Over It (The Kiss Off 2)

Copyright © 2013 Sarah Billington

www.sarahbillington.com

Cover design by Billington Media

Smashwords Edition Licence Notes

The Kiss Off by Sarah Billington is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution–NonCommercial–NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

This ebook is a work of fiction. Names, characters and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

This ebook is licenced for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people.

For Elisabeth Bervel (nee Fooks). Taken too soon. I thought we had more time. You were one of my biggest supporters and I hope you knew how much I appreciated it.

CHAPTER ONE

I strolled onto the grassy lawn of the Mapleleaf Flea Market toward Mads’s vintage clothing stall, waving a piece of paper in the air in front of me. A most excellent piece of paper. Of all the pieces of paper in the world, this one was by far my favorite.

I handed her the check I had received yesterday morning with the post and she peered at it curiously.

She gasped, her eyes widening Shut up.

Yep. I beamed.

"Shut up."

Royalties, baby, I said. "I'm a bona fide songwriter. The Kiss Off is a freaking gold mine, who woulda thought?"

I already knew Mads was an excitable person, but I didn't expect what happened next. She started bouncing on the spot, maybe she was jumping…jogging…I couldn't tell underneath the doily dress. She was dressed to show off her fashionable – and not so fashionable – wares, all layered up in a fox fur throw, Chantilly lace top with a white tank underneath and a floor–length lace and satin skirt that made her look like Toilet Roll Dispenser Barbie.

She started bouncing higher, with more intensity, wringing her hands in front of her. And then she started screaming and hitting me, slapping me again and again on the arm.

The women at her racks of clothes looked on, concerned. Some of them backed away a little, rethinking their interest in shopping here. The flap of Mads’s makeshift dressing room lifted and a brunette clutching a pink prom dress to her bare chest peered out, joining us all as we watched what appeared to be Miss Haversham having a fit, like she'd just been hit with an invisible taser. It was an extreme reaction, sure, but I’d pretty much had the same one at home where the only witness had been the dog.

Okay Mads, I said, shuffling a few steps away so I’d be out of reach of her slapping arm. I flitted my gaze at all of the eyes trained on us. I knew she'd be excited, but this...

So um, I said, clearing my throat as I snatched the check back out of her hand. As you can see, my royalties came in. I stuffed the check deep into my pocket.

Poppy! Mads screeched. She grabbed me by both shoulders, digging her fingers in. "You're minted, you're rich, you're freaking loaded!"

Yeah, alright, I said, wrestling her fingers from my skin. Ow, Mads, stop. Will you chill? It had come to my attention, yes, I said. I'm completely moneyed–up now.

Think how many shoes you could buy with that, Mads said with a dreamy sigh.

Yeah, or guitars. "I could buy shoes, I said, but I had a way better idea."

From my other pocket, I pulled out a flyer, unfolded it and pressed it against Mads' pearl– and lace–clad chest. Frowning, she turned it around so she could read it.

See that? I said, pointing at the feature band name on the flyer. Ty told me last night. Academy of Lies are headlining Bay Fest over in Tallulah Bay.

They're headlining? Are you serious?

I grinned. Pack your bags, baby.

Shut up.

Two words: road trip, I said. One word: camping.

"Shut up."

Four wor- I paused and frowned for a second. Is it four? Yeah – four words: Weekend by the sea.

"Shut UP."

Four more words-

Enough with the words already.

I'm nearly done, I said, four final words: you, me and Van.

She bit her bottom lip, staring me straight in the eye when she started wringing her hands in front of her again. Her head was about to explode clean off, I knew it.

And then she started bouncing.

No, I said, "no, no. You shut up. You start screaming again and you're not coming."

Instead, Mads squeezed me in a bear hug and planted a kiss on my cheek. I'm going to Babe Fest. I'm going to Babe Fest!

A woman patted her on the shoulder. Excuse me, err…

Hmm? Oh, totally cute, right? Mads said. That one's $50.

