Page 24 of Dear Rockstar (Dear Rockstar 1)

Sudden, like a gunshot, or a whip.

And my mother’s tears, always her tears.

And mine. I cried for her weakness, for my own, wondering if there were people out there who lived normal lives, or if everyone hid things like this behind closed doors, behind scarves and sunglasses.

Tyler Vincent doesn’t.

That much I knew. He was known for being a family man, his wholesome image part of his celebrity. Just a normal everyday guy, living in his hometown in Maine, raising a family, who just happened to be one of the biggest rock stars who ever lived.

His kids never sat outside and wished him dead.

I was pretty sure of that.

CHAPTER FIVE

I opened the door slowly, bracing myself. This was the worst part. If I could just make it to my room, my haven, I’d be safe.

“Well, where have you been?” He didn’t look away from the TV, although his words were directed at me. “You can’t just waltz in here anytime you want to.”

I looked at him, sitting in “his” chair, remote control in hand, a cigarette in the other. He looked at me now, but he didn’t glare and that was good. That meant he wasn’t going to keep me. This was just a show of power.

“Sorry, I was at Aimee’s,” I said softly, the door snicking shut behind me. This was a lie. I’d simply waited out on the stairs until the yelling—and the crying—had stopped.

“Well, you can forget about dinner.”

“Did I miss it?” I hadn’t been out on the stairs that long!

“No, but you can forget about eating it.” He flipped the channel and puffed on his cigarette.

“You were late.” He turned back to the television set.

It was my dismissal. Thank God.

“Yes sir,” I mumbled anyway, just in case he thought about it later and decided I hadn’t been humble enough to suit him. I made my way past his chair, glancing into their room to see my mother lying on the bed with an ice pack on her eye. She appeared to be asleep.

I opened my door at the end of the hall and sighed in relief when I shut it behind me. I dropped my notebook and purse and lay down on my bed.

I made it. I was safe. Well, relatively.

. It felt good to relax, to let my guard down a little. This was the only place in the world I could “be myself.” This room was me, completely and totally me, from the pictures of Tyler Vincent wallpapering the walls, to the Tyler Vincent cassettes I had lined up on the shelves.

I looked around and wondered how long it would be before I could get out of here forever. My ticket out was sitting on an easel in front of the window. Like everything else in my room, it was Tyler Vincent. This was special though. This was the painting that would get me out of here—I hoped. I had taken my favorite picture of Tyler from People magazine and made a portrait of it.

The original picture was one of Tyler and his daughter, Chloe, in a warm embrace, her cheek resting against his black t-shirt. They were smiling, happy, and it looked as if the photographer had snapped the picture a moment too late, because instead of looking at the camera, they were half-looking at each other, their eyes locked, and the look in their eyes was of something secretly hilarious, some inside joke. The love there made me ache all over. The warmth between them was almost tangible, all the love in the world caught in that one single look.

I had painted Tyler exactly as he was, but instead of Chloe, I had done a self-portrait, putting myself in her place. The painting was almost finished. I just had a little work to do. I contemplated getting out my paints and brushes, since I was going to be in here all night without any supper. Thankfully I had a stash of granola bars in my closet and a whole case of apple juice. Pete—the stepbeast—drove a truck delivering juice and he stole it from work.

I got myself a granola bar and some juice, my stomach rumbling its thanks as I ate, looking through one of the brochures from my night stand. I’d flipped through it so many times, the edges were ragged. There was a Bulldog on the front, near the words “University of Maine at Orono”—Tyler Vincent’s alma mater. Inside, though…I opened the slick, folded sheet of paper, staring at the words: “Maine Difference Creative Competition. Open to writers, musicians, painters, photographers—artists of all creeds.”

I double-checked the prize, as I had a hundred times—an all-expenses paid scholarship to the University of Maine to the top winner in each category, and an invitation to an open house to see the campus and accept their award. The keynote speaker was, of course, Tyler Vincent himself, whose music career had started, of all places, in a Maine state university. I folded the brochure up, carefully tucking it fully back under my alarm clock.

That was my golden ticket. Tyler still had a house only five minutes away from Orono, in Bangor. I had my dreams of meeting him, my little fantasies. Maybe I’d run into his son, Michael… who says we couldn’t fall in love and get married? Or I could end up babysitting his youngest son, Ian. Or meeting Chloe if she decided to go to the University of Maine like her father.

I knew all of my little scenarios were unlikely, but they were absolutely impossible if I stayed in New Jersey and never set foot in Maine. So I was going. I would win the contest and go to Maine. I had to. If nothing else, it would get me out of here.

I looked at my painting and then at the original photograph I had tacked to the wall. Chloe Vincent. I was so incredibly jealous of her. Why should she have such a wonderful father, when I was stuck with the stepbeast? There was never a day that passed when I didn’t wish it was me, in his arms with all of that love, for real, and not just in my painting.

I sighed, shaking my head to clear the reverie. Forget it, I thought. Just get to work. I put on my painting smock and grabbed my palette and a clean brush. If I finished it tonight and let it dry, I could send it out tomorrow. The thought spurred me on, and I opened my paints, beginning to mix a skin tone. I had just gotten the right color when the phone rang.

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