The Life Cycle of a Star

March 2003

It wasn’t until the spring of 2003 that it came to Brett’s attention that her best friend and her brother were fucking.

Well, technically, he was her half-brother; they only shared a father. But little details like that didn’t matter. With entirely neglecting parents – their father was a big shot lawyer who barely came home and Brett's mother was a distracted alcoholic – Chris was the only person she could really call family. And knowing how Beverly had a penchant for overshadowing Brett in everything she did, it shouldn’t have really surprised Brett how quickly her friend swooped in and took Chris for herself. But the way Brett saw it, Beverly had nearly every single boy in the 10021 zip code salivating over her. So she’d assumed that Beverly would have the tact to choose anyone – anyone – but Chris. But of course not. Of course Beverly would set her sights on the one person who ever meant anything to Brett.

Looking back, Brett realized she probably could have seen it coming. The three had been close for years, despite the brief cootie-phobia phase Chris went through in fourth grade. But Chris was two years older than both Beverly and Brett. He had his own life, his own friends, and plenty of girls his own age who were interested in him. So Brett never considered the prospect of her best friend and her brother getting together seriously. But if the possibility had occurred to her, she would have definitely noticed the secret glances and flirty smiles the two were always exchanging. Or at least, she would have found the sudden glossiness of Beverly's lips or Chris' unusual interest in hanging around in Brett's room when Beverly was over a little suspicious. But no, the thought never occurred to Brett. So when the two actually came around to fucking, it took Brett by complete surprise.

It was spring break of Brett's sophomore year. Chris was a senior, and – as any American teenager can attest – spring break of senior year was the time to go wild. Not like they all weren't already wild, anyway. Chris, Brett, Beverly and all their friends were experienced partiers by the time they hit high school, helped in part by the fact that they all had unlimited access to money, booze, and empty homes to crash in. But for spring break, Chris decided to move the party out of the city and into the Hamptons, where the Winstons owned a sprawling mansion by the beach.

Spring break was right in the middle of March. That's what Brett never understood, why schools insisted on calling it "Spring Break" when it was still freezing in New York. The beach was completely worthless at this time of the year; the grey water was mercilessly cold and the wind relentless. Brett wished they had all decided to go someplace warm, where the sand was golden and the sky as blue as Beverly's eyes. But when Chris announced his plans to go to the Hamptons, Brett convinced herself it would be fun. She had never before doubted Chris' judgment.

So this was how, come March, Brett found herself sitting in her vacation house surrounded by horny teenagers as the blasting music masked the roar of the wind outside. It was the third night of vacation, and already she was seriously bored. But before it happened, she had been enjoying the hot tub and almost having a good time, until Alexandra Vanderbilt and some boy started attacking each other with their mouths right next to her. Completely disgusted and annoyed – though, of course, years later she loved reminding Alexandra of how she lost her virginity in a hot tub over spread break to a freshman – Brett had climbed out and grabbed a towel and her drink before heading off to find Beverly. She wandered through the large house, sipping her vodka tonic and scanning the crowded floor for her friend. The living room had turned into an impromptu dance floor, with all the furniture pushed aside and a scrawny junior boy with tattoos all over his arms DJ-ing, the kitchen was transformed into an open bar, and in the dining room, a large group of boys were playing beer pong. Brett paused at this last scene, rolling her eyes. She never understood what was so enticing about beer pong, why boys insisted on playing it at every party. It was just so lame.

As she stood watching from the doorway, one of the boys missed the cup that was his target. The boy next to him, a senior Brett vaguely recognized from a rival school, laughed and playfully shoved him. The boy with poor aim stumbled backwards, right into a decorative Chinese vase that had been perched on the cabinet behind him. Brett watched, almost in slow motion, as $15,000 worth of antique ceramic fell and smashed onto the floor. "Oh, shit," the boy who had knocked it over swore loudly as he gaped down at the broken pieces.

Brett stormed in. "What the fuck?!" She slammed her drink onto the table so hard that half the liquid spilled out of it.