Tallulah Bay Music Festival. Or Babe Fest. Of all the nicknames in the world, it could have been a lot worse. And it wasn’t like it wasn’t accurate. It was definitely going to be a babe fest, because Ty was going to be there. Butterflies flutterbied in my stomach. In a good way. An excited way. I hadn’t seen him in forever. Sure, we Skyped, and he was on TV and the radio and stuff, and of course I followed him on Twitter, but I hadn’t really seen him, in the flesh, in over a month.

Mads shut down excitement mode and went all businesswoman for a few minutes as she sold a few more dresses and one hideous–looking pant suit before she brought her attention back to me. Seemed she was good at compartmentalizing. Who knew? Also, who knew a fit of jumping and screaming would be so good for business?

She gave me a happy sigh and had another look at the festival flyer. Holy crap, The Himbos are going to be there as well? They are so hot. And Justina Farthing? I freaking love her. And… she paused and her eyes widened a little before she lifted her gaze them to meet mine.

So she’d spotted it. I played it cool.

Did you see Lexie De Graff is playing, too?

I pretended to inspect my nails, like it was no big thing. Yeah. She’s okay, I guess.

Mads rolled her eyes, folded the flyer back up and threw it at me. She knew what Lexie De Graff meant to me. The woman was my idol. I picked up my first guitar and wrote my first ever song when I was eleven because of her. Her songs, her music spoke to me.

You have to meet her, Mads said, matter–of–factly.

I grimaced, suddenly nervous. I wasn’t sure I could. How do you meet your idol, anyway? What do you say to them? And what if they’re not as amazing as you think they are? What if they’re just normal, everyday human beings?

Maybe, I said. Before Mads could get all worked up and like ‘Maybe is bullshit, you are definitely meeting her’, I hurried on. So anyway, you don't have any plans for that weekend, right?

Uh, Mads said, looking at me like I was stupid, now I do!

I beamed at her. All I needed now was for Vanya to be in and we would be all set. This was going to be amazing.

The best weekend ever.

Ha, Mom said with an annoying smirk as she rinsed lettuce in the kitchen sink. That’s a good one. Keep dreaming, Poppy.

I scowled at her and crossed my arms in a huff. Poo Bum danced around her legs, did a lap of the island table, then nudged her knees into the cabinets with his nose.

Pool, stop it, shoo! Mom said. Instead of shooing, he planted himself at her feet and gazed up at her, his tongue hanging out one side of his mouth and his shaggy tail sweeping the floor.

No dreaming, I said, living. Doing. I'm going.

No, you're not. You're sixteen. Get out of here, Poo! Shoo! Mom'd been trying ever since we’d formally made the once stray dog a Douglas family member to call him something else. Anything else. My stupid brother Rory had started calling him Poo Bum (for obvious reasons if you knew him) and when he started coming when called, the name had stuck.

When Mom had officially registered him at the council, she’d written down that he was called Swimming Pool. She told them it was an inside joke. I guess she figured Pool was similar to Poo, but less embarrassing to yell throughout the neighborhood when he bolted down the street after the garbage truck. And they're so similar; the hope had been that he'd respond to that instead.

But no.

At last, called by his one true name, he barked, turned in a circle then sprinted from the kitchen like he was chasing air. Freak.

"You mean nearly seventeen."

Nearly seventeen, but not, Mom said. "There's no way I'm letting three sixteen–year–old girls drive halfway across the country by themselves to go to a music festival. My cousin Margie went to Woodstock, you know."

Firstly it’s not halfway across the country, it’s like six hours, I said, and second: oh my God, Mom, it's not going to be like Woodstock. Bay Fest is way different.

How different?

Well it's not the ‘70s, for one.

She sighed at me, her patience wearing thin. Oh, really? You're trying to tell me that people don't drink and do drugs at music festivals anymore?

By the look on her face, I got the feeling she didn't quite believe me.

Maybe they do, I said. But not at this one.

She rolled her eyes.

Fine! I said. "Whatever! We won't be drinking and doing drugs, then, how's that? Now can we go?"

Poppy, honey, unless you want your daddy to chaperone you – we all know how much he loves his pop music – then you're not going.

I cringed at the mental image of my dad shaking it to Lexie De Graff. Or worse: Academy of Lies.

