“How is your mum?”
Peyton and her mum have been on their own since Peyton was a baby. Her dad took off to find himself shortly after she’d turned one. So far, he’s not found anything. Well, at least that she knows of because he’s never had any contact with her since. Her mum, Fern, thought maybe he’d be in touch now that Peyton is a superstar, living in LA, but they’ve heard nothing.
Growing up, we kind of shared each other’s parents. It’s probably why we’re so close. Then, the bitch moved across the world for a part in an ongoing TV series surrounding an American high school, kind of One Tree Hill- and 90210-style, and I miss her every day.
“She’s good. She hates America still.”
I laugh and shake my head. Fern doesn’t hate America. She hates that they don’t all drive on the other side for her or add tax to the prices on show.
“So, tell me something awesome you’ve done recently, Tex,” she says.
“I ate a whole share bag of M and M’s and Maltesers in one sitting while watching three seasons of The Big Bang Theory.”
Peyton is silent for a long time, but just as I’m about to ask if she’s still there, she clears her throat. “Time well spent.”
“Yeah, I think so.”
Deep down, I know I need to do more epic shit, but what this epic shit will be I have no idea. My dad’s a rock star, my mother’s a supermodel, and my best friend is a TV star. I have a lot to live up to, and I don’t know where to start.
For now, I’m content to tour for the summer, and then I’ll figure something out.
Swinging my legs over the bed, I get up and throw my favourite T-shirt in my case. I should’ve started packing earlier, but that never changes. I’ve got no time for that. And we do have a little time before we leave.
“Anyway, Pey, I need to go. Call me as soon as you can fit me into your busy schedule,” I tease.
“Mmhmm, I’ll try to pencil you in next week.”
“I hate you.”
“Love you, too, whore,” she sings before hanging up.
Chucking my phone down on my bed, I finish packing the last—I hope—of my things.
I zip up the case as Dad walks into the room. He rubs the dark stubble covering his chin.
I look like Dad—minus the facial hair, of course. We have the same shades of medium-dark brunette hair and hazel eyes. Mine have more green in them though, and that can be attributed to my mother. She’s all blonde hair, dazzling green eyes, and miles of legs.
He leans against the doorframe, like he’s in a Calvin Klein ad, which he was asked to do a few years ago. They wanted rock star Mark Knight on their campaign. Thank God he turned it down because I would’ve had to get myself emancipated. No one wants to see their dad in underwear on billboards and on TV.
And if they do, they need to reevaluate their life.
“Want to see if you can meet up with your mum before we leave?” he asks.
I raise my eyebrow. My mother, the woman who pushed me out and then left me with Dad thirty-six hours later. She didn’t even try for two days.
I give him a sarcastic look. “No.”
“Texas, you won’t see her for a couple of months.”
“Then, nothing will change,” I reply as I shrug.
I generally see her once every three months. Being on tour won’t change my relationship with her at all. Christ, moving to the North Pole wouldn’t do that.
Mother Dearest is a supermodel, household name, and ex–reality TV star. I’m so glad I refused to be on Living with the Star when she had the film crew at her house for almost a year.
To be fair, she’s damn good at what she does. Jennifer does high-fashion and runway shit, wearing stupidly expensive clothes that look as uncomfortable as they are impractical. I’m a shorts-and-T-shirt kind of girl most of the time.
I don’t think there’s a glossy magazine she’s not been on the front of. All of that success is great, but she sucks at being a mum. My dad, nanny, his band, and his entourage have brought me up, and they’ve done a pretty awesome job.
Dad sighs. He knows how I feel about Jennifer, and while he doesn’t disagree that she’s not even fit to look after a plant—which she kills regularly—he doesn’t like to say anything bad about her to me. Growing up, he made so many excuses for her. I knew the real reason she was rarely there. She didn’t want to be my mum, plain and simple.
“Okay, just give her a call then.” He throws the house phone down on my bed, like I don’t have a mobile, and walks out.