’s number.

            “Hello?”

            At first I didn’t know what to say.

            “H�" Hello?” My mom asked again.

            “Hey… mom. It’s me… Jessie?” I said, more of a question than a statement.

            “Jessie?” mom asked, sounding way too excited. “What are you doing, honey?”

            Oh God. She sounded so drunk.

            I closed my eyes tightly. “Um. Actually, I need a place to stay. Aunt Lyn’s house was auctioned today and… well, I don’t really have anywhere to go, so…”

            “Of course, honey, come right over!” mom gushed. “But pick up some tequila first, alright? We’ll have a little toast.”

            I rolled my eyes.

            “Bye, mom,” I said.

            “Bye, hon.”

           

 

 

           

                                               

 

I got settled in relatively quickly since I didn’t have very many things with me.           

            The room my mother assigned me was small and drafty place, but it would do.

            It was better than living on the streets anyway. Kind of.

            Somewhere, on the other side of the trailer, my mom was drinking tequila shots all alone in the dimly lit kitchen, while watching a taped episode of “The Today Show” from three years ago because she thinks Matt Lauer is�" quote�" yummy.

            She invited me to join her. I�" of course�" declined, choosing instead to spend my time putting together what would be my bedroom.

            The layout was simple. Mattress on the floor, poster on the ceiling. Clothes in the armoire. Photos on the windowsill.

            There. Done. Finished.

            “Mom?” I called, stepping out into the living room.

            I heard her laughing quietly in the other room.

            “Oh, honey!” she cried, slurring slightly. “Did you come to watch with me?”

            I grabbed my coat. “No. I’m going out.”

            My mother’s face fell.

            “All right, then,” she said. “Maybe later?”

            “Maybe never,” I grumbled, heading out into the rain.

            I made my way down to Scott & Son’s instrument shop by sundown, hopping off of my bike and heading indoors.

            “Ah! Jessie! You’re back! We were worried!” Scott�" the owner�" noted, as I walked inside.

            I shook the rain out of my hair and smiled meekly.

            “Family emergency,” I said, walking briskly past the front counter. “Did my order come in yet?”

            Scott hurried to keep up with me. “Yes. It shipped last week. Beautiful choice, by the way. I hope you don’t mind, I tested it out myself.

            “No problem,” I said.

            Slowly, I stooped down in front of the large, beige guitar on display. It was perfect.

            “I paid you already, right?” I asked, turning my attention to the guitar cases.

            Scott nodded. “Yep. And you traded your Fender. Which, by the way, sold in less than an hour.”

            I smiled at him, picking up my new guitar and giving it a strum.

            “You think this was a good investment?” I asked.           

            Scott nodded, his eyes wide. “Oh, yes, Miss Jessie. You chose wisely. These guitars are the very best. There are none better!”

            I smiled. “Good,” I said. “Because I spent all of my rent money on this thing.”

            I’m not a very easy to please person. It takes a lot to make me truly happy.

            It was one in the morning when I first busted out my new guitar. I was resting against the wall, just sitting on my mattress and listening to the rain when I thought, you know what would be nice now? Some music. My music.

            I reached for my guitar, snatching it out of its case and giving it a strum.

            “Nice,” I whispered. Scott was right. This was the best guitar I’d ever owned.

            Aunt Lyn was always very adamant about my music. She loved it and she wanted me to pursue it as a career. During my childhood, I thought this was a pretty cool idea, and spent a considerable amount of time pretending to be a rock star and lip singing along to Candico records in my bedroom.

            Then at around age thirteen, I started to shy away from music. I felt like a freak. I could hardly take the pressure of school and homework and being the motherless-child who always required an explanation. I didn’t have time to play or sing or enjoy myself in any way.

            All the free time I had, was spent locked in the bathroom vomiting and running a razor blade down the inside of my wrists.            

            Then one day when I was sixteen it just hit me.

            All that cutting and puking and all-around self-destructing didn’t make me a freak or a loser.

            It was all the perfect material.

            All I needed was a guitar. I had all the makings for an awesome, super fucked up album of songs.

            And that’s how I spent the last two years of my life.

            There was a knock on the door.

            I groaned.

            “Come in,” I said.

            My mother stumbled into the room, looking headache-y and tired.

            “Just wondering…” she began, seeming hesitant. “Would it be possible for you to keep it down? Just a little bit?” she smiled at me, weakly.

            “No,” I said, and then I went back to playing.

