Free Dedication by Emma McLaughlin Page B

there was Plan A.” I tug the denim from her arms and she gives, letting me fall back a step. “We’d hear he’d been spotted singing for quarters on the sidewalk in L.A. beside his empty guitar case.”
    “Sadly, no go.”
    “Plan B, One-Hit-Wonder. He’d fade into total pathetic obscurity, only resurfacing to appear gray and bloated on Where Are They Now?”
    “Plan C,” Laura continues as she stretches up to stand with one hand on the mirror and the other supporting her back. “Straight-up O.D. You’d arrive at the funeral in a stunning, yet tasteful, black sheath, your Nobel prize on a grosgrain ribbon around your neck, and his mother would take your hand, look into your eyes, and tell you—”
    I zipper up the final pair. “You know, dear, although he had such success, he never knew a minute’s true happiness after he left.” And I would squeeze the old crone’s hand and say, “I’m sorry for your loss.” And, “Was he really found naked in his own feces sucking his thumb?”
    “Oh, I did love Plan C.” Laura studies the fit in the mirror over my shoulder.
    “Yeah, well, last we left Plan Negative Z involved locking eyes with him across the aisle at your wedding. Late that night we’d meet at the gazebo, I’d be in a sexy little nothing—apparently with butterflies on it.”
    Laura grimaces. “I still, still, don’t know why Sam thought he’d come back for that.”
    “Because those boys always want to believe the best about Jake.” I sigh.
    “Well, believe me, that well’s run dry. Anyway, cut to mad passionate almost.”
    “Cut to him regretting his entire existence,” I pick up her cue. “I get on with my fabulous life. There. That was the plan.”
    “And those are the jeans. What about on top?”
    “It’s not here; there must be something at home that’ll work.”
    “Great. Come on, we’ve got six minutes for makeup. You run to the Lancôme counter and I’ll pay for these. Break!”
    We both step in opposite directions before I spin back, “Lor—”
    She turns, her blue eyes scanning me. All I can manage is a goofy smile as my own are suddenly moist. “I know,” her voice softens. “You, too.”
    “You guys have your own rage, I totally defer to that.”
    Her expression darkens. “You know how his label just got bought out by Bertlesbrink?” I nod. “Well, they’ve hit us with a cease and desist. They threatened, quote, aggressive legal action if we don’t drop it. We got the letter Monday. So Merry fucking Christmas.”
    “Jesus. What are you going to do?”
    She shakes her head as she cradles her tummy. “Sam says we can’t afford to keep pouring money into this.”
    “And you?” My eyes go to the small tremor beneath her hand.
    “I sat there in that fucking basement,” she says, her face taut with anger, “right alongside you, while my husband wrote the melody for the longest-running number-one of the ’nineties. So I can’t let it go, I can’t—the second we cease it’s like saying what he did is okay.” Closing her eyes, she takes a steadying breath. “I can’t get this upset.” My heart going out to her, I squeeze her arm and her eyes open. “So if you can make Rockstar Fuckhead’s evening even a little less fabulous it will be a total success as far as I’m concerned. Okay?” I nod. “But not looking like that.”
    “Right.” I run my hand through my hair. “I love you.”
    She smiles shyly, her cheeks flushing as her Scandinavian side gets embarrassed by the declaration. “Shucks, okay, I have too many hormones to do this now. Go!”
    “Okay!”
    “I mean it.” She waves me away. “You’re kicking his ass for all of us. I don’t want you doing it with puffy eyes.”

NINTH GRADE
     
    “Sam, you’re so retarded,” JenniferTwo declares wearily as Sam slides our minivan’s rear door shut, catching his Charger jacket in the hinge.
    My eyes fly to the back of the driver’s seat, but her offense did not make it to Dad’s good