Unlucky

  Plus what I jonesed for wasn’t cigarettes. I wanted sweets.

  Clothing designer Ralph Lauren’s daughter, Dylan, had opened up a candy shop on the Upper East Side near Vive’s apartment called Dylan’s Candy Bar.

  The world’s largest sugar shop served over 5,000 goodies. You go gurl! I effin’ double-hearted that place. Hungry for gummy bears and Sour Patch Kids, I craved a sugary zing like twenty-four-seven. Probably the same way Mom did her cocaine.

  Please universe, make my apple fall far away from Birdie’s tree.

  “My, my, my.” Birdie moaned, “Now I know what my daughter sees in you, Kelle.”

  What?

  Un-frickin’-believable! Did Mom just say his name from her bedroom? I nearly peed. True story, I crossed my legs while standing, to brace myself from the utter horrid shock.

  “Such a hot MILF.” He grunted like a pig.

  A soon to be dead pig—FYI.

  In a huff, I tossed my purse to the foyer table. With a thud, it smacked the white marble floor—echoing a boom.

  Crap on a yard stick. I’d missed.

  Frozen, I stood still and listened to see if Birdie and Kelle had heard me.

  “No hands.” Mother bossed.

  “Whatever you say, Mrs. Easton.”

  Squeaky noises started. Then skin-smacking sounds. All of it picked up speed, getting louder and faster. Dirty talk too. And then came what must’ve been spanking.

  Grossarama!

  A lump swelled in my throat, and it wasn’t from the gum. I wanted to call 911. What would I say?

  “Operator, this is Lex Easton. I live at 245 Spring Street. My famous mother is screwing my hawt boyfriend. Can you send a policeman to make them stop?”

  Not!

  I bet the operator’s first response wouldn’t be to see if I was okay. Oh no. It’d be all, “I love Birdie Easton’s music. Her song “Lucifer’s Mistress” has a special place in my heart.” That’s what she’d probably say.

  I hated that song. The lyrics were about doing the nasty with the devil.

  Ready to bust it up, I marched across the penthouse, pulling my blonde hair into a ponytail. The gold buckles on my motorcycle boots clanged, bringing to my attention that this was gonna be a smack down. Easton style!

  I thought about what I’d say, who I’d tell off first. Birdie was one heck of a fighter. She has the restraining orders to prove it. And Kelle, he stood at six-foot-three and has the body of an NBA Knicks player. Weighing over two hundred pounds, he’d often bragged he could do a thirty-five inch vertical jump and a three-cone drill in 6.5 seconds.

  Either way, I’d already lost.

  At the end of the brocade wallpapered hall, I spotted the door with its brassy handle wide open, and their ass’s wide out. I stepped closer and watched. I know! Shoot me now.

  Magnetic and forceful, their sex pulled me in as some kind of touristy street brawl. One normally witnessed in the Meat Packing District around 3 am on Thursday nights.

  You know, with the teens that come in from New Jersey acting all cool-n-craptastic till a Manhattanite bops ‘em on the back of their head with a champagne bottle to remind them to get the heck off our island. Posers!

  I must observe this ridiculousness for myself.

  Of course Birdie Easton, my Grammy Award-winning, Grey Goose drinking, Oxycodone-popping mother was riding Kelle Sterling Dolley like an Arabian horse charging out of the stables.

  Yes, sprawled out on her California King was my boyfriend, the only guy I’d ever given a BJ. Which was the furthest we’d gotten, and that had been his choice, not mine. Clearly, today his body loved banging Mom.

  Why wouldn’t he? Identical to Catherine Zeta Jones, Birdie appeared hot-to-trot for her age. I’d always been jelly of Mom’s beauty. It was her substance abuse that was fugly here, people. Not her leather and lace meets diamonds and pearls exterior.

  In my almost eighteen years, I’d seen Mom do this, many times before. Totally! Although, not with my boyfriend. That was a new low, even for her.

  Normally it was her friend’s husbands. Or sometimes my Daddy’s friend’s wives, my teachers and their spouses, the dentist, our neighbors, the doorman, her limo driver, personal trainer, recording manager, and let’s not forget her fans.

  Birdie Easton’s fan club was freakishly ginormous. Sold out years in advance, her annual Madison Square Gardens’ Appreciation Weekend wasn’t coined Gang Bang Birdie for nothing.

