Spiral Read online

  By

  Jacqueline Levine

  Copyright © 2013 Jacqueline Levine

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 061580294X

  ISBN 13: 9780615802947

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-63002-828-2

  For Lucky Nat, who always did it his way.

  Sweet dreams, Daddy.

  CONTENTS

  PART 1

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  PART 2

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  CHAPTER 36

  CHAPTER 37

  CHAPTER 38

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  DIRTERAZZI.COM

  CHERIE BELLE AND CAZ FARRELL

  ROBBING THE CRADLE MUCH?

  What do you get when you mix the former Kidz Channel king everyone wants and the latest Kidz Channel princess that no one can (legally) have? Oh, only the hottest maybe-couple ever! Heartthrob Caz Farrell, 25, was spotted last night leaving Fly nightclub, with his usual Kidz Channel entourage in tow, including Dominick Furst and Amber Stiles. Mere seconds later, Cherie Belle, the sixteen year old siren from Kidz Channel’s “Choc it Up” and Caz’s co-star in the upcoming flick, “This Side of Sunny,” made the same exit and fled the scene… in the same car! How the underage teen queen got into the club to begin with is still unclear. Witnesses inside the club say the two were cozying up to one another in the VIP section, well-hidden by bodyguards and friends. Some onlookers report the body language between Caz and Cherie was very telling.

  Rumors have already been swirling around the stars for a few months, and many say it would be a match made in studio heaven if the television royalty were to actually date. Of course, Caz’s camp completely denies the rumors, because who would admit to dating a minor? If Caz is caught robbing the cradle, he would be labeled a pedophile for life, not to mention face serious criminal charges and spend Christmas behind bars. Since no one wants to see that, let’s just pretend this didn’t happen…

  CHAPTER 1

  Yesterday was the fourth anniversary of the day Dad left, but my mom didn’t cry about it this year. She was too busy learning how to make latkes for tonight’s Christmas-Hanukkah dinner, so the onions were the only things making her eyes tear up. Onions and the dozen roses my step-dad, Jim, brought home for her from the supermarket.

  I’m torn from my thoughts by the angry pounding on the bathroom door.

  “Ja-ack! Get out of the bathroom already!”

  I groan. “I’m not done yet, Claudia.”

  I breathe deeply as my stepsister huffs and storms down the hall. When I’m sure she’s gone, I resume my post-shower routine by pulling hair gel out of the drawer marked “Jack” in our bathroom’s dresser. My drawer sits above the one marked “Brenton and Britney” because they’re little and need the lowest drawer for their bath toys and toothbrushes. But mine comes after the drawer marked “Claudia,” and hers sits below her twin’s compartment, the one marked “Chloe.” This is a totem pole of products and supplies that my mom carefully designed to keep all of us organized and not spread out all over her counters. If you ask me, I’d say it’s just another large, invasive piece of furniture occupying space we don’t have in this house. More importantly, the dresser is a giant reminder that I share a bathroom with four other people and, despite being the oldest, I’m somewhere lost in the middle.

  I swirl a little gel between my palms and run it through my hair, smoothing the sides and combing my fingers through the front until it has the right height. Examining my face while I wash the remaining gel off of my hands, I scowl at how young I look. I wish I could grow a beard or something. My jaw just doesn’t have that shadow yet, that look of a guy who takes a sharp, dangerous object and runs it across his face daily. I kind of want that.

  Mom says I don’t want a beard though, because I will seem even more like Dad. I have his dirty blond hair and his smile, and that’s already more than she cares to look at every day. I think I have his eyebrows too, complete with little lines in the middle from all of the squinting I do. He used to squint at us when he was confused, and I’ve been confused since he left.

  Claudia’s back, jerking on the locked door knob with a vengeance. “JACK! God, you are such a girl! You’ve been in there for twenty minutes!”

  I tighten the towel around my waist and sigh. A guy can’t shower in peace in this house anymore. I throw open the door, meeting Claudia’s hateful glower.

  “Yes, Claudia?” I lean against the doorframe casually, blocking her path as she tries to push past me on both sides and fails.

  She snaps, “Move! I have to shower!”

  “I didn’t know you could wash off ugly,” I sneer.

  She’s not as quick as her twin with the retorts, so she releases her signature growl-scream in response. “Moooove – I have to get ready! They’ll be here any minute!”

  I move out of the doorway and let her through. “Merry Christmas!” I call backward when she slams the door closed.

  “Hanukkah, jerk! We celebrate HAN-OO-KAH!” she yells through the door. “God!”

  As I walk down the long hall to my room, I hear my mother scurrying around downstairs, followed by the clink of glasses bumping into one another in her hand as she sets the table. The warm smells of turkey and sugar cookies waft into the hall and surround me. Frank Sinatra, Mom’s go-to holiday, family-is-coming-over artist, sings an indulgent ballad through the sound system of our home.

  I’d trade in all the smells and sounds of Christmas for just one more holiday without the step-twins from hell.