            Typical mother, I thought. She can’t appreciate what I have at all.

           

           

 

MY Aunt Lyn’s last wishes were for me to make amends with my mother and for me to pursue music.

            Not the easiest combination, by any stretch of the imagination.

            For one, there was no way I could get anywhere musically in Redding. I needed to move to Los Angeles. I’d been saving for weeks and I could hardly wait to get out.

            Also, I don’t think my mom ever liked my music. How could I expect her to support it if she didn’t approve.

            She doesn’t approve of anything that shows her how nicely I grew up without her, I thought to myself, as I piled the trunk of my car.

            “Jessica? What are you doing?”

            I whipped around, startled.

            My mother was rushing out of her trailer, in just a nightgown. I groaned.

            “I’m leaving,” I said, bluntly. “I can’t stick around.”

            “Oh but baby please.”

            Mom tugged on my sleeve, clinging to me like an obnoxious toddler.

            “I have to go,” I repeated. “I have to get to L.A.”

            “L.A.?” my mom demanded, looking taken aback. “What’s there for you in that pretentious town?”

            Not a town, mom, I thought, but I didn’t say it.

            Instead I told her the truth.

            “Opportunity,” I explained, walking around to the passenger side. I placed my photos on the seat.

            “Well, there’s opportunity in Redding!” my mother exclaimed. “There’s opportunity all around you, just open your eyes!”

            “There’s no opportunity, mom,” I said.

            My mom looked up at me, with tears in her eyes.

            Why was she choosing now to get all emotional?

            “Well, at least let me ride down with you!” she whimpered. “At least let me do that! Please baby! Please! I need that, at least!”

            I shook my head. “No. I have to go alone.”

            My mom grabbed a hold of my arm again.

            “I can’t let you leave!” she cried. “Not again.”

            I shook her off. “I never left before,” I reminded her. “You did.”

            My mother scurried after me, as I headed for the driver’s seat.

            “I know that but�" but I was different, honey,” she argued.

            “No,” I spat, viciously. “You were a drunk. You’re still a drunk. And you’re always going to be a drunk, so get out of my way!”

            Then, with no warning, my mother pushed me aside and jumped into the driver’s seat.

            “Mom!” I screamed. “What the�"?”

            The engine roared to life, as my mom drove the car forward.

            And right into the redwood tree that stood out on our lawn.

            “Mom!” I screamed, horrified. “What have you done?”

            My mom stumbled out of the car. Only then did it occur to me that she’d been drunk all along.

            “There,” she declared. “Now your car’s ruined! Now you can’t leave me, can you?”

            I glared at her. “You stupid b***h,” I growled. “This doesn’t change anything.”

 

           

 

I bought a train ticket to Los Angeles, using up the remainder of my cash.

            While wandering around the train station, I spotted several flyers advertising everything from karate lessons to renaissance fairs all fully decked out with�" get this�" clipart.

            “Ugh,” I groaned, picking one up off the ground.

            Come to Molly’s Bakery! Where every day is a happy day!

            I stared at the flyer, complete with a little clipart muffin and cringed. What was the point of all of these things anyway?

            Sighing, I dumped the flyer in the trash and pulled out my cell phone.

            Now was a good time for important business.

            And my important business, I mean texting Davi, my online best friend of five and a half years.

           

DAVI!!!!

           

            JESSIE!!!

GUESS WHAT?

    

     WHAT?

I’m going to Los Angeles!

    

     As in moving...?

    

YEP!

     Whoa! Tell JWIN I said hi!

 

Yeah. I’ll talk to her. Right after I get out of my conference with the queen of England.

     Well, you never know... ;)

 

Right. Hah! I appreciate your optimism. Trains here! Just thought I’d let you know. J     

     Mkay. Have fun! xoxoxoxo.

 

I returned my phone to my pocket and boarded the train.

 

                                   

 

The woman beside me introduced herself as Hope Clair de Lune Thomilstan.

            “I take it you look Debussy, then?” I asked, smiling.

            She just stared at me for a long time and said, “Who?”

            Oh for the love of God, I thought to myself. Aren’t old people supposed to know all about classical music?

            After that I put my headphones in. Conversation with my neighbor was out. No thank you.

            “Who are you listening to?” Hope Clair de Lune asked, when we hit our first stop.

            “Oh,” I stuttered. “It’s… umm… Candico. You know them?”

            A smile of recognition spread across her face. “That’s the band with that lead singer right? The one with the hair?”