"No. There's no way ever in a million years, never, never, ever that Dad is coming with me, and besides, everyone else my age gets to go away unsupervised. Georgia Hyland and her friends went to Cabo last summer. By themselves. When they were fifteen. They went to a whole other country."

Well then Georgia Hyland's parents are idiots, Mom said.

They came back fine! I said. She didn’t need to know about the rumors that Melanie Brixton got so high on magic mushrooms she took a joy ride on one of those zebra–striped donkeys they have and spent a night in a totally unsanitary prison cell. It was an unconfirmed rumor, anyway. They never talked about that trip. Seemed what happened in Cabo stayed in Cabo.

I refocused the conversation and got back on point. "And, Van's coming. The good one. The uber–responsible one. Seriously, is she not chaperone enough?"

No.

"Mom!"

'Mom' nothing, she said. I'm sorry honey, but you're not going, end of discussion.

She turned her attention back to the lettuce leaves for the stupid, boring salad she had started making to accompany every stupid meal my stupid dad cooked us since the stupid summer started. The salads were her stupid attempt at convincing us that she was actually domestic and could actually cook.

It wasn't working.

You act like you can't trust me, I said.

She laughed a loud Ha!

I glared at her.

Give me a good reason to trust you, honey, Mom said. Please, I'm begging you. I'm dying for a reason.

I supposed the last couple of months weren't the best examples, what with my YouTube meltdown over Cam and Nikki–shaped boy drama which turned into a hit song, and how I sexted my tatas to my rock star boyfriend and it ended up all over TMZ and the world wide web. The world wide web.

But that was totally two months ago. Ancient history; life had calmed down, things were good with Ty and I had stopped jumping to conclusions every time a hot fan girl threw herself at my rock–God boyfriend. And with attention on me and The Kiss Off dying down since the Academy had just released their second single, I'd started actually focusing and learning stuff when Van forced me to study. I'd turned into a complete golden child, truly.

But it seemed my efforts were wasted because clearly my mom hadn’t noticed.

She smirked to herself, shaking her head as she poured a punnet of cherry tomatoes into the strainer.

How exactly did you plan on taking this road trip, anyway? she said. You didn't think Dad and I would loan you the car for a week, did you?

I tilted my chin a little higher. It’s four days, I corrected her. Leave on Friday, festival on Saturday and Sunday, home on Monday. And duh, I'm not an idiot.

She snorted and raised her eyebrows. I was really starting to dislike my mother right now.

"I'm going to buy my own car. I can finally afford one. And a good one, too. I’m getting a convertible. A red one." I gave a satisfied nod. I could just picture us flying down the highway, the wind in our hair. I couldn’t wait to get my car.

Mom's shoulders slumped. Keys jangled at the front door and from somewhere in the house, Poo Bum gave a bark and scrambled up the corridor. A second later, it sounded like he'd tackled my dad.

Hi, honey! Mom called. I heard Dad's keys drop into the bowl by the door, and his footsteps thudded up the hall toward us.

Okay boy, Dad was saying, "enough now, go on. It's nice to see you too, but stop it. Go on. Poo Bum, stop it. Stop it."

Get this, Mom said as Dad rounded the corner, trying to push the dog's nose from his crotch. She had a smile in her voice.

I didn't like it.

She nodded at me as she moved the drained lettuce and tomatoes to the salad bowl. Dad gave her a peck hello on the cheek.

Poppy's figured out how she's going to spend her royalties.

Oh yeah? Dad said warily, loosening his tie. Go on then.

She's going to buy herself a brand new, red convertible and she, Vanya and Madeline are going to take a road trip – by themselves – all the way to Tallulah Bay and are going to attend the Bay Fest Music Festival at which her boyfriend, the rock star, is performing. Doesn't that sound great?

No.

Dad-

Oh, and she promises that, though other people will likely be getting drunk and high as a kite, she and the girls won't.

Super.

That sounds fine, right? We're okay with that? Mom said.

I glowered at her. You know, sarcasm is the lowest form of humor, Mom.

I've been thinking about what you could do with your sudden influx of money, myself, Popsicle, Dad said.

I closed my eyes and sighed. I couldn't wait to hear this.

How about a snazzy new lyric book and a nice big college fund, huh? He ruffled my hair and I swatted him away. God, he was annoying. He and Mom were perfect for each other.

