a step up, I swear.
And yeah, okay, I might hate RoMo just a little.
Flour and icing powder the countertops in the kitchen. What did my parents do, have a cake pop battle while I slept in?
“What?” I ask, sitting down at the table.
Mom hands the cordless phone to me between her elbows. “You've got a few letters on the counter and some man wants to talk with you. Something from last week...?”
“What?” I mouth, curiously putting the phone to my ear. She shrugs and hands Chuck another stick to shove into a cake ball. I get up, grabbing the stack of letters, and walk into the living room for a little privacy. “Hello?”
“Junie Baltimore?”
"Conway," I correct, tearing open the first letter.
Go to hell slutface, it reads.
"Are you the daughter of William Baltimore?"
I drop the letter on the coffee table like it's an iron brand. My eyebrows furrow in vexation. "I'm sorry, but who is this?"
"Go fuck yourself, cuntlips. I hope you die." Then, a dial tone.
"Oh...kay..."
I toss the phone onto the couch. The next letter is addressed to me too in loopy, heart-swirling cursive. I don't recognize the handwriting, or know anyone from Michigan, but I open it anyway.
Dear Junie Baltimore, Do us all a favor and slit your wrists. End your suffering. You're welcome.
Flabbergasted, I shred open the next two letters. Are they all like this? They call me worse names, and one even includes a cutout from one of the tabloids with devil horns drawn to my head and a penis shoved against my lips. The last letter is from Asheville—a very polite un-invite to the neighborhood cookout.
At least I knew that was coming.
Returning the cordless phone to the kitchen, I slide up onto the barstool. Chuck slips Mom a peck on the cheek while reaching for another cake pop stick.
I hold out the un-invite. "I'm not going to the cookout."
Chuck inspects the invite without missing a beat. "Fine by me. I hate housewives anyway." He eats the cake pop he's making and hands the invite to Mom.
She scans over it. "Oh, my. I didn't realize it was this serious."
The other letters feel heavy in my hands. "Me neither."
"All this over some famous guy?"
"Yep."
She tears the un-invite in half and tosses it into the garbage can beside the counter. "Fine, then I refuse to go, too."
"You know what? Let's throw our own cookout." Chuck eats another cake pop. "Two can play at this game."
"And I can finally make my potato salad," Mom adds. "I always get stuck making the deserts!"
I start shaking my head. "Guys, no, you don't really have to—"
"This Friday?" Mom reaches into her purse and flips open her planner. "I'll pencil it in and call Darla. We'll show them how to do a cookout. Oh, darling, who was that on the phone?"
“I dunno—”
The phone rings again. I answer it. “Hi, this is the Conways.”
“Is there a Junie Baltimore?” asks a voice.
Not another one.
“This is her..."
“I'm from the National. Is it true that you have had past relations with Roman Montgomery?"
“Excuse you—?”
“And that you sold him out to the paparazzi for fifteen minutes of fame?”
My mouth gapes open. I can't even figure up a response that is anything short of a spew of profanities. Finally, I manage to say, “Who the hell is this?”
“And,” the woman goes on, “that you and your friend...Magdalena Strieveport?...desecrated Holly Hudson's gravesite during the vigil?"
If I call this reporter all of the names those letters called me, I wouldn't be any better than them—but that doesn't mean I don't want to. For all I know, she's taping this conversation. And waiting for something to nibble at. So, I do the only thing I know how to—I slam the phone down on the charger.
No wonder Roman always ran.
Chuck and Mom give me a confused look, abandoning their cake pops. "Darling...who's calling? You look pale."
"Hell," I whisper, somewhat frightened.
The phone rings again.
Chuck checks the caller ID. "Who's in Chicago? Junie, do you know anyone in Chicago?"
"The Cubs?" I guess.
"Maybe I should answer it..."
“Junebug," Mom's voice sounds calm, but she always sounds calm when she's nervous or upset. At Dad's funeral, she was the most composed out of any of us. The rumors started then, because no one else lived in our house to know she waited until she locked her bedroom door to cry. “Is there something wrong?”
Chuck waves the cordless phone around. "Should I answer it?"
"NO!" Mom and I snap in unison before I race back up the stairs and grab my