Mama Killed A Man

Back in middle school, back when there were no cameras or famous fathers or assaulting uncles; back when people in my PE class didn’t know my name and back when I was just that girl from last night, Katy Loraine and I, we were desperate for fame. We’d catch three busses and a train every Wednesday into the city just to get a taste of it.

Just to know what it was like to have people watching, listening, loving what you’re doing, we’d set up a stool on the corner of Swan Street and I’d play my cello while Katie hustled the passing suits. Some days she’d have a limp; sometimes a black eye. I guess it depended on what shoes she was wearing.

On the train ride home, we’d count the coins and come up with at least fifty dollars. Katy would whistle and ruffle my hair and tell me we were so close.

“You’re gonna be famous,” she’d shriek, “The most famous cellist in the whole fucking world!”

And Katie Loraine, where would she be?

“I’ll be the businesswoman,” she’d say, pinching my cheeks, “And you’ll be my business.”

She had it all planned out. With the money we saved from busking, we were going to buy two business class tickets to Hollywood, California, you know- that place where dreams happen. It’d only be a matter of time before we met Michael Jackson and he hooked us up with some major labels, because I was something special. Then we’d start touring the world on a private jet with Prince and we’d bring corduroy back in fashion and my mother and Katy’s mother and Aunt Denise and Nora could all just fuck their conformist views up the ass.

What Katy didn’t include in her plan was what to do if her father announced bankruptcy and her parents got divorced and she had to move across the country with her mum, or what we’d do if Michael Jackson died. No, she didn’t account for any of those things.

“You just wait, Amber,” she’d say with that vivacious grin that peaked at her eyes, “One day we’ll be seeing your ugly mug on the cover of Hello!”

And three years later, as my eyes dismantled the glossy, ten by ten picture on page four, I knew that this wasn’t quite what Katy had meant.

“What is this?” he repeated. His hands were shaking as one ran through the dishevelled frenzy of thinning hair atop his square head. The scalp beneath fumed a dangerous puce, the same shade of his cheeks as they quivered and hollowed in the struggle to control his breathing.

“Well!?” he barked. I flinched, my body rigid as the figurative plank I was walking.

“It’s a picture,” my voice was hoarse with dread and I worried at my bottom lip, ripping at the dry skin with my front teeth.

“Of?”

“Me,” I squeaked, “And John.” I gulped, breathing hard, “Kissing.”

“Wrong!” he slammed his fists against the counter, the force of his movements flinging the magazine onto the sandalwood flooring. I could taste the spearmint of his toothpaste as it wafted over in gusts of livid breath. “It’s ten days of my valuable time wasted!”

He turned away, swiping the magazine from the floor and glaring at its contents. His hands shook violently as he tried to contain the fury searing his blood.

“Do you know how hard it was for me to get them to leave you alone?” he raised the article and I caught a glimpse of its title over his shoulder.

Cross Caught Canoodling With Local Band Boy!

“Do you know the kinds of things I had to tell them?”

He turned back around and held my gaze with the only burning look hotter than anger; disappointment. With a nauseating heave, my stomach dived. Hot, thick, saliva welded my tongue to my upper pallet as my nose prickled and the kitchen turned blurry through my sinking eyes.

“No, she doesn’t know, Ian.”

My father wrenched his eyes from mine before sending Louise a frown weighed with warning.

“Stay out of this,” he snapped.

“Be reasonable,” she sighed, “She’s new to this life. How could she know how to handle paparazzi?”

My father growled a grating sound from the back of his throat that made my ears cringe and my entire body brace. I scrunched my eyes shut and dug the knobbly knuckles of my fists into the lids until luminous stars speckled my vision.

“There shouldn’t have been anything to photograph in the first place!” my father exclaimed. “She shouldn’t be-” he struggled with himself for a moment, tugging exasperatedly at his too-tight collar and the cuffs of his shirt. “She shouldn’t be-“

“Kissing boys?” Louise taunted, rolling her eyes.

