Bree
It’s out. The song is live.
It happened early this morning. I checked to see if my label took mercy on me and canceled the release—no surprise, they hate me, they ignored my pleading emails and it went ahead as planned—then immediately put my phone in a bathroom cupboard on the other side of the house and buried myself in blankets on the king-sized bed.
Usually I celebrate releases with a new pair of earrings.
It’s my thing. I love stepping into Kate Spade or Tiffany and perusing the options, searching for something that vibes with the music I’m sharing with the world.
I have them lined up in my jewelry box at my apartment in Manhattan, and I’ll wear different albums’ earrings to convey different things to the media.
The spike in sales on whatever pair I choose has caused brands to reach out asking me to rep them, too. But my earring selection has to be authentic. It has to mean something. I owe it to my fans.
Especially because my fans get in on it, too.
Before releases, depending on what hints I’ve dropped or singles I’ve let out, the cover art, or even what I’ve been wearing during the weeks leading up to it, they’ll start window-shopping earrings they think I’ll choose.
Conspiracy theorists make TikToks about them.
It’s a whole thing. The conjecture is part of the fun.
I feel like we’re all shopping together—me and my forty-nine million followers.
There will be no earrings today.
There will be no celebrating at all.
Although, I noticed a teardrop hoop on Tiffany’s site…those would be fitting.
But no. I don’t deserve it. If anything, I’ll do a symbolic burial and rid myself of my favorite pair. It’s what I deserve.
I’m serious too, so it’s a good thing those dangling bows are back home in my jewelry box. I could have Olive overnight them to me, but that would mean A: reaching out to my sister, which would open myself up to the opinions of my family, and B: letting people know where I am.
It’s a good thing I’m in hiding, because even my die-hard fans are not going to support this song.
I don’t know what I was thinking.
No, that’s not true. I was angry. I lashed out.
I wrote and recorded and watched the production of this hate-anthem happen in a cloud of self-righteous indignation.
It wasn’t until they sent me the final product that I closed my eyes and listened to it, imagining a fifteen-year-old girl at home on her sofa, listening to the song with her friend, that it hit me.
My feud with Jaida is petty and childish. Yes, she hurt me. Yes, I hate that she’s esteemed and loved because no one knows what an awful black heart she has. Yes, I wrote this song intending to poison the world against her.
Now, it’s eating me alive. Piranhas are nibbling at my conscience, reminding me of the reasons I got into the music business and what I meant to accomplish here. How hard I’ve worked to build a reputation for being a girl’s girl.
I can’t even think of Noah or Cat or Olive or Zoey right now. My siblings will all be so disappointed in me. My mom already approved the song—anything for an extra buck, I guess. My dad won’t care; he’s too busy planning his wedding with his teen bride.
Not literally, but she’s younger than me. Barf.
But the fans…the people like Nancy Rhodes or Benny. Oh, my gosh. I bury my face in my pillow and scream. I can’t believe I’ve let myself get this far with this dumb song.
I can never undo it.
I can never come back from this.
The doorbell rings. I freeze, wondering how loud my pillow-scream actually was. There’s no way the muffled sound reached outside, right?
Maybe if I don’t move a muscle, they’ll go away.
A minute goes by. My hopes rise.
Ding-dong.
Blergh. It can only be Benny. Or possibly his grandma coming to read me the riot act. Or maybe another neighbor has come by to let me know I’m a terrible person. Or it could be delivering to the wrong house.
Please be .
Ding-dong. Ding-dong. Ding-dong.
Okay, it’s definitely Benny.
I don’t have to answer the door. What’s he going to do?
Come hunt me down? I wrap the thick white duvet around my shoulders and sit up, looking through the half-open blinds at the faint shimmery ocean in the distance.
The far window is cracked open to let fresh salty air into the room before it gets too warm.
I’m in a loose tank and pajama shorts. This would be the ultimate vacation morning if I wasn’t so worried about everyone in the world hating me.
A brisk knock rattles the window, making me jump.
There’s a face pressed to my window, pudgy squished cheeks and a pig-like nose, framed in a silver bob.
I squeal, diving forward to hide from the intruder, but I misjudge the depth of my leap and go straight off the bed, rolling in the white duvet.
My legs are tangled, so I caterpillar crawl around the side of the bed to hide from view.
“I see you, Bree Belacourt!” a shrill female voice cuts through the room. “She’s in there,” the woman continues, yelling to someone.