            I stared at her for a long moment.

            The one with the hair? That’s descriptive.

            “Um, yeah,” I said, finally. Probably better just to go with it.

            “That’s nice,” Hope Clair de Lune said. “Not really my type of music, though.”

            I put my headphones back in. Now there really wasn’t anything for us to discuss.

            About fifteen minutes later, I caught Hope Clair de Lune staring at me.

            “Um… yes?” I asked, awkwardly.

            She reached forward and took my hand, examining my wrist.

            Oh, I thought, slightly relieved. She’s just looking at my tattoo.

            For a moment there, I was worried she wanted us to join hands and pray or something.

            “What is this?” Hope Clair de Lune asked, curiously pointing at the ‘C’ tattooed on my wrist.

            “It’s the logo. For Candico,” I explained.

            “Oooh,” she breathed, looking up at me. “So, you really like them, huh?”

            I noticed she was eyeing my T-shirt.

            Right. The Candico tour T-shirt. Now I was starting to look like the insane one.

            “Uhm, yeah,” I said. “I do…”

            Hope Clair de Lune smiled. “That’s lovely,” she said, looking away from me.

            See, this is why my only friend is an obese, middle aged, transsexual man who wears pink wigs and eyeliner and spends all day on band forums. Whenever I meet strangers, all I can think to talk about is Candico.

            Kind of ridiculous. Right?

            I pulled out my cell phone again.

 

HEY, DAVI? DO YOU THINK I’M A FREAK? I asked.

           

You’re only as freaky as I am! He replied.

           

            I groaned, pressing my head against the back of my seat.

            This is why I was moving to Los Angeles. I needed a fresh start.

            Turns out Hope Clair de Lune Tomilstan was on her way to L.A., too.

            “I have a son there,” she explained. “He lives with his cat, Buttercup and his Peacock, Mr. Featherson.”

            I stared at her, cursing any deity who cared to listen.

            “That’s nice,” I noted. “What exactly do peacocks… eat?” I asked. I’d actually always wondered that.

            “Well… Mr. Featherson eats fish. And whole grain toast,” she said, giggling.

            Officially creeped out, I got to my feet and tried to find some sort of excuse to leave.

            “You just went to the bathroom five minutes ago,” Hope Clair de Lune commented. “Do you have a bladder problem?”

            “No,” I said, quickly. “I need a snack or something.”

            “Oh! Great!” she exclaimed. “Grab me a Nutri-Grain bar!” she handed me about fifty dollars and then went back to playing digital solitaire.

            I frowned and left our small compartment. I could not believe I was stuck with this woman for another hour. Just five minutes more sounded like torture.

            “Hey! Watch it!”           

            Someone bumped into me as I changed compartments, spilling hot chocolate all over my jeans.

            “AHH! F**K!” I screamed. “Burningburningburningburning…” I ran around in circles, wondering if stop-drop-and-roll might apply here.           

            “Ma’am!” someone shouted, scoldingly. I looked up to see�" I kid you not�" a nun sitting by herself beside me. “Do mind your language.”

            My eyes went wide. “Well you try having someone dump a cup full of burning lava on your lap and then we’ll see how you respond.”

            “Ma’am, I’m going to need to escort you back to your compartment,” another person said.

            I felt someone grab me by the arm.

            “Come on, ma’am,” he said. “Let’s take you back to your seat.”

            “Wait,” I argued, struggling. “But I need to get my Nutri-grain bar!”

 

 

                                   

           

By the time we made it to Los Angeles, I think Hope Clair de Lune and I were equally annoyed with each other.

            She was annoyed with me because I’m not a very god conversationalist. All I could do was stutter off some random Candico trivia facts and tell one horrible knock-knock joke I read on this inside of a Laffy Taffy rapper. She on the other hand, could talk for hours, About peacocks, and her son, and how to get your daily fiber…

            Which brings us to why she annoyed me.

            Do I really need to explain that?

            When the train finally pulled to a stop, I was about to claw my eyes out. I’d listened to a total of three songs that whole drip and I could swear my ears were bleeding from listening to Hope Clair de Lune talk.

            “Well, my travel buddy,” she said, opening her flabby arms for a hug. “I hope you enjoyed this chu-chu train ride!”

            She was kidding. Surely, she was kidding.

            “Ehhh…” I breathed, nodding awkwardly as her arms enveloped my entire body, squeezing me against her.