Dad-

That's a great idea, honey, Mom said.

Mom-

There's more to buying a car than just the sticker price, Poppy. Cars are like pets. They're long term financial commitments.

I know that! I said. What do you mean?

Each year you have registration and insurance expenses – insurance is non–negotiable, by the way – which will cost a couple thousand a year, Dad said, "and you'll need to get it serviced a couple of times a year too, which is not cheap, let me assure you, not to mention every week you have to fill it with gas and have you seen those prices?"

But you guys'll help me with all that, right? I said.

They exchanged looks. What? What are you looking at? Everyone else's parents do!

Everyone else didn't just make more money in one check than their parents do in a whole year.

But-

If you want a car, you'll just have to set money aside for everything that goes with it. For the next ten years, Dad said. Doesn't leave much in the bank after all that, does it?

Shut up.

CHAPTER TWO

They won’t let me go, I texted Ty.

A moment later, he replied: What? Why not? You have to come!

They don’t trust me.

Before he replied, muffled footsteps stopped outside my door and there was a soft rap before whoever was outside pushed it open.

I placed my cell face down on my desk and spun my chair to see Mom, who leaned against the door frame, watching me for a moment.

Can I come in?

I shrugged. With a heavy sigh, she crossed the room, stepping carefully over a pair of jeans I'd stepped out of, an Ugg boot that had been lying in the middle of the carpet since winter and a pile of old Rolling Stone and OK! magazines. I hadn’t read a new one in three weeks, in case there were made up stories about Ty that would make me jealous and jump to conclusions. I’d gone cold turkey. It was hard since everyone else seemed to know more about what he was doing than I did, but it was also safer for my sanity just to hear about the real things he’d been doing straight from him.

Mom sat on my bed and scooted back to lean against the wall. Your father and I have been talking, she started.

Uh huh, I said warily. Laughing, you mean. Making fun of me. Acting like I'm a ten–year–old-

Your cousin Hamish happens to be going to Bay Fest this year.

…Okay…so? I said. I narrowed my eyes at her. I didn't like that she had brought up Hamish. Hamish was the biggest geek I'd ever met. Like Sheldon from The Big Bang Theory, only with less of a sense of humor and a good chunk more social–phobia. Hamish was going to Bay Fest? He wasn't even into music. Or people.

Hamish has a car, Mom said.

Oh crap. No.

And he's-

"Mom, no!"

This is what I'm offering, Poppy. Take it or leave it.

We sat there staring at each other for a couple of seconds before I broke eye contact, closed my eyes and whimpered. Argh, fine. Tell me.

"One: Hamish has a car. He'll drive you and your friends – just Vanya and Mads – to Tallulah Bay. He will drive, Poppy.

Two: Hamish will stay with you and supervise you at all times.

What? I don’t need a babysitter.

Three: You will text me once every two hours during the day, and provide photographic evidence that you are behaving yourself at night.

This is stupid, I won't-

Four: You will get your father the Debutante Dolls autographs.

I snorted in surprise. What?

Mom smiled at me wryly and glanced toward the door. You can probably tell that wasn’t part of the original list.

"I don’t think they’re even at the festival, I said, but whatever, I can try."

If you accept these conditions – Hamish driving you there; checking in; and Debutante Dolls, then okay. You can go to Bay Fest, she said. Oh! And one more thing. And this one's really important, Poppy.

What is it?

She watched me closely for a moment. Are you listening?

Yes Mom, I'm listening. What is it?

When you are around Ty or around the media or – heaven forbid – around both at the same time, I need you to think about this. She paused, then said, What would Jesus do?

I blinked at her. Excuse me?

What would Jesus do.

You can't be serious.

W–W–J–D, Poppy. Keep it at the front of your mind.

You aren’t even religious.

She stiffened. I am so, she said. I’m just a little lapsed, is all.

I snorted. Whatever you say.

She ignored me and pressed on. Would Jesus flash his panties at the paparazzi? I don't think so, she said. Would Jesus get into a cat fight with a girl who flirted with his boyfriend?

I tried not to laugh. Jesus’s boyfriend?

No, he would not.

