Wishes Washed Away

"Where'd you go?" Brendon's flipping channels on his 20-inch technicolor television. I miss my plasma HDTV. The home movie theatre system. The comfortable chairs. The velvet curtains. The surround sound system that even plays your favorite CDs and the added bonus of Blue Ray discs or evenold-school VHS tapes. "You could've said something, you know."

"I thought you were mad at me." I take off my Chanel sunglasses and start up the stairs. "What do you care, anyway? You're not babysitting me or anything."

"Well, you were on the news." He rewinds whatever he was watching. It's me walking on the sidewalk, being mobbed by the paparazzi. He presses play, and the white lines disappear.

"...Brendon whom?"

Pause.

"Do expect me to be nice all the time?" I flip my hair over my shoulders. "Look, Brendon. I'm not your mom. I'm not your girlfriend. Kissing and making up isn't my thing."

"Whatever, Maggie. Just don't screw yourself over." Brendon changes the channel to MTV. There's nothing to watch on that mind-numbing channel. "Oh, and Anthony called. He wanted to talk to you for some reason."

I march up the stairs and reach the guest bedroom with all my luggage in it. I reach for the phone and dial Anthony's number and hope he actually picks up. Hope he doesn't hang up on me again.

Ring.

Ring.

Ring.

"Hello?"

"Hey, Anthony. How're things going over there?" I question, examining my nails. They could really use a manicure...some lime green nail polish with black and white designs would look great. "Brendon told me you called."

"Things are just peachy-keen over here. Enjoying yourself in Vegas? Brendon show you around?" Anthony sounds rushed; sounds like they're changing sets.

"Vegas isn't too bad. Brendon somewhat showed me around. We're going out to do stuff later." I love lying. As long as Anthony thinks I'm happy, nothing really matters. However, I'm going to strangle him for not signing me up in a hotel instead of this dump. At least the guest bedroom's clean.

"I'm glad you two are enjoying each other's company. Bren hasn't had a girlfriend in a while, so I'm sure he's a little rusty on the chivalry business, but I'm sure that'll come back to him in a snap. Have a good time, and use your money sparingly."

Click.

I furrow my brow at the receiver. Use your money sparingly..? My eyes widen, and suddenly, I feel the urge to throw the phone, or break Anthony's bird-neck. He's the one who made me miserable. The credit cards. The bank account. The checks. The ATM. The hotel.

I check my phone, and Edward's emailed me again:

Who's Brendon? Someone I should know about?

-E

Knock, knock.

I turn around, and Brendon stands in the doorway. He holds up a mauve dress. Cute, flirty. Flowy. What's it for? I smirk. "Why, yes, it'll look splendid on you, Brendon."

"Ha-ha," he replies dryly, hanging it on the doorknob. "Present from a friend's girlfriend. She heard you were in town, and she wanted to give to you. And she wants you to be my date to her party."

"Who is this person?" I feel the need to take a shower. The make up coating my face doesn't satisfy me anymore. I need a more dramatic look if I'm going to wear that dress. Eyeliner needs to be darker, hair in better shape, different eye shadow...

"Keltie from the Pussycat Dolls. She's a fan of yours, from what she told me. And she's really looking forward to your new movie with Edward Norton." Brendon tugs at his gray shirt. "Party starts at seven, so just get ready before then, so we can leave on time." He scuffles off. "I know how long you women take to get ready, so if I were you, I'd get a move on."

I grab my bathroom necessities and the dress to bring into the bathroom, scrub the dirt, grime, and sweat off my body in the shower, mist Happy, by Clinique, around me after drying myself off, and wiggle into the mauve dress. Marc Jacobs black-and-white ballet flats will do. Being taller than Brendon might cause his self esteem to plummet. I clean out my mouth, tongue scraper and all, and then I apply my make-up.

Three hours, and I emerge from the bathroom, complete. Brendon's scrutinizing the second hand pump in a circle on his Mickey Mouse watch. I grab his arm and drag him to the door. "Let's go; I'm aching to go meet new people." Social gatherings are a favorite past time of mine. "I'm sick of Vegas already. Something needs to cheer me up."

"Yeah, yeah." Brendon unlocks the doors to his Volvo, and we drive off into the night. He hands me the directions. "Read them out to me."

"Right on Sycamore Street and onto the main road." I squint to make sure I'm reading this right. Getting lost is just frustrating. "Travel straight until Broad Street. Then take a left."

"Okay." Fifteen minutes, and he swerves left. The Volvo's engine roars, speed escalating from forty to sixty-five. "What next?"

"Another left onto Laurel."

Within minutes, the tires screech, and we're still somehow on the road. "And?"

"Straight. The one with gargoyles on it." I don't see any gargoyles. Brendon spins the car into a parking spot at a building, and I assume it's the right one. "Number 1248." The desk clerk raises an eyebrow at us as we enter the marble lobby.

"Hey, aren't you Brendon Urie?" the girl asks, removing her glasses. "I saw your band live last year." She smiles, holding out a paper and pen. "If you don't mind..." He signs it happily and returns it to her. "Thanks so much," she gushes.

"No problem." He whips around and follows me to the elevators.

"So, Brendon Urie, what's it like to be a teen idol?" I ask, rolling my eyes. I can see the hearts popping above this teenage girl's head. They start to shatter when Brendon wraps an arm around my waist. I'm slightly mad.

Give me lies.

Flash.

Give me paparazzi.

Flash.

Give me "Brendon, get your manorexic arm off me".

Flash.

"It's not what it's all cracked up to be." We enter into the empty box. He presses button "12". "I'm not really into under aged girls, anyway. I like it when my girls have actual figures."