Have Kids, Then We'll Talk

I stare at the brightly lit floor for a while and then leave the over crowded restroom. Loud chatter and music wash against my ears in an almost uncomfortable rush of lights and sounds while the beat tremors through my body in sync with my every pulsating thought. The alcohol fermenting in my blood-stream makes it hard for me to think straight and a lazy, but content smile plasters itself onto my face as my friends wave me over, their hands reaching out to pull me into the vice-embedded safety of their arms, of our circle or fun and games. Bodies gnash together and fingers link as we all stop fighting against the onslaught of laughter at the envious stares of those around us. It isn’t out fault fame hasn’t gotten a stick up our asses, now is it?

We live and do it well, considering.

Considering that behind the fame and all that shit that comes with being the child of Bert McFuckingCracken, stands that constant nagging in the back of my mind, that little voice reminding me that, in spite all of the freedom, we’re still just as mortal, just as weak. Just as normal.

I hit a full-stop on the keyboard of my laptop and place it next to my Sidekick, crossing my legs on my bed. My autobiography, the draft version of the brat’s memoirs stares back at me from the screen, unyielding and real, perhaps a bit too shocking and too honest… too much for a sixteen-year-old. I promised myself that I’d finish it someday… And I will, I will fill those virtual pages with rows and rows of vivid words that will describe the colorful chaos that will be my life. Someday.

Right now, I sip on my coffee, desperate to fend off yet another hangover while listening to Dad screaming around the posh penthouse, chasing Quinn or Jeph, or maybe Dan showed up for beer… My domestic life’s a mess.

Dad.

Bert McCrackhead. No, sorry, McCracken.

I despise that joke.

Dad.

I don’t have a Dad. Not a full-time one, at least. I have Bert, I have my friend and an annoyance, a baby brother, but never a real, all around the clock dad. Do I regret that? Probably. But I love him.

He was barely a grown-up when I came into the picture. Mom, Kat as he calls her on nights when he’s too drunk to avoid thinking about her, she almost killed us both. I was born like a regular, downright junkie into this world. I went through rehab in the first six months of my life. Like God knew I was destined to become a celebrity brat. I don’t hate her, if that’s what people think. I don’t hate him for leaving me that one time. Nan’ thought it was for good. He came back. And I’ll never get over that day when he left me in the Mall. I spent the entire morning sitting in the cart and waiting for him. The most fun I had growing up.

Dad.

A few days ago, in English, one of the classes I actually sit through, we did a short story by Kazuo Ishiguro, and some time in between Dan’s snores and Aiden’s huffs, I heard the guy mentioning ‘his father’s furious eyebrows’. I almost fell of the chair. Have you seen my father’s eyebrows? I get mine waxed. Frequently. And now imagine him frowning and scolding me… Quinn has a hard time staying serious. I have a hard time controlling my bladder, but whatever. To each their own, right?

Do I want a normal life?

Yes.

And no.

I like being a spoiled brat with the top of the line everything and a shitload of just as spoiled friends. It gives me that nice sense of security, having all those people around. Vodka kisses and cigarettes make me feel alright, like it’s all meant to be that way and even now as I walk down the hall and out the building, intent on spending another night out, I smile because I know it’s what I do best. The familiar, square-ish outline in my back pocket makes me feel content and smug.

I’ll do that for a living once. Or maybe be a band manager. Anything as long as I keep moving and never, ever stop. I live to thrill and thrill to live and sound cliché saying this. I just, I don’t wanna stop. Whenever I’m outside, among people who don’t really know me and who love me just for the sake of an ongoing fad, I feel like I own the whole goddamned world.

I am not my dad.

I am not his contradiction, I am nothing to him but his daughter. His kid, and I’ll never become what he most fears. I love him too much. But I can’t help it but to ask myself when the time will come for me to draw the line and say that I’ve had enough. Enough of the alcohol, of the cigarettes, of sex, of all that vice around me – when will I ever stop?

I don’t sleep around, I’m not a junkie, but I often take things further than I probably should. Every night I fall asleep praying Dad won’t find out about that one person I had sharing that same bed with me. I like older men – that’s probably the reason why I’m always in so much trouble with myself. I can’t stop anymore. Wake up, skip the breakfast, organize a night out, meet Dad for lunch, be a jackass, smile and go out. Party. Then forget and go to sleep.

My friends see me like that – the resident party girl, the one to call when you’re feeling down or bored – I like it. I made them see me like that. But that’s not really me. I wish it were.

Maybe it’s better off this way. I can’t change that. So I’d better just stop.

We have plans for tonight.

My heels click off the garage floor and the tail of my coat flaps against my legs softly, brushing against those fancy black jeans Quinn got me while my black gloved hand clutches the purple top I don’t remember putting on. Falls in New York get too fucking cold at times. A pair of sunglasses rests on my nose out of pure habit and I remember to take them off my head, putting them in their black suede box carefully. My new Ray-Ban babies. My fingers wrap around the Sidekick in my purse and I log off Myspace after giving the rest a heads up on my arrival. Getting accounts on there was a wise idea. Sort of.

My moves seem automatic. I sit down into the car, pet the steering-wheel and put it into gear, driving out and speeding up, already knowing I’ll wake up into another hangover morning of total and utter contentment.

Remember that name – Charlotte Alexis McCracken, or just Charlie, the party girl, because she will never stop.