            “I hope you find whatever you’re looking for,” she said, sounding way too much like the fairy godmother from Cinderella. Then she added, “Dreams do come true,” and I almost puked. Literally.

            We got off the train after that, and my next task was finding a place to stay.

            Luckily for me, there were a million little flyers at this train station, as well.

            All completely with clipart. I cringed.

            The first flyer I spotted was for some kind of cooking lessons.

            No thanks.

            The second was for musical auditions.

            Double no thanks.

            The third was for “spiritual awakening” at the Mormon Church.

            Um. Triple no thanks.

            Come on, I thought. Someone must need a roommate.

            Sighing, I collected my things and made my way to the next support-beam covered in flyers. Maybe I’d have better luck here.

            And I did.

            After about ten minutes of searching, I came across a flyer that advertised what I was looking for.

            Apartment for rent. 444 East Aldan Avenue.

            I snatched the flyer and placed it on my coat pocket.

            444 East Aldan Avenue, here I come…

 

                                     

            Of all the places I could have picked to live… this was definitely the weirdest.

                        I showed up in front of the small, drab looking building. To be totally honest, this place could easily be mistaken for a crackhouse. Actually, it probably was.

            This was Los Angeles, after all.

            I knocked on the door.

            No response.

            I knocked again.

            “Hello?”

            “Oh for Christ’s sake,” I heard someone giggle inside. “I’m on my way!”

            The door swung open.

            A blonde woman, with her hair in cornrows stood before me, wearing nothing but her underwear and a T-shirt, rhinestone studded with the Playboy logo. A cigarette hung loosely out of the corner of her mouth.

            “Hey,” she said, casually leaning against the doorway. “You here for the… uh… stuff…” she made a pointing motion towards the inside of the house.

            “Stuff?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.

            “The pot,” she said, like I was an idiot. Then, suddenly, she sobered up. “Hey, you’re not a cop are you?”

            “No, no,” I said, holding up my hands in mock-surrender. “Definitely not.”           

            “Good,” she said, flicking a few ashes off of her cigarette and onto my shoes. “We don’t like cops around here.”

            She turned around, motioning for me to follow her.

            “So why are you here, kid?” she asked, conversationally. I watches as she pulled a bottle of cheap-looking wine from the top of her dusty television set.

            “You want some?” she asked, offering me the bottle. Then she paused. “Wait, how old are you?” she asked.

            Before I could answer she laughed and thrust the bottle in my hands. “Have it,” she said, collapsing on the couch. “I don’t give a s**t.”           

            I hesitated, slightly frightening by the woman in front of me.

            “Okay,” she said, sounding annoyed. “You can start now.”

            I frowned. “Start?”

            The woman groaned. “Do what I’m paying you to do!” she shouted.

            “You’re not… paying me to do anything…” I said, backing away slowly. I bumped into what appeared to be a stack of DVD’s with the covers blacked out. Lovely.

            “F**k. You’re not my hooker?” the woman said, looking surprised. I shook my head. “Then what the f**k are you doing in my house?”

            I pulled the flyer from my pocket. “I’m… uh… here about the room for rent.” I smiled, sheepishly. Crazy or not, this woman was still my only hope.

            Frowning, my new friend leaned forward and snatched the paper from me, examining it closely before tossing it aside.

            “Stupid Chris! That a*****e!” she fumed, getting to her feet.

            “Listen…” I said. “If I should go…?”           

            “No, no, stay,” the woman said, shaking her head. “I’m Starla.” She held out her hand before quickly retracting it. “On second thought,” she said. “You might not want to touch my hands right now.”

            I tried really hard not to puke on the floor.

            “Anyway,” she explained. “My stupid a*****e ex-boyfriend, Chris, put the room up for rent.” She rolled her eyes. “I swear her thinks he owns the place,” she muttered, climbing the stairs. “You can stay here at night but I don’t want to see you anywhere near here during the day. All right, honey? I’ve got work to do and I don’t need distractions.”

            I didn’t really want to know what she meant by work so I just nodded and followed her up to what would be my room.

            “Here you go,” she said, holding her arms out. The room was drafty and cold with several leaks all around. There was a mattress on the floor and an entire corner full of drug paraphernalia.

            “I’ll clean those up,” she said, half-coughing, half-laughing.

            “Thanks…” I said, slowly, putting my things down on the floor.

            “Rents at the end of the month,” Starla declared. “And, by the way, sometimes I lock the doors at night to keep Chris out, you know? So you might have to climb through the window.”

