The Blessed - By Tonya Hurley Page 0,18
If nothing else, she was comforted by the knowledge that she’d given them an interesting status update for their fan pages.
Frauds, liars, cheats, users, perverts, wannabes, and worse. She let them all in, bit by bit, until it seemed almost . . . normal. Until she felt comfortable, with them and with herself for choosing them. Until she almost needed them. The height of self-delusion, she knew, but it made it much easier to get through the day—and night—most of the time. Sebastian seemed like he might be the antidote to all that. But then again, maybe not. He couldn’t even be bothered to come.
“I know how to pick ’em.”
She suddenly felt a hard thud against her chest that startled her out of her own pity party.
“Oh, I am so sorry!” a sweet but shaky voice intoned.
“Watch it!” CeCe barked, moving around the person who’d just body checked her.
“Would you sign this for me?” the girl asked sheepishly, holding out a show flyer with Cecilia plastered all over it. “If it’s not too much trouble.”
Cecilia froze and gritted her teeth. It was the last thing she wanted to do right then, but she could still remember when nobody cared. Her ego kicked in. “Sure.” CeCe grabbed the neon pink and green punk-style poster from the girl’s trembling fingers. “I see they advertised me tonight,” she said, realizing that Lenny needed her much more than she needed him. “I never get to see these.”
“I’m sure your fans rip them down and have them hanging in their rooms.”
Cecilia shot her a look.
The girl realized that she was one of those fans.
“What’s your name?” Cecilia asked impatiently.
“Catherine,” the girl said nervously, unable to disguise her excitement. “I’m from Pittsburgh too.”
Funny thing about New York City, Brooklyn in particular, Cecilia thought. If you’re living there, you’re from there. They say that after ten years, you’re considered a native, but it really didn’t matter how long. You were instantly absorbed in it and by it. Your slate was wiped clean. Pittsburgh was already a very distant memory for her. Another life.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, her eyes focused on her hand as she signed her name.
The girl just shrugged quietly and smiled broadly. “Same as you. Trying to be somebody. I met this New York photographer online who said I should be modeling, and some guys in Ricky Pyro’s band said maybe even make an album.”
Cecilia bristled a little at the mention of Ricky’s name and a worried look spread out across her face. As she picked up her head to look the girl straight in the eye, Cecilia could see she was young, maybe a bit younger than Cecilia was, clear-eyed and clear-skinned. Pretty and unassuming. Cheerful in an innocent, nonirritating way. “Real” would be one way to describe her. Cecilia saw something of herself in the girl. Herself about a year ago. Disillusionment hadn’t taken long to set in. She was tempted to say something, but didn’t, feeling it wasn’t her place.
Catherine continued on almost breathlessly. “Ricky said we could video the session and upload it online and maybe get a few bookings or an audition for a talent show on TV.”
“Yeah, well, don’t hold your breath waiting to spin the big prize wheel.”
“I just thought I should try everything.”
“Catherine,” CeCe said sternly. “Life is not a game show.”
“You know there are still a few kids who hang around outside your house,” Catherine said enthusiastically, as if that small-town tidbit would mean anything to her. “I guess they were fans of your first band when you were, like, fifteen—I’m sorry I don’t remember the name.”
“The Vains,” Cecilia said, the slightest smile crossing her lips as the memory of her very first all-girl psyche-pop trio crossed her mind. “We did all right for a minute. Before your time, huh?”
Catherine smiled back sheepishly.
“Why’d you break up?”
“The usual. Backstabbing bandmates. Domineering boyfriends. Out-of-control egos. So I split,” CeCe said almost wistfully. “Mostly I just didn’t think they were into the music as much as me. And here I am.”
“I guess it’s really hard to know what you want at such a young age,” Catherine said sympathetically. “Or ever, for that matter.”
“Really? I knew what I wanted to do at five years old,” CeCe shot back harshly, never one to coddle wafflers. “If it’s in you, it finds you. Or you find it. If it doesn’t . . . ”
Catherine was stung. CeCe’s diatribe felt a little too personal. More like an attack. But it