I nod because I get it. I’d do anything to protect my family too. Though, admittedly, when they needed me most, I was overseas—I wasn’t there for them. If it weren’t for Tristan, they may not even be here at all, but I force myself to avoid thinking about the past. If I don’t, I’d spend my life beating myself up over something I can’t change.
“These letters, they were sent to the house?” I ask, forcing myself to focus.
She nods, and I can see she’s struggling to keep composure, obsessively twisting the diamond rings on her fingers. “Yes. Whoever sent them found out our address. But they also send letters to the hotels we stay at when we’re on tour or traveling. Luna even found one in her dressing room. We have security on-site, so whoever sent it managed to get backstage and into her private space. It really scared me. And a month ago someone broke into her tour bus.… They slashed the seats with a knife, threw red paint all over everything. It looked like a slaughterhouse. It was horrific.”
I take that in, feeling a buzz of irritation. “Where was her bodyguard when all this happened?”
“He was distracted, watching Luna rehearse.”
Sounds like a real pro. I shake my head in disgust.
“We got rid of him, obviously,” she adds.
“You mentioned there were three bodyguards. What happened to the other two?”
“One sold gossip about Luna to the National Enquirer, so I fired him.”
I wonder what kind of gossip, but I don’t ask.
“And the third one quit.”
“How long did he last?” I ask, alarm bells ringing loudly.
She hesitates. “Eight days,” she finally admits. “He found the job too challenging.”
I can’t think why.
“Whoever is doing it has to be someone who knows Luna,” I say. “Someone who knows her schedule, and someone who doesn’t look out of place wandering around backstage.”
Mrs. Rivera nods in agreement.
“So, it should be easy to figure out who it is,” I say.
She lifts her chin at me. “You would think so, but there are dozens of people it could be: assistants, makeup artists, stylists, PR people, managers, agents, advertisers, brand strategists, musicians.”
She keeps reeling off job titles, though I have no idea what even half of them mean.
“It could be anyone,” she admits, throwing her hands in the air.
“Why is Luna so against having a bodyguard, given the situation? Is it just because she doesn’t trust them to do the job properly?”
Mrs. Rivera sighs loudly again, and I see it’s a sore spot for her. “Well, it’s not as if the last three have given her much confidence. And she thinks they get in the way of her living her life, that they’re there to spy on her. We’ve also kept a few of the more recent letters from her, not wanting to scare her.”
I take that in. Maybe she should be told; it might help them convince her she needs security.
Her mom looks at me. “So, will you take the job?”
LUNA
I don’t need a freaking babysitter. I’m nineteen! How many times do I need to tell my mom that I’m an adult and I can make my own choices? I’m sick of her and Marty and their executive decisions. To them, I’m not a person with feelings; I’m a money-making robot. If they could turn me off and not have to deal with me until it came time to wheel me out and push me onstage, they’d be a lot happier. They always think they know what’s best, and I’m sick of it.
I know I’ve had threats, but those were a while ago, and it’s not as if anyone can get near me when I’m home, thanks to all the security cameras and alarms. I hardly go anywhere either, so what do I need a bodyguard for? It’s not like they’ve stopped any of the threats or figured out who is behind them, not to mention the fact they’re never reliable or trustworthy. The first guy perved on the dancers and let someone walk onto my tour bus and deface it. And the second one sold me out to the tabloids. The last guy I acted like a total diva toward, in the hopes of making him quit, and it worked.
My mom’s using the threats as an excuse to employ someone to spy on me. The fact that I don’t want yet another man giving me orders, spying on me, and interfering in my life is of no concern to her or to Marty or to anyone.
I throw myself down on the bed and bury my face in a pillow before I let out a howl of frustration. I bet that guy Will is going to go and tell all his friends about me. He’ll probably post something on Twitter about what a bitch I am, and how I’m not half as pretty in the flesh.
That’s what they always do. And they’re right, the voice in my head pipes up with a friendly reminder.
My phone buzzes. I sit up and grab for it. It’s a reminder from Marty about my schedule for this afternoon. The ants are crawling over and under my skin, and I pace my room, hands on hips, trying to catch my breath, but it feels as if I’m wearing an iron corset and sipping air through a straw.
There’s a knock on my door. “Go away!” I shout, feeling light-headed. I don’t want to see my mom right now.
But then there’s another knock. This time more of a thud. I run over to the door and pull it open. It’s Matias, in his Star Wars pajamas. His lip is trembling and he looks like he’s about to burst into tears. “Why go away?” he asks plaintively.
“I didn’t know it was you,” I tell him. “I’m sorry.”
He gives me a timid smile, and I pull him into the room, closing the door behind him. He runs and dives onto my bed, already laughing, and I jog over to the remote and throw it to him.
“Gumball!” he shouts with excitement as he flips to his favorite cartoon. I sit next to him on the bed as he cranks the volume up, and I smile despite the fact the sound is deafening because the joy on his face is so infectious.
I stretch out beside him and watch the cartoon as Matias bounces on the bed, guffawing with laughter. Lying here beside him helps distract me from the ants and the tightness in my chest.
People find Matias to be hard work, or at least some people do. He’s been through almost as many occupational therapists and special needs teachers as I have security guards. But Matias, despite his size—he’s taller than me and he’s only twelve—and his uncoordinated movements, isn’t difficult to manage, not if you get to know him, which most people don’t. He’s the sweetest boy on the planet, and easily my favorite human, which isn’t hard because most people I meet are Grade A assholes with their own agendas who can’t be trusted not to screw me over.
Matias just doesn’t know how to communicate quite like other children his age. Most people can’t be bothered to engage with him, so they make up ideas about him that aren’t true. I guess Matias and I have that in common.
Carla knocks and enters a few minutes later, carrying a tray laden with plates of food and glasses of fresh-squeezed orange juice.
“I thought you and Matias could have breakfast in bed,” she says, crossing to the bed, where she greets Matias with a big smile. “Good morning!” she says.
“Good morning.” Matias grins back. He loves Carla more than he loves cartoons, which is saying something. Besides me, Carla’s the only person who actually bothers to make an effort with him. I can’t help that voice inside me wondering if it’s because she’s paid to.