            She jerked her thumb in the direction of the window in the corner. Great. A third story window climb was just what I needed.

            Still, it was this or the streets tonight.

            “I’ll take it,” I said, dropping my last item�" my new guitar case�" down on the mattress.

            This should be interesting…

           

 

My second task upon arriving in Los Angeles was booking myself a show. Anywhere.

            See, I had this whole game plan. I wanted to move to L.A., start playing shows, gain some popularity and then… who knows? I just needed to accomplish the first three tasks and I’d be set. Or something.

            Anyway, I needed a venue first.

            So the next day I went searching.

            The first place I found that offered any kind of open mic night was a café called Lucilles. It was a nice enough place. Not too bad at all. The staff seemed pretty eager when I said I was interested, which left me with the impression that few people came to these events. But, oh well, right? You have to start off somewhere.

            I played at Lucille’s on my first Saturday in Los Angeles. Only about eleven people showed, including the four staff member. In the end, though, two people asked if I was selling CD’s.

            That meant at least two people were interested.

            I played at Lucille’s again the next Saturday and someone asked me if I’d ever played at some place called Rodney’s Bar and Grill. She said her boyfriend worked there and their performers usually sucked.

            She said they could use someone like me.

            So I went to Rodney’s and played on Monday and some crazy old man gave me twenty bucks for no reason. I took it�" gratefully�" since I was still completely clueless as to how I was supposed to pay my rent.

            I played Rodney’s again that next Friday. Then Lucille’s on Saturday. Each time about twenty five people came.

            Things were improving. Kind of.

            About a week later, I got a text message from Davi.

 

You’re never going to believe who just sent me an email...

    

     Who?

Your mother.

    

     What the f**k? Why?

 

She wants to know where you are. She got my email from her computer history. Hasn’t anyone ever taught you how to clear that?

    

     Sorry. What did you tell her?

 

For a long time, there was no reply.

 

DAVI. What did you tell her?

 

     I’m sorry! But she sounded so sad! She misses you!

 

You told her where I’m living?!

 

I felt so betrayed in that moment. Davi was the only friend I had. Naturally, he was the only person who knew my street address. He was also the only person who know about my relationship with my mother. Why would he sell me out like that?

 

I’m sorry.

 

I don’t want to talk to you right now.

 

I turned my phone off after that.

 

 

I went home that night, locked the doors, and watched six hours of interviews with Jocelyn Winter.

            Then I googled ‘Jocelyn Winter phone number’ for about an hour. Because I felt like, in this moment, she was the only friend I had.

            And I really wanted to talk to her.

            See, this is the problem with being�" metaphorically speaking, of course�" in love with a celebrity or… public figure.

            It’s personal. It’s a secret. It’s obsessive and it can’t be shared.

            This kind of ‘love’ or ‘friendship’ is something that must always be kept to yourself.

            Because, see, if I tried to tell someone how I felt about Jocelyn Winter; they’d laugh. They’d brush it off as some stupid, passive, celebrity obsession that would soon be replaced.

            But that’s not it. Not at all. I’ve spent that last eighteen years of my life tied to Candico in some way or another. It’s not stupid. Or passive. It’s like this big… stalker-y obsession that is totally justified in my head.

            Sometimes I don’t understand why I wasn’t born Jocelyn Winters best friend. Or her sister. Or her. She had five sisters. Why wasn’t I one of them?

            It didn’t make sense that our friendship�" our connection�" only worked one way.

            See, now I’m getting creepy. You think I’m a freak. That’s fine.

            Maybe I am one.

            I spent that night pouring over articles, looking at pictures and listening to music. This was my way of spending time with my friend when I needed her.

            I looked over at my phone a couple of times, wondering whether I should turn it on. Text Davi. Maybe try to connect with someone who could really talk to me.

            But every time I thought about Davi, I panicked. Davi was now on her side�" my mother’s side.

            Just like Aunt Lyn was before she died.

            Frustrated, I jumped out of bed, feeling lightheaded and weak. I hadn’t eaten all day. Not that it mattered.

            I stumbled over to the window and puked whatever little nutrients I had inside of me up.

            My wrists were burning. I scratched at them, absently.

            Five years ago, I wouldn’t have resisted. I would have taken a knife, a razor, anything I could find, to myself and cut and cut and cut.

            Now I knew better.

            Sort of.

            Suddenly, a loud ringing noise dragged me from my thoughts.

            Someone was inviting me to video chat.