  But to have Mom screw Kelle, the dude who’d gone to the Connecticut Military Academy down the street from my boarding school—who Taddy, Vive, Blake and me had planned, plotted, and OCD talked about as my first—not to mention the son of Senator Dolley who was on the fast track for the White House, was way worse than crap-flying monkeys.

  Uber Devastation….

  The stress of this suddenly caused me to see itsy bitsy spots while I stood there. Resembling candy dots on strips of paper, their bright blue and pink tones suddenly faded to yellow and then white. I chewed the gum faster and prayed Mom, Kelle and the spots would all stop.

  They didn’t.

  Foaming at the mouth, not from what I’d watched but from what I’d chewed, I wiped my lip, and reached into my pocket for another piece.

  I’d been going out with Kelle since the tenth grade. He’d reserved my vagina ages ago, like the first week Blake had told me in gym class to shave it. Blake and I had talked a lot about our pubic hair and whether we should trim it short or grow it out and dye it magenta. Bordering on cliché, pubic hair had been a normal go-to gym topic for us.

  Kelle’s commitment to my cherry-popping had come with one uber-cray condition. I had to lose a few pounds. Alright, some might say a lot of weight. Friggin-A, I was so close. And our first time was gonna be in Paris. You know, for my birthday.

  Avoir France!

  Like Elle Woods in the movie Legally Blonde who’d studied her kitty off and passed the LSAT to get into Harvard Law School in hopes her boyfriend would married her—so had I!

  Mind you, it was for a Bachelor of Arts in Women’s Studies at Columbia University and Kelle Sterling Dolley was no Warner Huntington III.

  Kelle was flippin’ cuter. Waaay cuter. Think Josh Harnett in the movie Pearl Harbor. Holy Hershey Kisses I loved, luved, loooved, loved that movie.

  And I wasn’t hoping to get married like Elle Woods neither. I’d merely wanted to get rid of my Lady V. So yes, I’d stalked Kelle from our private schools in Connecticut and had learned he was moving to Manhattan for college. I’d rallied my BFF, VBF and GBF to come along. I’d bribed. I’d begged. We all got in. Some of us were on academic probation with remedial studies, I might add. That would be moi, for math. Don’t wanna talk about it.

  Okay, maybe the Legally Blonde analogy was a slight reach.

  “Pull my hair. There you go lover boy. Get rough with mama,” Birdie sassed.

  A feverish chill swept through me. I stood. I watched. I checked myself.

  Sad? Meh!

  Angry? A tad. Trust me I’d been through, oh my Godiva, so much worse.

  Hurt? I’m sickened over this. No, like literally.

  Knowing Mom would never ever do this to me if she’d been sober made it almost easier to swallow. Almost!

  Her reply later, when she’d be all crashing down or buzzing back up, would be something to the effect of, “Kitten, its only sex. Grow up.” That’s what she’d say. I know.

  And later, when she’d be sober, dryer than a saltine cracker, Birdie always stuck with her tried-and-true, “I have no idea what you are talking about. I did not raise my Alexandra Easton to be a liar. My heart hurts when you tell tall-tales, young lady.”

  Notice how Mom had never referred to herself as “Mom” like ever. I was only allowed to call her the M-word when inside this penthouse. Her reasoning had been that it caused premature aging to hear it when out in public. Clearly Birdie’s rule applied to Kelle calling her ‘Mama’ in bed. WTF!

  Birdie was so phobic about aging
she’d stocked up the entire penthouse with oxygen tanks. She’d nearly given herself an O2 facial mist every day that I’d been here. When Mom wasn’t applying the oxygen to her skin, she was inhaling it, claiming the vapors made her inner body more beautiful.

  I was surprised with all of her bong smoking and nitrous oxide tanks lying around she hadn’t blown the roof off this place yet.

  Blake was right. I should have never moved back in with my folks while going to school. We should’ve enrolled at Pepperdine University in California. That’s what Taddy had wanted us to do all along and had suggested, “Sweet sorority Jesus. Forget this East Coast shizzicane. I want easy, breezy, beautiful. Darling, let’s go to Malibu…not Manhattan. No one knows us out west.”