“Exactly!” he hollered, throwing his hands into the air. Louise laughed and my father’s forehead flushed a rainbow of anger. When he caught site of John meandering down the hall from my bedroom, I thought he would burst a vein. The gland beneath his jaw pulsated and twitched as he raised an index finger and stabbed it at John’s hesitant image.

“I want that boy out of here!”

Then, grasping his jacked by its neck, he stormed out the house.

John stood in the doorway, a look of horror plastered across his face. A crescendo of yells could be heard outside, accompanied by the clack and flash of cameras. I heard a car door slam and as suddenly as it began, the noise died down again.

“What,” he swallowed, clearing the thick bubble from his throat. “What just happened?”

I didn’t say anything; I couldn’t even look at him. Acknowledging his very presence made me feel guilty.

“Here,” Louise said flatly, handing him the magazine my father had thrust at the stove.
I looked up and watched as John’s eyes scanned over the page, his fingers brushing over the taunting ten-by-ten close-up.

“Oh, fuck.”

*

Graeme told me that the only way to tune out bad music was to hear it. He told me that if I heard it often enough, I’d become so accustomed to it that it’d quickly turn into an inconsequential piece of background noise.

“Like a nagging wife,” he chuckled, sending John an emerald wink. “Or like those Christmas jingles,” he hoisted a rectangular box onto my bed. “They make you wanna shoot yourself in the ear, but by the middle of December, you don’t even notice they’re there.”

I nodded slowly, eyebrows raised in curiosity. I watched as he tipped the box over and an
array of gossip magazines and tabloid newspapers fanned out over the paisley duvet.

“Read them,” he said, smiling reassuringly at my reluctance. “The truth is the only thing that can hurt you, Amber, and believe me, not a single one of these even comes close.”

“This one’s in Japanese,” John grinned, slapping it atop my hand. I felt the glossy cover rise and shift as his fingers tangled with mine beneath its shelter. Graeme looked at us, his gaze hovering a little too long, before excusing himself from the room.

“Way to go, Captain Obvious,” I laughed, snatching my hand away.

As I milled through each text one by one, I came to realise that Graeme had been exactly right. Even when Penelope Whitworth from Insider Magazine claimed that due to my mother’s severe drug addiction I was brought up by Natalie Imbruglia, I couldn’t see past the humour to be mad.

“Karla wanted her as exposed to music as possible,” said the anonymous source. “Natalie paid for all Amberlyn’s trumpet lessons.”

John gawked, “Your mum knew Natalie Imbruglia?”

I rolled my eyes and reached for another one of the tabloids, scoffing as I read the enlarged quotation half way down the page.

“Apparently, I taught this woman’s eight year old daughter how to make smoke-rings,” I laughed, leaning over to show John, “Where the hell do they find these people?”

I looked up and our noses grazed, his face was so close. Cool breath sifted over my lips and the muscles around my neck tensed as I watched him lean in, his bottom lip fitting easily between mine. One hand came up to support my neck while the other slid gently over my right hip, and instantly I relaxed. Dropping the magazine to the floor I shifted closer and locked my empty hands behind his neck. He tasted like home.

A high, grating sound slashed the air and I jumped, pulling away from John so quickly his eyes were still closed when I looked back at him from the other side of the bed. The sound came again, swiping through the silence as the room dimmed to a faint purple glow. I swivelled quickly around to see Celeste with her hands grasping the deep purple curtains, an unimpressed grimace pasting her face.

“You two need to learn to close the fucking curtains if you’re gonna do that,” she snapped, crossing her arms over her chest and popping her hip to the side.

“We didn’t even hear you coming,” I glanced at the suspended staircase as heat crept up my neck.

“Yeah, I figured.” She rolled her eyes, “Anyways, I came down here to tell you Grandad wants you upstairs.”

I eyed her suspiciously, but got to my feet anyway. John followed my lead. I smiled as he reached out and engulfed my hand in his.

“What does he want?” I said, following Celeste up the stairs and down the hall.

She kept walking.

“He has a plan to get us outta here.”