            I rolled my eyes.

            “Wonder who this could be,” I muttered. There was only one person on my chat list.

            I hit confirm.

            “Jessie! Thank God!”

            There was Davi, in his pink wig, with his eyeliner running.

            “I thought I’d lost you!” he gushed.

            I sighed. Always with the drama.

            “I’m right here, Davi,” I said, sourly.

            “Thank God,” Davi repeated, shaking his head. “Listen, Jessie, I’m sorry�"“

            “�" Just don’t,” I said, holding up a hand. “I can’t talk about it, okay? I can’t believe you did that to me.”

            Davi didn’t say a word, but a fat tear ran down his face.

            “What have you been�" been up to?” he choked out, trying to change the subject.

            “Interviews,” I said, plainly.

            “Interviews?” Davi cried. “You’re already doing interviews? Why didn’t you t�" tell me you were that famous?”

            I rolled my eyes. “I’m not doing interviews,” I explained. “I’m watching interviews. Candico interviews.”

            Davi froze. The smile fell from his face. “Oh.”

            I frowned. Besides myself, Davi was the biggest Candico fan I knew. We did meet on the forums, after all.

            “What’s wrong?” I asked.

            Davi’s eyes trailed away from the computer. “Oh nothing…” he breathed.

            “What’s wrong, Davi?” I asked, crossing my arms over my chest.

            Davi let out a pathetic whimper and looked back at me.

            “It’s just,” he began. “You’re the only person in the world who’s more obsessed than I am,” he gushed. “Sometimes it actually worries me, you know?” He was stuttering now. “I thought… well, I thought maybe when you got to L.A., you’d move on, you know?” he asked. “Like, maybe, you’d make some real friends and stop…” he trailed off.

            “Stop spending all my time chasing after ones I can’t have,” I finished for him.

            Davi nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, Jess. Do you understand? Do you�"?”

            I slammed the computer closed, rage burning through me.

            F**k Davi, I thought. F**k him. He doesn’t get it at all.

            I let out a scream of rage, throwing my arm out, my hand clenched into a fist

            Crash.            

            I whirled around to see I’d broken several picture frames.

            “Oh s**t…” I breathed, trying to calm myself.

            I got to my feet and went to examine the frames.

            Upon closer inspection, I realized only one was broken.

            The photo of me and Jocelyn Winter at the show when I was eleven.

            Oh the irony.

            I flopped down on my bed, holding the photo at an arms length.

            Maybe Davi is right? I thought. Maybe it is time to let go of some of this…

            That thought was meant with a twisting in my stomach and an itching on my wrists and an aching in my head like you would not believe. It was like my whole body reacted this time one, tiny thought that was growing inside of me.

            Every fiber of my being was screaming No! No! No!

            Letting go of Candico would be far too painful.

            I placed the photo beside me.

            Never, I decided. I’ll never let this go. Never. I don’t give a s**t about what Davi�" or anyone else says.

            Never.

 

 

 

I waited for my mother.

            If she really knew my address, she’d come. No doubt about it.

            Then, after four days, she finally showed up.

            It happened at night. At first, I thought someone’s dog got loose or something because there was a lot of thumping outside, like a lost dog running around or something.

            Then, I heard footsteps climbing.

            I ran to the window, expectantly, and looked out on the fire escape.

            Sure enough, there was mother dearest.

            She even had a crowbar with her! How lovely.

            “Don’t bother prying open the window,” I snapped, unlocking it myself. “Just come inside.”

            Of course, I wasn’t happy about letting my mother into my home but what was I supposed to do? Better this than have her break my windows or something.

            My mother looked up at me, the whites of her eyes glowing in the dark.

            “Jessica,” she breathed, a smile on her face.

            “Mom,” I nodded, my voice harsh.

            I helped my mother in through the window, keeping up my frown the whole way.

            I didn’t want her to think for a second that she was welcome here.

            Finally, the two of us stood face-to-face in the dimly lit apartment.

            “Why did you come here?” I demanded.

            “I missed you,” mom replied, smiling softly. “Did you ever miss me?”

            “No,” I said, flatly.

            Her face fell. “Oh.”

            “Why did you come here?” I repeated. “Give me the real answer.”

            My mother sighed. “I wanted to talk to you,” she explained.

            “I’m not coming home,” I said, quickly.

            “This might change your mind,” she replied, her tone softening.

            I glared at her, just waiting for her to drop whatever bomb she was about to drop.