  Passing my little brother’s room, I poke my head in just to check and make sure he’s almost ready for dinner, which is starting in less than thirty minutes. As expected, Brenton is stretched out face-down on his bed, chin propped up in his hands as he watches some stupid video on my laptop.

  Even though Jim is the new “man of the house,” it’s still my duty to play dad with my own siblings. I shake my head and walk over to him.

  “C’mon, bud, time to get ready,” I huff, swiping the computer up and snapping him out of his trance.

  “Hey!” he whines, then he pouts and folds his arms. “I was getting ready, for your information.”

  My gaze moves from him to the computer screen, which is in the midst of displaying one of starlet Cherie Belle’s cheesy music videos. Correction: one of her newer, cheesier music videos for a song that sounds like all of the other songs she makes for little kids like Brenton. She’s one of those up and coming kid celebrities that little girls love and guys my age drool over. I don’t get why Brenton’s so obsessed with her, though; she’s hot and all, but Brenton’s ten year old mind can’t possibly be thinking that. Or maybe he is finally noticing girls?

  Rather than entertain that thought for a second more, I chuckle at him and stop the video, saying, “Are you singing this dumb song for us later or something? Putting on a little Christmas play maybe?” I turn to his closet and pull out
a pair of khakis and a miniature button down shirt that looks like it would maybe fit around one of my arms.

  He squints at me as I plop the clothes down beside him. “No, Cheecho and I want to make sure we have plenty to talk to her about. Duh.”

  If any other person in the world had said such a thing, I probably would have inquired further with something along the lines of, “Huh?” or “What do you mean?”

  But this is Brenton, and Brenton is a weird kid who has an imaginary friend named Cheecho, and he says weird stuff all of the time. For all I know, he is making a plan to have an imaginary play date with Cherie Belle and Cheecho later tonight.

  So I simply shake my head at him and sigh, “Whatever, bud, just make sure you do it after you get dressed for dinner.”

  I turn and walk off with my computer just as he calls, “Do you have any idea who she is?”

  I close my bedroom door to tune the hallway music out, but it’s inescapable, blaring from the wall speakers that are littered in every hallway of our house. Jim had them installed right after he installed himself and his daughters in our home last October.

  I stand back and examine my closet. Last night, Mom told me to look nice for this dinner, which means I have to wear stupid, shiny dress shoes and a shirt with a collar. I choose the same black pants and button-up shirt that I wore last month to awards night at the end of football season because the outfit is Mom-tested and girl-approved. Well, was approved by my now ex-girlfriend, Katrina. She picked out my clothes for the better half of a year before the twins moved in. Then she just started picking fights, and I wasn’t prepared to juggle another drama queen in my life.

  I check my hair one more time in the mirror and fix a few pieces that have already fallen out of place. I look down at my shirt and can’t decide – undo the top button or keep them all closed? One way looks a little stiff and nerdy, and the other looks kind of dumb, showing too much of my chest like those New Jersey guidos. I try it all the way buttoned. Then I undo a button. Then I redo it.

  Finally, I shake my head, wondering what happened to me and when I started giving a damn about how many buttons I button.

  As I make my way down the steps, I can hear my sister Britney’s antagonistic giggle and tap-tap-tapping of her own shiny, dress-up shoes as she evades my mom’s red-nailed grasp.

  “Britney, no! I said no more cookies before dinner!” Mom chides as my sister smiles devilishly, reaching for the dessert platter on the table. Mom looks harried, a dishtowel slung over her shoulder, a flour-dusted apron protecting her ornamental dress. Her eyes are harsher than normal, framed with dark eye shadow. Her hair is curled and looks nice and smooth for a change. One of Jim’s daughters must have given her a makeover.

  That’s their way of being nice to someone on our side of the family.

  The first floor of the house looks like it got a makeover, too, but that’s all my mom’s doing. On holidays, my mom used to go nuts with expensive decorations and the crystal ornaments that only the adults were allowed to put on the tree. She took a long vacation from playing Holly Homemaker after Dad left. First, she had to recover. Then, she had to go to work, where she met Jim. Now they’re married, and she doesn’t work anymore, so I’m not exactly surprised that she is reverting back to her perfect hostess ways. Mom’s been reborn ever since Jim and his daughters moved in, which is great for her, I guess.

  Mom scurries to sequester Britney, and she doesn’t even see me when she runs past. Her frantic eyes and tight mouth tell me that, along with the decorations, good, old-fashioned Hansen holiday tension is back, too. It’s a lot like the feeling you get when your parents take you to the housewares part of a department store. You’re always walking with your hands clasped tightly in front of you, as if one wrong move will make all those fancy plates clash and clatter and shatter into a million pieces on the floor. Tonight’s been built up by my mother as some culminating exam she has to pass to prove her worthiness as a wife and mother-figure to Jim’s kids.

  In truth, it should be the other way around. But in my mother’s twisted, never-worthy-enough psyche, thanks to my father, she’s always one wrong move away from causing this whole world she’s rebuilt to crash down around her.