  Once my Ivy League training wheels to get laid by Kelle Sterling Dolling were rolling, I’d started to pump the brakes. I didn’t want to face those tabloids, chasing me between classes for dirt on my parents or Kelle and his family, again. At Avon Porter we were behind a huge brick wall which had prevented such harassments.

  I’d toyed with the idea of registering under an alias so no one knew I was Easton’s daughter. I’d even met with the head of admissions and given them the name Wanda Maximoff, inspired by my favorite Avengers character, Scarlet Witch.

  My Dad had approved of the alias, so did his publicist, the president of his record label, and the head of admissions even bought into Wanda Maximoff.

  Leave it to my lovely Mom to veto such geniusness. She’d melodramatically argued, “Coming from someone who was robbed of finishing their GED, let alone never having the luxury to attend college, I pray that my only daughter will be proud to walk on campus and show her face.”

  Proud? Never Ever!

  And Birdie wasn’t robbed of squat. She’d dropped out of high school with the hopes of working as Bo Derrick’s body double in the movie, Bolero.

  “Fuuuck. That’s good. So wet. Deeper,” Birdie squealed.

  Was it wrong, that after several minutes of witnessing Kelle’s cock jut in and out of Birdie’s mouth, vagina, and anus…I still stood there in horrid disbelief and watched them?

  He’d pretty much plugged every hole. WTF! They didn’t even use a condom.

  In my overly active mind, I waited for some imaginary teleprompter to light up from the chandelier hanging above her bed and instruct, “Applause!”

  They weren’t worthy of a clap. No siree. Now the clap which medical experts referred to as Gonorrhea was a whole other story. Hands down, they both merited that one.

  Rolling over onto his side, Kelle submitted to Mom’s diva ways.

  Her perfectly sculpted silicone breasts, the ones which had a lingerie brand named after them called Caged Birdie, sold in discount superstores, nearly hypnotized Kelle into titty-land.

  “Mrs. Easton, I’m in love with you,” Kelle professed, and suckled on her rosy nipples as if he hadn’t eaten a breast implant in years.

  Say whaa!

  I-N L-O-V-E?

  Poof! My insides dried up. Right there, in that doorway. Someone had taken a Dyson vacuum cleaner, hooked the tube up to my sex, and flipped the dry-vac carpet button.

  Was I supposed to witness this?

  Maybe the universe brought these two together to remind me to focus on my grades this fall, and not on the boys.

  At Avon Porter, all my energy had gone to helping Taddy, Vive, and Blake get through their cray-cray days. Not on my academics, hence my remedial math studies.

  From Blake’s coming out about being a cock sucker, his words not mine, to Taddy’s abandonment and emancipation issues with her folks, I’d been rather busy.

  Just when I’d thought we were good to study, Vive had gotten herself knocked-up. And then the accidental death of her boyfriend, Sanderloo Konjik, had happened. I know!

  All four of us had been arrested, charged in the murder of Sanderloo, and had stood trial. After spending an entire semester at the Fairfield County Juvenile Detention Center where Vive had given birth to her baby, we’d been found innocent of all wrongdoing.

  Point being, my swinging parent’s party drama luckily hadn’t compared to any of the above. Vive had won the sash and tiara in that category. Taddy had reigned in second place, and Blake could have third. I’m so fine with Miss Congeniality.

  Hmmm I wonder. Now that I’m here in the city if Birdie’s actions will hold me back from pursuing my Ivy League degree? I guess only if I let them. Right?

  PS, don’t wanna talk about juvie. You’ll never see me wear the color orange or eat mashed potatoes.

  “Suck it, woman. No, I didn’t say you could come yet.” Kelle got his man-game on when Birdie didn’t say she loved him back. Instead, Mom laughed and came everywhere.

  If I was under his fifty-something-inch chest and held on to his twenty-something inch waist, while his foot-long dick penetrated me that way, (and not Mother), I’d probably would’ve orgasmed too.

  Humping along, they didn’t even notice me. Typical!

  The longer they went at it, the sadder it became to watch—two gorgeous people, past their luster, bang one another.

  Kelle had peaked our senior year. The kid still wore Abercrombie for Christ’s sake. I imagine he’ll never take that darn military academy class ring off his finger. Not once this summer, had he talked about our future at Columbia University together. His mouth had jabbered on and on about his past Lacrosse games.