            “I have cancer,” she said, finally. “It’s terminal. Like Aunt Lyn’s.”

            I stared at her for a long time. “And?” I said, finally.

            “And?” my mother cried. “Didn’t you hear me? I’m going to die!” There were tears in her eyes now.

            I shrugged. “So are a lot of people,” I said, calmly. “People die every day. Aunt Lyn died.”

            “Oh don’t act like that!” my mother snapped. “I am your flesh and blood! What’s wrong with you?”

            Something snapped inside of me, then.

            “What’s wrong with me?” I demanded. “What’s wrong with me? Oh, hell, I don’t know, mom. What’s wrong with you?”

            She stared at me, horrified.

            “You were never there for me,” I began. “You abandoned me as a baby and forgot about me as a kid. Now, all of a sudden, you expect me to care about you now that you’re sick?”

            “Yes,” my mother said. “Yes. I do.”

            “Well, tough s**t!” I screeched. “Because hearing that you have cancer is the same as hearing that some guy down at the goddamn grocery store has cancer. You’re a stranger to me. This is sad, but it doesn’t mean anything!”

            “It should mean something!” my mother snapped back at me. “I’m your mother. Like it or not. You should feel… something. What kind of heartless person feels nothing when they find out there mother is dying?”

            “What kind of heartless person leaves their own eight-month-old for beer and sex and parties?” I snapped back.

            “A lot of people, actually,” my mother explained. “You’d be surprised by how many women do what I have. And by how many of them are eventually forgiven!”

            “Where’d you learn that?” I snapped. “The fifth rehab trip? Or maybe the seventh?”

            “You watch your tone!” my mother cried.

            “Shut the f**k up!” I screamed, I walked forward, crashing into her. “You have no right! You cannot just… waltz into this place and tell me there’s something wrong with me because I don’t sympathize with you. I’m not the villain here, okay? You are. You.”

            My mom’s face went blank. “Well,” she began. “If that’s the way you see things then… I guess this is goodbye.” She gulped. “Forever.”

            I glared at her as she slipped out of my window and into the night.

            “Yeah,” I said. “Goodbye.”

 

Seven weeks past after that.

            I spent most of my time following the same routine.

            Play shows. Talk to fans. Write songs.

            Sleep a lot. Try not to eat. Vomit. Lots of vomit.

            And the cutting came back, too.

            I didn’t talk to Davi, though he called almost every day. I didn’t talk to my mom, either.

            I did, however, talk every night to Jocelyn Winter, who stared down at me from a poster on the ceiling.

            “What am I doing, Joss?” I asked, one night. “Did I make a mistake? Am I going down the wrong track?” I paused. “What about you, Joss? Were you ever this sad?”

            Were you?

            I spent most of my time in bed like this, muttering to myself. Maybe I was going crazy.

            Maybe this was just a phase.

            Then, one day, something happened.

            I got an email.

           

To: Jessie Calvin

From: Eric Dale

Subject: JW.

Hi!

Saw your show last night. You were great! Heard you talking afterwards to someone about how much you love Jocelyn Winter (the one from Candico, I assume?)

Just thought I’d let you know that she eats at my café (John’s on fifth street) every Monday morning with her husband. Just incase you ever want to meet her sometime. She’s pretty cool and would probably talk to you about music and stuff.

-ERIC

 

I must have read that email about a thousand times. Was this real? Or was it some cruel trick someone was playing on me?

            Surely, there were a lot of people who wanted to trick me at this point.

            But what if it was real? What would happen if I did meet her? What would I say? How would I act?

            “Oh my God, Jocelyn,” I said, looking up at my poster. “This might actually be real.”

            On Monday morning I set me alarm clock for seven AM, pulled on my boots, and went down to the café.

            I couldn’t let this just pass me by. I needed to see if this was legitimate.

 

I showed up at the café just as it opened.

            “Hey!” someone shouted, grabbing my attention.

            I turned to see a strange, bearded man, walking towards me.

            “I’m Eric,” he said, holding out his hand. I shook it.

            “Thanks for the email,” I said, casually. “Glad you like the show.”

            “Yeah,” Eric nodded, enthusiastically. “Glad I could help.”

            I glanced around, skeptically. “So what’s this I hear about a Jocelyn Winter sighting?”

            Eric laughed. “Oh,” he said. “I figured that’s what you came. She doesn’t usually show for another hour. Just take a seat. You can have whatever you want. On the house.”