  I think that’s why there are two tables this year. She knows there will be fireworks, and she’s determined to keep all of the kids in one spot far enough away that we won’t be seen giving each other dirty looks or heard sniping at each other. I’ve been demoted to the annoyingly prescribed “kid table.” I fought my mom hard on that one. I haven’t had to sit at a kid table in years, partly because I haven’t been a kid for years. I’ve been the man of the house, but I guess I’ve been demoted from that, too.

  Really, I just don’t want to have to sit with Jim’s evil twin daughters all night, but I promised I would try to get along with them. It was a huge, overachieving promise; they’re possibly the rudest human beings on the planet. Mom always tells me I have to be patient with them because they didn’t have a mom to raise them to be ladies, but I think that’s just an excuse. They’re mean with a capital M, and I don’t think it has anything to do with their mother dying when they were little. Mom will say anything to make me behave; she just wants to create the image of a cookie cutter family, one who gets along and says “please” and “thank you” when they pass the platters, the kind that has safe but uproarious snowball fights. In truth, if the twins are involved in anything, there won’t be any pleases and thank yous, and if we have a snowball fight, it’s going to get ugly.

  But I promised my mother that I’d try. I promised to bite my tongue and be the bigger person. And I will, if they leave me alone.

  I stop at the door to the family room and get a good look at my dungeon for the evening.

  The kid table is like something you’d see in a painting. The bright red table cloth is polka dotted with the white china from Mom’s first wedding. On this table, where something is destined to be broken, these old plates scream “nice enough to still use for the holidays, but expendable.”

  My eyes travel to the middle, which is decorated with two miniature Christmas trees and a giant Menorah in between them. Jim’s family is Jewish, but we’re Catholic. Reason #72 this night has to go perfectly for my mom: Jim’s family was apparently concerned about him bringing on board a family who practices the opposite of their beliefs. My mom is doing her best to prove her worthiness and religious tolerance all in the same night.

  Sure Mom, slap a menorah in there, I muse to myself. That makes it all better.

  Britney scampers in from the dining room. She sees me and lights up. I light up, too.

  “Jackie!”

  “Hey, brat!”

  The distraction is exactly what my mom needs. She pounces and catches the elusive five year old, who thinks the chase is one big game and scream-laughs.

  Mom rolls her eyes in my direction and finally notices me. “Oh, thank goodness you’re finally down here. I just finished setting the kids’ table.” She thrusts Britney at me. “Here, take your sister before she breaks something!”

  “Okay.” She falls into my arms. “What’re you doing, brat? Getting into trouble?”

  Britney cries, “Jackie!” She climbs me like a tree and swings from my neck.

  “Britney, I told you, say ‘Jack.’ Jackie is a girl’s name.” I set her squirrely body down on the ground.

  “Suits you anyway.”

  A shiver runs down my spine. Chloe. She is the worst of the twins. The mere sound of her voice makes my skin crawl. If she were an animal, she’d be a nasty housecat. I see her red-orange hair flip as soon as I hear her low, menacing purr. She swishes by and casually takes a cookie off of the table, her motions taunting my sister as her eyes and smug smile goad me into battle.

  It’s instinctual, and I can’t help it. “Shut up, Chloe.”

  I instantly regret it when Chloe follows Mom toward the dining room. “Eva, your son told me to shut up for no reason!” She turns and flashes me a sinister, to
othy grin. It’s the type of perfect grin that you hate so much because it never needed braces to be that straight. The type of grin that’s about to get you in trouble.

  “I was just telling him how much his shirt suits him…”

  Frustration doesn’t even describe what boils under my skin. Instead of sounding powerful and manly, my voice comes out like a whine. “Mom, don’t listen to her, she’s – ” I see Britney climbing a chair to reach the cookies, and my attention is diverted. “Britney, no!” I grab her and hoist her under my arm. She squeals and twists in my grasp. The doorbell rings, and I’m sidetracked for a nanosecond. It’s enough for Britney to weasel out of my hold, snatch the damn cookie off of the table, and dash upstairs. I let her go, defeated.

  “Epic fail, Jack.” Chloe takes a bite of her cookie and struts out of the room.

  “Your face is an epic fail,” I call after her. I’m pretty proud of my comeback. Mom, however, is not.

  “Jack!” Mom appears in the doorway with her frown of disapproval. I roll my eyes and huff. I’m always caught after the fact, once I’ve retaliated. Mom and Jim never hear the things they say to me.

  She comes to me and straightens my collar. “Jack, you promised me you’d get along with the girls tonight,” she murmurs.

  I want to protest that Chloe provoked me as usual, but the words fall flat on my tongue. I hate disappointing my mom. Instead, I groan, “Yeah, I know.”

  Mom looks around in a sudden panic. “Where’s Britney?”

  I hang my head. “Upstairs. She got away.”

  She smiles gently at me instead of scolding. “Well, at least she’s not causing chaos under my feet.” She stabs her pointer finger against my chest. “Be nice to the girls. You’re in charge out here, so we’re counting on you to set the example. Control that temper.”

  I sigh. “I know, I get it.” In my head, I grumble, I’ve had pretty good control of my anger for two years now, thank you very much.

  “Honey, why so much gel here?” She pulls at a strand of my hair, and I jerk back.