Mom, this is-

What would Jesus do, Poppy, she said. Don't think I don't mean it.

Fine, I said. Got it.

Do you accept my conditions?

I groaned, threw my head back and spun a slow circle in my desk chair. "Why does it have to be Hamish? He sucks the fun out of everything."

He's responsible. He's going to be an astro–physicist when he finishes college.

And that makes him a safe driver, how?

It's Hamish or Great Aunt Aggie, Mom said. Her seniors' group is going on a bus trip to the aquarium out there. You could always ride with them.

Great Aunt Aggie? Oh hell, no. At ninety–one–years–old, not only was it possible that a sneeze would break her hip, but the woman was the biggest klepto I’d ever met. You can't go shopping with her; she always gets caught with stuff she didn't pay for. It would be alright if it was like, earrings or a DVD or something, but no. Most of the time it was Mylanta or tins of tuna. There were a couple of times Dad had to scrounge up money for bail... I don't really want to think about it.

But the good thing about Aunt Aggie was that I wouldn't have her trailing around the festival with me, following me from stage to stage because strangers gave her the willies. Strangers don't give Great Aunt Aggie the willies. If people bug her, she hits them with her walking stick. But no. There was no way I was taking Aunt Aggie to Bay Fest and my stupid mother knew it.

Fine, I said, I accept your conditions.

Excellent.

Except the texting every two hours. That’s a little excessive don’t you think?

Fine. But you will call every day.

Fine, I said. I’ll only be gone four days.

Fine. Mom stuck out her hand and, with a scowl on my face, I shook it. She scooted off the bed and with a spring of achievement in her step, she left the room. Don't make me regret it, Poppy, she said.

I got up, slammed the door behind her and collapsed onto my bed, shoving a pillow over my face. So Hamish was coming. Wasn't sure I knew how to explain that to Mads. Van would be alright, they'd probably get along okay, what with having eleventy–billion brain cells between them. But Mads...

I jumped up and grabbed my cell to text Ty again. There were some sucky conditions but the point was, I was going!

CHAPTER THREE

Telling Van about the royalty check and the best–weekend–of–our–lives plan didn’t go as well as it had with Mads.

She met me at the park to walk Poo and take in the evening summer air, but her enthusiasm was somewhat waning.

It sounds brilliant, Poppy, Van said, walking casually beside me. She needed super–long strides to keep up with me as Poo hauled me along the sidewalk, straining against his leash, refusing to heel.

Van continued. It really does...

I didn't like the sound of that. But?

But Nan and I are going to New York for that whole week.

Really? I said. Since when?

She's going to Gore–a–thon, Vanya said. "Apparently the cast of Deadly Thirst 3 are going to be there this year so it’s a ‘must–go’."

Vanya's grandmother was the biggest horror movie buff I knew. You'd never think of it from the look of her, with her silver bun, knit cardigans and scratchy–looking brown skirts, but she loved herself some scary movies. The bloodier the better.

And I'll go on some film set tours, the NBC tour, we're going to do some Broadway shows...

You can't, I said, you have to come to the fest with us. Poppy, Mads and Van’s Big Adventure.

Sorry.

I frowned. Can't you at least ask her?

I could, Van said, but I'm actually really looking forward to New York.

Well that sucks, I sighed. For me, I mean. Doesn’t suck for you. You'll have fun.

Yeah. So will you, though.

We made our way onto the empty sports oval. I stopped walking and pressed down hard on Poo’s backside to make him sit. I unclipped his leash and Vanya hurled a tennis ball onto the field. Poo bolted after it.

The hairy mutt thundered back to us and dropped the ball expectantly, coated in slime, at Van’s feet. I kicked it and we both ducked as spittle flew everywhere. He sprinted after it again.

I know I will, it just sucks.

It’ll still be fun with Mads.

Yeah, of course, I said. "But Hamish? Ugh. He’s just so annoying. He never ever shuts up."

When was the last time you saw him? she asked.

Christmas before he went to college. So a year and a half ago?

People can change, Vanya said, he might not be so bad anymore.

I smiled at her and patted her on the head. Oh, Vanya, I said. She gave me a long–suffering smile. Always the optimist.