            “Really?” I asked, my eyes growing wide.

            Eric shrugged. “Sure,” he said, smiling. “If you play our open mic night next week.”

            “Ah!” I laughed. “I knew there was a catch.” I glanced around the café. It looked nice enough. “You got yourself a deal,” I said, shaking his hand again.

            Eric led me to a tiny table in the back.

            “They usually sit back here,” he explained. “You’ll be close enough to see them come in.”

            I nodded. “Thanks.”

            Then I ordered some toast and a soda.

            Then… I waited.

            The waiting�" in itself�" was one of the most difficult things I’ve ever done. There is something totally nerve-wracking about sitting in a café, waiting for your idol to show. I could barley contain myself.

            About an hour later, the doorbell opened and two men along with a woman showed up. For a moment, my heard fluttered, thinking it might be them.

            But no. It was only a few strangers.

            Another house passed and no one showed.

            Nothing.

            I started to believe that this was just another lie.

            Disappointed beyond belief, I got to my feet and walked over to the restroom. I was feeling bloated after just one piece of toast.

            Quickly, I pushed open the door and hovered in front of the mirror, examining my hollow cheeks, sunken eyes and pasty complexion. What a laugh I was. To even think someone like me might have a chance to befriend someone like Jocelyn Winter was ludicrous.

            Suddenly, something in the mirror caught my eye.

            A flyer. For cancer research.

            Complete with some wonderful clipart. Of course.

            Tears filled my eyes. I was a terrible person. I was rotten and evil and I deserved disappointment. This was my karma�" my punishment.

            I reached out and slammed my fist against the mirror, feeling a small piece of it fall to the floor.

            I reached up, pressing the side of my wrist against the now-jagged mirror edge.

            I bit my lip, clenched my jaw and did it.

            Gasping, I stumbled backwards, seething in pain as hot blood rushed down onto my arm.

            This was�" by far�" the best cut I’d made since high school.

            I laughed to myself, admiring the wound. It was a welcome distraction from life. Perfect.

            If I couldn’t have anything else, I could still have this.

            Then, without warning the door swung open.

            “S**t,” I breathed. I’d forgotten to lock the door.

            Oh my f*****g God, I thought.

            I recognized the woman immediately.

            It was her. It was Jocelyn Winter.

            I gaped as she walked into the restroom.

            “Oh,” she said, awkwardly. “I�" I didn’t know anyone was in here. Sorry.”

            I was hiding my wrist behind my back when I said, “No, no. It’s okay. Don’t worry about it.”

            “Hey,” Jocelyn began. “Are you alright?”

            I nodded, my heart hammering. “I’m fine.”

            Jocelyn nodded. “Can… I buy you a drink or something?” she asked.

            There was blood dripping down my arms now. It was obvious.

            A dull flash of recognition lit up in her eyes.

            “Oh s**t,” she breathed, walking closer. She reached out and grabbed a wad of paper towels. “Here,” she said.

            “It’s nothing,” I said, quickly. “I… uhm… accidentally cut myself on the mirror.”

            Jocelyn nodded, hesitantly, though I could tell she didn’t buy my story.

            “You sure I can’t buy you a drink?” she asked.

            My eyes lit up. “Uhm. Sure,” I said awkwardly.

            Joss smiled.

            “Cool,” she said, oh-so-casual. “I’m�"“

            “�" I know who you are,” I said, cutting her off. “You’re Jocelyn Winter.”

            Her eyes went wide.

            “I’m impressed,” she said, nodding. “And what about you?” she asked. “Do you have a name?”

            I laughed, awkwardly. “I’m Jessie,” I said. “Jessie Calvin… And, I’m guessing you don’t want to shake my hand.”

            I guess she heard wrong or something because a wide smile played across her lips and she said.

            “Chessie?” Laugh. “I’ve never heard that one before.”

            I smiled. No way in hell was I going to correct her.

            “Well come on then, Chess,” Jocelyn smiled. “Let’s get a drink.”

            I grinned, as I followed her out the door, still clutching the wad of paper towels to my wrist.

            Chessie Calvin. I liked that.

            Maybe I’d make it a stage name or something

.

Author's Note

The original story had clipart. Which made it funnier. I highly doubt it will load here, though. Anyway, this is my newest short story and companion to my 2010 NaNoWriMo project, "This is Candico", that is narrated by Jocelyn Winter. Hope you enjoy. Please comment? (Please bare in mind this *is* a 1st draft).