  The worst was last week. He’d revealed he’d been stealing Viagra from his father’s medicine cabinet to endure what he’d coined “mega-masturbation-marathons.”

  That’s like so seventh grade. Forreals!

  Standing there, I talked myself out of loving him. Wasn’t that what I was doing?

  Taddy had once profoundly stated all adult-like, “You can talk your mind into making your heart feel something. It’s true, darling. If you want to love, you will. And if you want to hate, you shall. But don’t let either of those two emotions get the best of you.”

  That’s how she’d healed from her parents disowning her. Her ability to move on had all been a matter of Taddy’s mind, and not a matter of the facts. We were like fourteen!

  When you think about it “facts” flub everything up. Regardless, I still felt nauseous.

  Sick with the reality of what was before me, this whole—Mom and my boyfriend naked in bed together, having sex, and him telling her he was in love—thing started to sink-in.

  The white spots I’d seen went from snowflakes to snowballs. My head pounded as if my heart had moved into my brain. And my stomach, ohhh, ached with abdominal pains. I felt worse than after eating Chinese food from that place down on Canal Street which has a dry cleaning and gold fish shop inside. All I needed next was for my hair to fall out and my arms and legs to snap off.

  I backtracked through the penthouse to my wing and shut the door. The anxiety didn’t quit, even with Mom and Kelle out of sight. My hands went numb. Dang, I started having hiccups. Excuse me.

  Shoving two more pieces of nicotine gum in my mouth, I wiped the saliva from my chin. The drool was out of control.

  I had to do something drastic…murder Kelle, ask Senator Dolley out on a date, race my Vamp scooter off the Brooklyn Bridge and into the Hudson River while wearing an “Eddie Easton’s #1 Fan” concert t-shirt, or…I could sell my Lady V on eBay. So many choices to pick from, how could I decide?

  Withdrawing my cell from my pocket, I called the only girl in town that might help me.

  My BFF, Taddy Brill.

  Mister Softee

  “Lex-a-licious!” Taddy picked up on the first ring.

  “Where are you?” I asked.

  “Vive and I are at Bergdorf’s. They have that angora sweater Christina Ricci wore in Teen Vogue. I fricking L-U-V it. There are no dark colors in your size. Want me to ask the sales guy if they can custom order you one? I’m buying it in red, for myself. Oh my Lord & Taylor, we are having a fabu day getting our clothes for school. Before the BG, we shared a Nicoise salad
at Le Bernardin. Vive ordered a Cosmo and got her dumb butt carded. Vive woulda been fine too, if she hadn’t acted all Farnworth-liquor-heiress righteous and proceeded to tell the waiter how to train the bartender on the specific way to shake her Cosmo. Can you believe her?”

  “Yes,” I muttered, trying to get into this conversation.

  “I wanted to crawl under the table and die. Instead we drank Diet Cherry Pepsi. So embarrassing! Let’s be serious, girl. We need to buy fake ID’s for going out to bars and stuff. Yesterday in spin class, Blake told me where he got the driver’s license he uses to get into those gay clubs in Chelsea. I told him to get you and Kelle an ID too. Be warned, if Blake Morgan’s sex life is better than ours I will totally wig the Fendi out on all of you. Whatcha doin’?”

  Whoa!

  Taddy inhaled deeply and waited for me to yap right back.

  I chewed my gum. Salads, shopping, underage drinking, and the idea of sex had put Taddy Brill into serious overdrive. “Mmm.”

  There was something comforting about Taddy’s shopping silliness. She’d thought about me.

  “Lex love, you want an angora Ricci sweater and a fake ID or not?”

  “No. Taddy….” I paused. Errr. A few minutes ago I was doing so good trying to make light of what happened. Never did I imagine I’d get this upset. Or be shaking. Dropping to the floor, I curled up in a ball. The tears fell.

  Does anyone ever get used to this crap? There was no shield of protection between me and my parent’s cruddy actions. I wanted to call Carrie Fisher, you know Princess Leia from Star Wars and tell her that I’d relived her semi-autobiographical Postcards from the Edge novel about her childhood with her mother, Debbie Reynolds, but I didn’t have her number.

  “Darling, we can skip over to Barney’s and see if they have it in your favorite color, bloody, black, burgundy, whatever the hellaballo you call it. We’ll get ya one. It’s nothing to get upset over.”