That’s it. They’ve found me—broken all boundaries and crashed into my life. Soon, photos of me wrapped in this duvet and crawling out of sight are going to be splashed all over the internet. I can see the headlines already: Bree Bela-brat is Found At Last!
They love finding ways to make fun of the spin-off show I did with my sisters: Bela-babes Take Manhattan.
Another knock makes me hunker lower. Who could have possibly told them? Benny never would. His grandma? Or maybe I didn’t fool everyone at the BBQ yesterday as well as I’d hoped.
“Away from the window, Grandma,” a man calls patiently.
No, not just a man. Benny. That’s definitely Benny.
“She’s in there!” Nancy says. “She needs us.”
I sit up, lowering the blanket. Benny and Nancy are traipsing around outside, not paparazzi. They don’t sound angry…they sound…worried?
“I know Colby’s garage door code!” Nancy says triumphantly.
“No. No way,” Benny says firmly. “That’s an invasion—”
“It’s my grandson’s house. If I feel the need to check the property, I can.”
There’s more low conversation, which I assume is Benny trying to coax Nancy into leaving, and I crouch lower, burying my face in the blanket again.
When Jaida betrayed me, it felt like my world was crashing in.
There’s nothing like putting trust in the wrong person and finding out later they were only manipulating you.
Those feelings of shock and hurt and frustration have nothing on how low I feel right now.
Putting her down and creating a division between us was not the classy way to handle my pain.
I probably deserve whatever Nancy wants to hurl at me. My fans are justified in their disappointment. I might not say Jaida’s name in the song, but I pretty much spell it out.
“Grandma, I mean it,” Benny says sternly. “We need to give her space. She’ll call when she’s ready.”
That didn’t sound like a pitchfork-bearing member of the justice department. I sit up, my head cocking to the side to better hear the conversation. As I do, I catch Nancy’s eyes through the open blinds in a different window and squeal.
I should have recognized that haircut.
“Come on, Bree Belacourt,” Nancy calls, her voice muffled now that she’s standing in front of the closed window. “We only want to help.”
Help? There is literally no way they can do that. Nothing can save me now.
Melodramatic? Maybe.
But also true.
I now live in this mountain of blankets.
My face will never see the public again.
The last little while of utter freedom and normalcy are a thing of the past. It was good while it lasted, but that was it: a final hurrah.
The truth pulls at my stomach with discomfort, making me queasy.
I don’t want it to be over, but I know what Benny values, and childish fights aren’t on the list.
The garage creeps open, rumbling through the walls.
I glance around for somewhere to hide, but I’m not fast enough.
Nancy barrels into the house and straight down the hallway toward my room.
Does the woman have no boundaries? She stops in the doorway, hands propped on her hips, drawn-on eyebrows raised.
I try to picture myself from her perspective, a sad puddle of a woman tangled in a comforter and crouched beside the bed.
“Up,” she demands. “You can’t stay like this forever.”
Gone is the awe-struck Nancy from last night, and in her place is a drill sergeant.
The door to the garage squeals as it opens again. Benny’s voice reaches us from where he’s probably standing half in, half out of the door. “Grandma, we need to leave. This is not okay.”
“Ignore him,” Nancy says, watching me. “Have you eaten? Let’s start there. I’ll make you avocado toast with red pepper flakes.”
She knows my favorite breakfast. If I ever wondered at the validity of her fan claim, I don’t anymore. Besides, that sounds really good. Especially on the loaf of sourdough I picked up from Costco yesterday.
“I don’t have red pepper flakes,” I say, absurdly, as I’m still a puddle on the floor.
“I’m sure Colby has some packets in a drawer somewhere.” She starts toward the kitchen. “Take a shower, Bree. I’ll have breakfast ready by the time you’re out.”
This is not going how I had expected. She’s not berating me. She’s taking care of me.
My feet push free of the comforter before I make the decision to listen, and before I consciously know what I’m doing, I let myself into the bathroom and lock the door behind me.
Nancy’s right. The shower felt good. But it did nothing to fix the growing anxiety pulsing within me. I walk toward the kitchen, aware of the scent of bacon drifting from the room, which is confusing since I never bought bacon.
“Good morning,” Nancy says from the stove. “Benny ran home for orange juice, but—ah, there he is.” The front door closes with a snap.
I spin to face him, but he only gives me a perfunctory nod before carrying a jug of orange juice toward his grandma. What does that mean?