"It was a total accident!" One of the boys stepped forward to defend his friend, but seemed to shrink as soon as Brett turned her gaze to him.

"I don't give a shit," Brett snapped. "My mom just bought that at an auction! That was from the fucking Qing dynasty!"

They all stared at her blankly. "Sorry," the boy who had caused the accident whispered meekly.

Brett rolled her eyes. "Sorry is not going to put that back together. Go clean it up. Now. And then all of you can get the fuck out of my house," she snapped.

"You're kicking us out over a fucking vase?" the first boy yelped.

"I'm kicking you out over a $15,000 antique, asshole," Brett hissed.

"Bitch," the boy muttered under his breath.

Brett stepped right up to him, so close she could smell the beer on his breath. "That's right," she said coldly. "And don't you ever forget it." She stared at him until he twitched uncomfortably and looked away. "You all better be gone by the time I come back in here," she added before turning away and walking back into the kitchen.

She'd had enough of this. Forget looking for Beverly, Brett needed to find Chris and have him kick out all these losers before the party got too out of hand. "Has anyone seen my brother?" she asked the kitchen at large.

"I'm pretty sure I saw him go upstairs to his room," her brother's friend Jeremy answered, nodding with stoned certainty.

"Thanks, Jeremy." Brett left the kitchen and headed up the stairs to the second floor, which was – thankfully – much emptier than the first. The plush Persian carpet masked the sound of her footsteps as she walked down the hall to Chris' room. His door was open a crack, and in the relative silence, she could hear loud moan. What the fuck? She reached the door and tentatively pushed it open.

There was Chris, all right. Entirely naked and writhing on the bed – an image she definitely did not ever need to see again. But that wasn't what kept her staring. In bed with Chris was, unmistakably, Beverly. Brett recognized Beverly's clothes that had been thrown carelessly on the floor, and she watched with disgusted horror as she ripped open the condom package. Jesus fuck, Brett hadn't seen this coming. Her first reaction was to scream. But the larger, more reasonable part of her brain took over, and she backed out of the room quickly and closed the door before they noticed her gawking at them.

She stood outside of Chris' door, feeling wooden. So was this why Beverly had been so eager to join Brett for spring break? Was it all because of Chris? Brett tried to think back to every word Beverly had said, anything that could have indicated that she wanted to fuck Brett's brother. And Chris, what about Chris? Did he just let Brett tag along with him and his older friends in the hopes that Beverly would come with her? Her head was spinning with rage. That fucking whore, she thought savagely.

Brett was distracted by the sound of someone running up the stairs, and within seconds Cassandra Vanderbilt appeared. "Hey, Brett?" she said breathlessly. "We ran out of rum, do you know where we can get more?"

Of course, Brett knew where her mother kept her secret stash of booze, but she just didn't give a shit anymore. "No," she said dismissively. "I'm going to bed." Leaving a perplexed Cassandra behind, Brett strode across the hall to her bedroom and disappeared inside.

--

"Hello?" Brett called out as she stepped into the marble foyer of her Park Avenue penthouse. "Anyone here?" No one responded, and Brett shrugged to herself and dropped her bag onto the floor.

Brett had left the Hamptons early that morning, while everyone was still passed out. She was tired and bored and found no reason to stay, and judging from what she had witnessed the day before, Beverly definitely wouldn't be missing her. So Brett had simply packed up everything she had brought, called a car, and disappeared without speaking to anyone. She had spent most of the ride fuming about Beverly and Chris. She still couldn't believe Beverly's nerve. Did she not realize that the basic rules of friendship decreed that siblings were off-limits? Just thinking about it made her hands clench into tight fists so that her fingernails left marks on her skin.

But now she was back in Manhattan. The bustle of the city had instantly comforted her, and all she wanted right then was to curl up with her cat Franny and have her cook make her an omelette. She had a few days before school started again and she would be forced to see Beverly, but until then, she didn't want to even think of her.

"Hello?" she called out again, wandering through her home. "Mom? Anyone?" The living room was empty, though that was unsurprising. The living room was spacious and elegant, with expensive furniture scattered around. But Brett couldn't recall a single time when it had actually been in use, unless her parents were entertaining guests. But what was more surprising was the emptiness of the kitchen. The lights were off, the counters were wiped clean; there was no sign that the kitchen had even been in use for the past few days. "Mom?" she tried once more, and this time she realized how small her voice was in the huge apartment.

Brett left the kitchen and walked down the hall to her mother’s bedroom. But her mother wasn’t there, either. The bed was made and the floor was cleared of any of the usual clutter, and the curtains had been firmly shut. Inside the walk-in closet, Brett found that the hangers had been ransacked, and half her mother's clothes were missing. Her sense of bewilderment deepened. Had her mother taken some kind of spontaneous vacation without telling her? She pulled out her cell phone and dialed her mother's number, but it went straight to voicemail. "What the fuck?" she said out loud, staring up at the hangers as if they could somehow answer.

Inside Brett's bedroom, she found a small note folded in half on her desk, with READ scrawled in black ink. Brett unfolded it hastily. The content was short and written in her father’s distinct handwriting.

Brett,
Your mother has checked into rehab on Tuesday night. She will be unavailable for the next few weeks, as she is allowed limited communication. If you or Chris needs anything, you can call my assistant at 917-888-3940.
Yours,
Charles J. Winston

Brett stared down at the note uncomprehendingly for a moment. Then the rage settled in. So, her mother went to fucking rehab, and no one bothered to call her and let her know? Tuesday had been three nights ago. Three whole days had passed, and her father thought it would suffice to just leave a letter on her desk to inform her? And that last line, you can call my assistant. Brett felt like she had been slapped in the face. It was such a classic Charles Winston brush-off that Brett would have laughed, if she hadn’t been so furious.

Brett whipped out her phone and automatically speed-dialed Chris. Because if anyone could make her feel better, it was Chris. Right?

He answered just before it went to voicemail. "Uh, hello," he mumbled groggily.

“Hey, it’s me. Listen, Chris. I just got home, and –”

He interrupted mid-yawn. “Wait, you went home?”

“Yes –”

“When the hell did you go home?”

“Earlier this morning,” she said impatiently. “But listen. Dad left a note on my desk, and –”
She was interrupted again, but this time not by Chris. In the background, she heard a girl whisper to Chris, "Who is it?"

It was Beverly; after eleven years of friendship Brett could easily recognize her voice. So, not only had Beverly slept with Chris, but she'd also spent the entire fucking night with him? That whore. But Brett could deal with her later. "It's Brett," she heard Chris murmur back.

"Chris, are you listening to me? Dad left a note on my desk telling me that Mom…" She broke off when she heard the faintest giggle and whisper. "Chris?" she said uncertainly.

“Listen Brett, I’m – uh – in the middle of something, could I, like, call you back?” Chris responded, sounded immensely distracted.

Brett sat down soundlessly onto her bed, the note still clutched in her hand. "Chris, this is kinda fucking important," she said quietly.

"Oh, also, I meant to tell you that I'm going to go visit my mom right after I leave the Hamptons, so I won't be home for a little, alright?" he talked right over her. "I think I'll spend the weekend at her place, so I'll just see you in school probably."

"Chris!" she snapped. "Can you fucking listen?"

"I really gotta go, Brett. I'll call you later, alright?"

"Wait – " But he had already hung up.

Brett stared blankly at the cerulean walls of her bedroom. The heavy silence pounded against her eardrums, and she felt like she was suffocating. Her stomach grumbled, but she barely acknowledged it. After a long moment, she furiously pelted her Blackberry across the room. The phone hit the wall with a satisfying crack! and she watched with distant pleasure as it broke into pieces. What did it matter? There was no one left who cared. Her mother was in rehab. Her father didn't give a shit. Her brother was way more interested in screwing Brett's best friend than talking to her. And Beverly was clearly too self-absorbed to realize that now, more than ever, Brett needed a friend.

Fuck this, she thought bitterly to herself.